Читать книгу The Louise Allen Collection: The Viscount's Betrothal / The Society Catch - Louise Allen - Страница 12

Any fool could cook bacon and eggs, surely? Even a fool who let herself be entranced by a virile man who had nothing else on his mind other than passing a few days’ isolation by flirting with an old maid. Decima peered miserably into the mirror that hung in the scullery above the small basin where she was scrubbing her hands.

‘Look at you,’ she muttered angrily. Her nose was pink, her cheeks flushed. The beastly freckles stood out as though each one had been individually touched in with sepia ink. Her hair was all over the place and she looked positively haggard from lack of sleep. In fact, she looked every one of her twenty-seven years, if not more. She pulled a face at herself, then winced at the way it widened her mouth. Her wide mouth was not the worst of her faults, she had been given to understand, just one of many, but it did not help. Fishy lips, her unkind young cousins had called her when they were children.

She realised that she was having to stoop in order to look in the mirror that the housekeeper and the maid used every day. Doubtless they were normal-sized women, not fairground oddities.

Fool, fool, fool. How did she think she could turn herself from the passive, quiet freak of an unmarried sister into an independent, assured woman who experienced life on her own terms? Possibly it was achievable, but not in the space of a day and a night, not in the company of an experienced man of the world who was just too much of a gentleman to laugh at her.

He laughs with me, the pathetic little inner voice mumbled, he finds me amusing. The old, cynical destructive voice snapped back, Just like you’d find a child aping its elders amusing, no doubt. It hadn’t needed that brandy last night to turn her head, she had been drunk on freedom and excitement and the edge of danger and she had behaved like…like a fool. Why search for another word when that one summed it up so neatly?

Decima scrubbed her hands viciously on a towel, threw off her shawl and found an apron. Bacon, bread, the one egg. Enough for three, for Bates must surely be awake and hungry by now.

Knife, bread board, toasting fork. What do you cook bacon in? A frying pan, presumably. Fat.

She moved around the larder, gathering things up, forcing herself to work out timings to keep the apprehension at bay. He would be back in a minute, wondering why she had fled in that idiotic way.

In the event there was a pile of only slightly charred toast on the table and the bacon was sizzling nicely—provided one had a fancy for it crispy—by the time the back door opened.

Decima kept her back to the door, busying herself pouring hot water over the coffee grounds.

‘All done,’ Adam said cheerfully, as though she had not just fled in disarray from a game she had initiated. ‘That bacon smells good.’

Hastily, Decima flipped it onto a platter before it went any blacker. How did one fry eggs? Tentatively, she cracked it on the edge of the frying pan, then leapt backwards as the contents landed on the fat in an explosion of spitting droplets.

‘Too hot.’ Adam leaned across her and lifted the pan off the heat while the egg spluttered and went white with an uneven frill of brown around the edges.

‘It’s spoilt,’ Decima said, alarmed to find that her voice trembled.

‘No, it’s not.’ Adam slid it out onto the platter where it sat, the yolk looking decidedly underdone in its hard brown-and-white ruff. ‘I’ll wash and then take Bates’s food up. I will not be a minute.’

Decima buttered toast and put it with bacon, a pot of jam and a mug of coffee onto a tray, pushing it across the table to Adam as he emerged from the scullery. ‘I hope he feels better this morning and his leg is not paining him too much.’

‘More likely his head.’ Adam grinned and lifted the tray. ‘I’ll check on Pru while I’m up there.’

Automatically Decima set the table, buttered the rest of the toast, put out the jam and the platter of bacon. It looked decidedly overcooked, but somehow, against all the odds, the kitchen table seemed homely and charming with the fragrant bacon and the chairs close to the warmth of the range. Why that should so overset her she had no idea, but her eyes filled with tears, a sob caught in her throat and before she knew what she was doing she was sitting down, her face in the apron, weeping.

‘Hey! What’s this? Decima?’ Adam was on his knees by her side, gently prising the apron from her face. ‘Have you burnt yourself?’

‘No, I am sorry, this is ridiculous, I’m not crying, I never cry.’ She tried to hide her face again and was firmly prevented. Adam pressed a large white handkerchief into her hands.

‘Never?’

‘Never.’ Her voice wavered. This was dreadful. Her nose would be red, her eyes red, her face blotchy.

‘Oh well, then, if you aren’t crying,’ Adam said briskly, ‘you are sick of the mulligrubs. That is easily cured.’

‘The what?’ Decima emerged cautiously from the shelter of the white linen.

