Читать книгу The Louise Allen Collection: The Viscount's Betrothal / The Society Catch - Louise Allen - Страница 15

Adam drew in a deep breath. He had never had a problem with self-control before. It seemed he had never found himself in a position where his conscience was in direct conflict with his deepest desires. And just at that moment his desire was to carry Decima through into the bedchamber and bury himself in her soft, strong, innocent body.

With an effort that was painful he brought his hands away from the tantalising weight of her breasts, stepped back until her clothing no longer brushed against his body, and back again until he could put a shaking hand on the screen and draw it closed on the image of her standing there, almost naked, quivering for him.

He shut the door into the dressing room and stood looking round at his bedchamber, at the wide bed with its dark green velvet throw. What would she look like stretched on that velvet, her hair loose, her eyes wide with innocent longing? With an oath he flung open the door and strode out onto the landing.

‘My lord?’ It was Bates. Damn. Adam looked down at himself. The soaked buckskins did nothing to hide the state of agonising arousal he was in. He yanked his shirt out, ran a hand through his hair and walked into the room.

‘How are you feeling, Bates?’ Hell, Pru was there, too, still curled up in the chair, her eyes wide as she took in his appearance. Her gaze flickered to the groom’s and they both looked studiously away.

‘Very well, thank you, my lord. The leg aches, but Pru—Miss Staples, that is—fetched me something from the stillroom that helped. I was just wondering if you’d help me shift position a bit. I’ve slid down.’

‘Where’s Miss Dessy, my lord?’ Pru asked.

‘Having a bath.’ He bent to help Bates, grateful that his back was turned to the maid’s scrutiny. ‘She is using the tub in my dressing room because it is deeper and she got rather chilled outside.’

He shook out the pillows quite unnecessarily, controlling the urge to talk on, justifying himself.

‘Of course, that’s why you can’t go and get changed,’ Pru said in a tone that suggested she accepted his explanation—just. ‘I had better go and give her a hand.’

Adam froze. Had Decima had enough time to compose herself? Had he left stubble burns on the soft skin of her throat? ‘I think she has everything she needs,’ he said finally, straightening up. Either Decima was going to confide in her maid or she was not, but he was not going to say anything to provoke the girl to hurry off in search of her mistress any sooner than necessary.

‘I’ll go and set her clothes out then, my lord.’ Pru got to her feet a little unsteadily. Adam thought of telling her she should still be resting, then decided he would be chancing his luck; Miss Staples would no doubt enquire if he thought he should be helping her mistress to find her change of underwear.

Both men watched her make her way out. Adam could feel Bates’s eyes boring into him. ‘Well?’ he demanded irritably. It seemed to be his day for justifying himself to the staff.

Bates shrugged. ‘Not my place to say, my lord, but, as you’re asking, I’d say that trifling with virgins isn’t your usual kick. Bit risky, that.’

‘I am not trifling—’ Adam broke off. It was exactly what he was doing. It was not his intention, but it was certainly the effect. ‘Damn you, Bates.’

‘As you say, my lord.’ Bates was never so compliant unless he was deeply disapproving—and he was usually acute enough to be right, which was why Adam tolerated the not infrequent censorious comment. This was different.

‘Miss Ross is a gentlewoman. One does not trifle with gentlewomen.’ Or virgins of any description come to that, but he was not discussing Decima’s state of innocence. Bates received this lofty statement in silence, leaving Adam nothing to do with himself other than to stalk out with all the dignity he could muster.

Which was not much, he decided, catching a glimpse of himself in the landing mirror on his way downstairs. His clothing was dishevelled, his groin was in a state of acute discomfort that seemed unlikely ever to subside, his heart beat like a drum, and his conscience was positively screaming at him for his unrepentant desire to drag Decima out of the hot water and make love to her until they both dropped from exhaustion.

Snarling at himself, he threw open the larder door and began to lift out platters and jars, banging food down on the table as though to knock out an opponent. He had made her cold, wet, shocked and embarrassed. And all he could do to make up for it was to try to give her a decent meal.

Decima eased herself into the hot water, letting the physical shock of it on her chilled skin drive away the other shocks her body had experienced for a fleeting moment. The respite did not last. She slid under the water until it lapped her chin and her hair was soaking. Her arms lay by her sides. She felt too self-conscious even to risk touching herself; everything throbbed or tingled in an overwhelming manner.