‘Mulligrubs. Look, come and eat something, that’s the best thing to cure them. It ought to be cake, or sweets—the stickier the better—but bacon will do.’ He heaped a plate and pushed it towards her. ‘Go on.’ This had to be some kind of dream. A viscount, sitting in his breeches and shirtsleeves at a kitchen table, eating her burnt offerings and discussing mulligrubs.

‘But what are mulligrubs?’ The bacon smelled delicious. Decima took a forkful, chewed, followed it with a bite of toast and the wobbly feeling inside subsided.

‘I am not sure exactly.’ Adam was gingerly cutting into the egg. ‘It’s what my old nurse used to call it when I was a little boy and was cast down or in the dumps for no good reason. But food always works.’

‘Do you…do you get the mulligrubs often now?’ she enquired. He ate the egg without any expression of revulsion; perhaps her cooking was not that bad.

‘I haven’t had them for years. I suspect they go away if there isn’t anyone around to cure them with a dose of toffee. Bates is awake and appreciating your bacon, too. He says that his blanking leg is hurting like blank, if his lordship will excuse him saying so, and he’d have done a better job himself on a dog, but he is sure his lordship did his best considering he hasn’t had much practice. Pru fortunately slept through that expression of gratitude for our efforts.’

‘Is he always that outspoken?’ Decima blew her nose and stuffed the handkerchief away.

‘Usually he just grunts. It was one of the longest speeches I have ever heard him make, other than that tirade when I carried him in last night. I inherited him from my father, another man of very few words, who took him on as a half-starved brat. I think they suited each other. He’s tough, loyal, damn good at his job—all qualities I would put before obsequiousness or a tendency to chatter.’

‘Indeed, yes.’ Decima pushed away her greasy plate and reached for the preserve jar. The memory of breakfast the day before and her sudden resolution came back to her. ‘Do you know, it is New Year’s Day tomorrow?’

‘So it is. We must do something to celebrate.’ Adam took the jar and began to heap gooseberry jam lavishly onto his toast. ‘We could bake a cake.’

‘No eggs. Even I know you need eggs for a cake.’

‘True. Then we will play in the snow.’

‘In the snow? But what can we do?’

‘I will think of something. Now, you are going back to bed.’ Adam poured another cup of coffee and pressed it into her hands. ‘Off you go.’

‘But I have only just got up! It is nine o’clock and there is goodness knows what to do.’

‘Such as?’ He began to push her gently towards the door. ‘Bates will be scandalised if you try and nurse him, Pru’s asleep, the horses are fine until this evening. If Pru needs you, I will wake you.’

‘But…’ Decima dug her toes in on the threshold and waved a hand at the kitchen table.

‘A few plates and some knives and forks are not going to exhaust me. They may ruin my lily-white hands, of course, if the lanolin runs out. Now go on. You are tired out.’

‘But—’

‘If you say that once more I will carry you. Do you want me to put you to bed?’ That was not said with the slightest edge of flirtation. That was a threat. Decima turned tail and did as she was told.

She woke when the clock struck one, although she had slept through the twelve-o’clock chimes like someone drugged. There were sounds from the adjoining room, interrupted by a fit of coughing.

Decima scrambled out of bed, dragged her stay laces to and buttoned her gown. ‘Pru? Are you awake?’

She was, bleary-eyed and very pale, but propped up in bed with a tray by her side bearing a jug of cloudy white liquid, a spoon, a bottle of Mrs Chitty’s cough linctus and the remains of what looked like a bowl of soup.

‘Hello, Miss Dessy. Did I wake you?’

‘No, not at all. Pru, I’m so sorry to have been asleep when you woke up.’ Decima perched on the edge of the bed, disturbing a pile of journals. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Weak as a baby.’ Pru grimaced. ‘But the fever seems to have burned itself out; there’s just this pesky cough left. That medicine’s good, though. His lordship brought it up, and the barley water, and some soup at luncheon time.’

‘Where on earth did he get soup?’

Pru shrugged, then coloured. ‘Don’t know, but honestly, Miss Dessy, I didn’t know where to look. I was dying for the you-know-what, but I wasn’t sure if I could walk there all by myself and he said, bold as brass, “Would you be wishing to visit the other end of the corridor, Miss Prudence?” Well, I didn’t know where to look, but do you know, he carried me, set me down outside and strolled off, all tactful like, until I opened the door again. He’s a real gentleman, even if he is a viscount.’

Perplexed, Decima tried to work that one out. ‘But, Pru, if he is a viscount, you would expect him to be a gentleman.’