She had wanted a kiss, just a kiss. She could admit that to herself. In her innocence she had expected it to be pleasantly intimate, full of the scent and warmth she had experienced when Adam had carried her. She had not expected it to devour every sense, to overturn her mind until she was almost screaming with desire for him to touch her, stroke her, everywhere. To do things she could not begin to understand, let alone find words for.

Of course she knew the basic facts of life. But somehow she had expected all of that to be confined to the actual marriage bed. Surely kissing was simply a mildly amorous gesture? It seemed not. How was she ever going to face him again?

The water was beginning to cool. Cautiously Decima lifted the tablet of soap and began to wash. Face, arms, hands. All safe. She swallowed and slicked foam rapidly over the swell of her breasts, gasping as they seemed to turn heavy and full under her palms. Feet, those were safer—except for the memory of Adam’s big hands rubbing them back to life. Calves, thighs…her hands trembled and stilled above the soft tangle of curls. He hadn’t touched her intimately, so where had that hot, heavy yearning feeling come from? From the feel of his hard weight pressed against her, that was where. Pull yourself together, Decima, you cannot go through life not washing properly!

A few hasty, soapy swipes later she scrambled out of the bath, snatching up towels from the pile and swathing herself in them as though Adam was still in the room. No dressing gown. Now what should she do?

There was complete silence in the adjoining room. Decima peeped round the door, then scuttled for her own room, bursting in to find Pru with her hands full of petticoats and a disapproving expression on her pale face.

‘Pru, you should be resting.’

‘I’m well enough if I sit down now and again. I’ve put clean clothes out for you, Miss Dessy.’

‘Thank you. Now, please, sit down. How did you know I needed them?’ Oh Lord, Adam hadn’t said anything to Pru, had he?

Pru perched on the edge of a chair and regarded her. ‘His lordship said you’d got wet.’

‘Well, so I did. There is no need to look so starched up, Pru.’

‘I saw his lordship. I’d say you got more than wet, Miss Dessy.’

‘Pru! What do you mean?’ Decima began to pull on her clothes, suddenly shy in front of the other woman as she had never been before.

‘His shirt was all pulled out—covers a multitude of sins, that does—his colour was up, breathing like he’d run round the house ten times and not very happy at meeting my eye. And look at you, Miss Dessy. All of a fluster, mouth that looks as though you’ve been rouging it—and see your neck.’

Decima looked reluctantly into the mirror her handmaid thrust at her. A new Decima stared back. A wanton-looking creature with wide eyes, swollen mouth and, up the column of her neck, reddened patches. She lifted her hand to them, horrified to find her tentative touch produced not so much a feeling of pain as one of acute sensitivity.

‘That’s a man who needs to shave twice a day if he’s going to do that sort of thing,’ Pru pronounced. ‘Honestly, Miss Dessy, I thought he was a gentleman. Just goes to show you can’t trust any of them,’ she added darkly.

‘Pru, it’s not like that.’ Decima turned her back while her stay laces were jerked punishingly tight. ‘I am just as much to blame, and it was only a kiss.’ She saw Pru’s disbelieving face. ‘Goodness, you don’t think he…that we…Certainly not!’

‘If you say so, Miss Dessy.’ Pru handed her the petticoat.

‘I do say so, Pru. And it was certainly improper, I admit, but I am glad he did kiss me because at least I know what it is like and I will not be seeing him again once we leave here anyways.’ Decima dragged her gown over her head and emerged flushed and breathless. I will not be seeing him again. Ever.

‘Hmm. Well, I’d better get changed and come downstairs, Miss Dessy. This gown’s all crumpled.’

Decima stared at her. The thought of Pru sitting there, a silent, disapproving chaperon all evening, filled her with horror. It was going to be hard enough facing Adam again, but to do it with a witness was impossible.

‘No, Pru. I would be too embarrassed. He and I need to…to agree some things between us. You stay here and rest and I will bring you your dinner up.’

She went downstairs half an hour later, immaculate and quivering with nerves, to be greeted by a wave of succulent odours as she pushed open the kitchen door. Adam was uncorking a bottle of red wine; as she watched, he tipped it into a deep pan which was simmering on the range.

At the sound of the door closing he looked up at her, then went slowly to put the empty bottle on the table. The silence crackled between them, filled with unformed words, unspoken thoughts. ‘You are cooking dinner,’ Decima managed at last, wincing at the banality of the obvious.

‘I thought the least I could do, having soaked you through with icy water and frightened you half to death, was to feed you something hot. There was some pigeon left, and a rabbit.’ He ran his hand abruptly through his hair and moved away a few steps as though to give her space. ‘Where is Pru?’

‘Upstairs. I don’t need her here. You didn’t frighten me, and you don’t now. I frightened myself.’

‘Decima. I am sorry.’ She had not heard him going back to his room, but Adam had changed his clothing for the dark elegance of evening dress, as though to reassure her with its formality. ‘I cannot pretend I didn’t want to kiss you, but I never meant for it to go so far.’

‘I…I liked it. It would be unfair of me to say I did not. But it was too much, all at once, so I didn’t know how to stop.’ She made herself keep her eyes on his face. He was being honest, so should she. ‘But you did, so that’s all right.’

Adam turned away sharply. ‘You really are a quite remarkable woman.’

Decima flushed. ‘A wanton one, you mean. Perhaps I led you on, I am sorry—’

‘Don’t apologise!’ He swung back to face her, his face full of an anger that she knew was not directed at her. ‘I said extraordinary—I mean just that. Why aren’t you having the vapours, threatening me with your brother?’

‘I told you,’ she said patiently, going over to dip a spoon in the fragrant, bubbling stew. ‘It was at least as much my fault as yours, it was extremely…interesting and there is nothing to have the vapours about. This is very good stew. Shall I peel some potatoes?’

Suddenly it was all right again. Adam was obviously unconvinced, but she felt quite calm and almost at ease. True, her knees were knocking and her skin felt as though someone was caressing it with thousands of tiny feathers and, if they touched again, she thought she would probably swoon, but other than that she was all right. Of course she was. I am an independent grown-up woman, she told herself, and I can learn to cope with new situations.

Adam hefted another pan onto the stove and reached for the salt box. ‘I’ve done them. Pru seems better.’

‘Yes, she does.’ Decima gathered up cutlery. ‘I will lay the table in the dining room. How is Bates?’

They were having a perfectly ordinary domestic conversation while underneath her mind was whirling and her body behaving in ways she had never believed possible. Did Adam feel like this? Presumably all sorts of people went through life feeling like this on occasion; it was amazing what went on under the bland face of everyday life.

The evening passed pleasantly enough. Any invisible onlooker would have observed the unusual sight of a lady and gentleman waiting on their own servants, and then on themselves at dinner. But they would have been hard put to detect either the slightest impropriety or even undue familiarity in the rest of the evening, which was passed by the lady and her companion in desultory conversation, the reading of somewhat out-of-date journals and the exchange of opinion from time to time upon clues in the acrostic the lady was attempting to complete.

Or perhaps the unseen watcher would have noticed the way the lady’s eyes would rest on the gentleman’s bent head, or the manner in which her lashes would sweep down to disguise her interest the moment he moved. And they might also have noticed the way in which he shifted restlessly in his chair and the tight line of his mouth when he caught himself doing so.

As the hall clock struck ten Decima looked up from the Ladies’ Journal with an arrested expression. ‘What is that noise?’

Adam got to his feet and moved to the window, flicking aside the heavy drapes. ‘Rain. The thaw has come.’ He turned and looked at her and Decima struggled to read the message in eyes suddenly the colour of dark flint. ‘The outside world may well reach us tomorrow.’

‘The end of our sojourn out of time and away from reality,’ she said, trying to make the remark light—and realising almost too late that she wanted to cry.

Decima got to her feet, holding on to the arm of the chair as though she, and not Pru, was weak from a fever. She had the strangest feeling that if she held out her arms now he would come to her and to hell with the consequences. Last time he had had the strength to step away. Now it was her turn to be strong.

‘I think I am probably keeping Pru up,’ she said with a firm smile. ‘And if there is travelling to do tomorrow, we must both get some rest. Goodnight, Adam.’

He took two long strides across the room to her side and did something he had never done before, lifting her hand in his and lightly kissing her fingertips. ‘Goodbye, Decima.’

She was halfway up the stairs before she had got her reaction to the fleeting touch of his lips under control and thought about what he had just said. Goodbye?