‘Doesn’t follow,’ the maid said darkly. ‘Most of them are out-and-out rakes from all one hears. No woman is safe with the likes of them.’

This conjured up an image of Adam, grinning lecherously and chasing Pru’s buxom figure and Decima’s lanky one round and round the kitchen table. Decima bit her lip and said merely, ‘I think we are safe with this particular viscount.’ She was not entirely sure whether she was glad about that. Or even whether it was entirely true. ‘Now, don’t you think you should lie down and rest again?’

‘I keep nodding off. Miss Dessy—you aren’t going downstairs looking like that, are you?’

‘Like what?’

‘Your hair is a mess, and that gown’s all crumpled and I don’t reckon you’ve laced your stays up tight, either.’ She levelled a disapproving look at Decima’s bust line.

‘I will do my hair, but I am not going to try and lace myself up tightly. I’d need to be a contortionist to do that!’

‘Let me,’ Pru nagged. ‘You want to look your best.’ Decima merely gave her speaking look over her shoulder as she went to find her hairbrush. ‘You never know,’ Pru retorted mysteriously. ‘I’ll fret if you don’t come here and let me do it.’ She managed a pathetic cough to underscore her point. ‘Men notice these things.’

Brushed, laced and uncrumpled, Decima made her way downstairs. There was silence from the kitchen, but an appetising aroma wreathed through the air.

‘Miss Ross.’ Adam emerged from one of the front rooms and sketched a bow. ‘If you would care to go into the dining room, I will bring you your luncheon.’

Decima swallowed. She had been expecting an afternoon spent in the kitchen and running up and down the stairs looking after Pru and Bates. That was safe, practical and distanced her completely from being Miss Ross, who had to make polite social conversation with a gentleman.

This particular gentleman had transformed himself from a good imitation of a groom into the perfect image of the Englishman at home in his country retreat—elegant without trying too hard just about summed it up. And heart-thumpingly attractive without trying at all. Decima remembered Pru’s approving words. No, he might not be a rake, but that did not make him any safer.

Adam observed the flicker of surprise, swiftly followed by a flash of some other emotion. Was it mischief? Laughter? Then Decima had her face perfectly under control. Now, what had provoked that?

‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but you should let me help.’

‘Not at all.’ Adam opened the dining room door for her and smiled at her exclamation of surprise. The fire was lit, the room warm, candles flickered and he had laid the table. ‘I decided that we had had enough of playing at Below Stairs, so I have lit fires here and in the small salon and, although we might have to slip back into our roles of groom, cook, housemaid and sick nurse at regular intervals, at least we can come here afterwards. Now, if you will excuse me, Miss Ross, I will become the butler for one moment.’

She meekly took the chair he pulled out for her and shook out her napkin. Adam retreated to the kitchen, admitting to himself that he was a trifle apprehensive about her reaction to his morning efforts in the kitchen. It was an interesting novelty to be attempting to please a woman in an area where one was a complete beginner. He grinned to himself; the last time he’d been in that position he had been—what? Just seventeen? And the field of expertise to be acquired was somewhat different. Learning to cook seemed unlikely to be as fascinating, but was probably much safer.

‘Soup, ma’am.’ He set the tureen in front of her.

‘My goodness.’ Decima lifted the lid and sniffed. ‘It smells wonderful. And what is that?’

‘Ah.’ She was eyeing with cautious interest the dark brown lump he was attempting to slice. ‘Bread. I do not think it is supposed to be quite like this.’

‘I am sure it will be delicious,’ she said politely as a slice thumped onto her plate. ‘A local recipe, no doubt.’ She was teasing him, he was convinced of it. Yes, there was that wicked sparkle again. ‘Possibly it requires lemons?’

‘That’s the Leicestershire version,’ he retorted. ‘The Rutland receipt should really have walnuts. Tell me, Decima, what made you look so amused when you came downstairs just now?’

She paused in ladling out the soup and coloured slightly. Adam discovered that he enjoyed the fact that he could make her blush like that. The colour ebbed and flowed rapidly under her fine skin—the skin that was becoming an obsession with him. It was those damned freckles.

‘I could not possibly say.’ She passed him his soup and began to ladle out hers. Now, most women would have enquired archly what he meant, would have fluttered their eyelashes and would probably have giggled at him.

‘Why not?’ He pushed the butter towards her. The so-called bread would need all the help it could get.

She shook her head. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly. It is most improper. My goodness, this is excellent soup. What is it?’

Improper? Adam realised that he had not the slightest objection to provoking improper thoughts in Miss Ross. Quite the contrary. Although he had not expected her to admit to them quite so frankly.

‘There is probably a word for it in French, but I call it The Complete Larder soup—in other words, I threw in a bit of anything I could find. Now, Decima, you are going to have to tell me about your improper thoughts or I will be imagining the most lurid things.’

Not that he would be able to act upon any of them if he ate any more of this bread. God, it was like chewing tree bark.

‘Well…’ She stirred her soup and gazed thoughtfully into the bowl, then shot him an assessing glance from under her lashes. ‘I was thinking how much the gentleman you looked, and Pru had just observed that, despite you being a viscount, you obviously were a gentleman.’ She laughed at his expression. ‘I know, it puzzled me, too, but she maintains that you cannot trust the aristocracy, and all noblemen are rakes.’

‘Except me?’

‘Apparently.’ Decima chuckled. ‘You look as though you do not know whether you have been complimented or insulted.’

This was exactly what he was thinking. ‘Do you believe me to be a rake?’

‘Certainly not, otherwise I would not have dreamt of coming with you. You are too large, in any case.’ She chewed gamely on her bread.

‘Large?’

‘I have always pictured rakes as being thin and sinuous somehow. Insinuating, possibly. Not that I really have any idea what constitutes a rake, other than presumably they go about seducing innocent damsels as a matter of routine.’

‘That certainly. I believe it to be a prerequisite,’ Adam agreed gravely. ‘Along with a ruinously bad gaming habit, a tendency to stay up all night carousing, and frequenting the haunts of low company and loose women. Patronising actresses and opera dancers and, of course, maintaining a string of expensive mistresses are also essentials.’

‘Oh.’ He was coming to love the way she listened, thought about what he said and then came out with the most outrageously unexpected responses. What was she going to say to that?

‘Do you have a string of mistresses?’

Adam choked on a piece of carrot. ‘Certainly not! Just the one.’ Oh Lord, now what have I said?

‘Is she nice?’ Decima enquired.

‘Obviously, or I wouldn’t keep her,’ he retorted.

‘Well, you might if she was exceptionally beautiful, or…er…talented,’ Decima observed thoughtfully. ‘Are mistresses very expensive?’

‘Yes,’ he replied with feeling. ‘The er…talented ones are, if you keep them in style and look after them decently once the affair is over.’ Now why was he thinking about ending the affair? This time yesterday he had not the slightest intention of parting with Julia.

‘I do hope Charlton hasn’t got one. I am very fond of my sister-in-law and, although I am sure he could afford one, Hermione would not like it at all.’

‘I doubt if he has,’ Adam said encouragingly. ‘Charlton sounds far too respectable and somewhat stodgy. I am sure your sister-in-law enjoys his complete devotion.’

‘So, only stodgy husbands are devoted? Hmm.’ Decima regarded him quizzically. ‘It follows, then, that if one is to marry one must choose between stodgy devotion and interesting infidelity.’

‘Is that why you never married?’ he asked impetuously, and was punished by the instant extinguishing of the mischief in her grey eyes.

‘No,’ she said baldly.

Damnation. Adam found himself lost for a response: an unusual sensation.

She smiled and took pity on him. ‘This bread is really very good for a first attempt. What do you think we should have for dinner? If either of us has room for dinner, that is.’ She regarded the leaden lump on her side plate dubiously.

‘Pigeon, if I can shoot any.’

‘Then I will clear up and look after Pru and Bates. Could you carry me up some hot water? I promised her a bath.’

Half an hour later Adam let himself out of the back door, his shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm, his shot belt looped over his shoulder. He paused at the sound of running feet in the hall and Decima looked round the kitchen door. ‘You will wrap up, won’t you?’ She took in his greatcoat and muffler, nodded approvingly and vanished as quickly as she had appeared.

From one of his sisters that would have produced a growl of irritation. From Decima the solicitude left a small glow of warmth that she was concerned about him. Adam was halfway across the yard before the novelty of that response dawned on him. He frowned fiercely; he was going to have to get their relationship back onto a firm basis of stranded gentlewoman and accidental host before she got under his skin any further.

In twenty-four hours this Long Meg of a spinster had made him want to throw all tenets of gentlemanly behaviour to the winds and ravish her; had made him enjoy—most of the time—acting as his own footman, cook and groom; had created doubts in his mind about the desirability of keeping a mistress and now had reduced him to a state where he enjoyed being fussed over. With a scowl that boded ill for any passing pigeons, Adam crunched through the snow towards the copse.