Decima went to bed, expecting a night filled with restless dreams and tormenting longings. Instead she woke to the sound of the landing clock striking seven and the relentless sound of heavy rain against the window. She should be glad, she knew. But was it so very wicked to want this strange holiday from reality to continue for ever?

When she padded into her maid’s room in bare feet, wrapped in the gorgeous Oriental dressing gown, she discovered that Pru was already up. Up, dressed and in full flow, arguing with Bates in his bedchamber by the sound of it.

‘His lordship’s downstairs cooking breakfast, which is where I should be if I didn’t have my lady to get dressed, so why you can’t have the sense you were born with and let me fetch you your hot water I don’t know.’

A low grumble was all Decima could hear of Bates’s views on the matter. ‘I’m not offering to wash you, you stubborn man.’ Decima stepped back as the door swung open and Pru marched out. ‘Honestly, Miss Dessy—men.’ She looked her up and down sharply. ‘I’ll go and get your water then. The snow’s almost gone, you know.’

Decima went back into her room and looked out of the window and the slush that yesterday had been the white yard. She could just see the remnants of their snowman, hat drooping, body already half-eaten away by the rain: nothing lasted, it seemed.

Adam flipped the bacon over, wondering how long it would be before they could get fresh supplies of food. Not much longer, if this rain continued. And then Decima would be gone. After a restless night spent tossing and turning, in between dreams that were either guilt-racked or wildly erotic, he almost welcomed the thought of their separation.

They both needed time, distance and a remedial dose of ordinary life. Perhaps then he could work out what he truly felt for her. He filled the kettle and put it on the hob, caught himself doing it without a second thought, and smiled at how rapidly the basic routines of kitchen life had become second nature.

Decima. He desired her. Oh, how he desired her. But she was a gentlewoman—he could not make her his mistress. What did that leave? A chaste friendship? He grimaced. Marriage?

The bacon was burning. He pulled the pan off the heat and stood there looking at it. He didn’t need to get married, not with his fifteen-year-old cousin Peregrine all a man could hope for in an heir, and more. He had his freedom now; that would be lost with marriage. The thought of losing that freedom, of finding himself leg-shackled to just one woman for the rest of his life had always seemed intolerable.

On the other hand, he had spent several days cooped up in a snowbound house with just one particular female companion and there had not been a boring moment. Long hours of aching physical frustration, yes, but no boredom.

He was contemplating exactly what that might mean when the back door banged open and his missing domestic staff bundled in, dripping wet and laden with parcels.

‘My lord!’ Mrs Chitty stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him. ‘What in the world are you doing in my kitchen?’

‘Cooking breakfast,’ Adam admitted, feeling as though he had been caught stealing cake from the pantry.

‘Never tell me your guests have arrived!’ The housekeeper took in the four plates on the table. ‘The only thing that kept my mind at rest these past few days was the thought that none of you would be able to get here.’ She cast off her vast bonnet and cloak and shook out her apron with a snap. ‘Who has been wearing this, might I ask, my lord?’

‘I have, and Miss Ross.’ That did it.

‘Miss Ross?’

‘Yes, Mrs Chitty. I need to have a word with you about that.’

‘Indeed, my lord? Emily Jane, get outside and fetch the rest of the provisions and look sharp, girl.’ The silent kitchen maid scuttled back out into the rain.

‘Mrs Chitty, I almost did not manage to get here through the snow. On the way Bates and I helped a lady and her maid who were trapped in their carriage and brought them here. No one else has reached us.’

‘Well, at least she had her maid,’ the housekeeper observed, burrowing in her basket and producing a loaf. ‘And Bates—not that he’d be much use for keeping propriety.’

There was no point in trying to put a fine gloss on the situation. ‘Miss Ross’s maid has been bedridden with a fever the whole time and Bates broke his leg the night we arrived here.’

‘Ah.’ Mrs Chitty regarded him with a trace of amusement tweaking at the corner of her mouth. ‘I’d say you were in a bit of a pickle, my lord, especially as I’ve no doubt your houseguests will be here shortly. The roads are mostly passable now, that we could see.’

Oh, hell. Adam realised he had not thought about that. The arrival of four eminently respectable members of London society, two of whom he did not know well enough to confide in, was quite sufficient to ensure Decima was ruined.

Even as he thought it, Emily Jane hurried in, hung about with more shopping. ‘There’s two carriages coming up the drive, my lord.’