Читать книгу The Louise Allen Collection: The Viscount's Betrothal / The Society Catch - Louise Allen - Страница 9

‘I am just deciding what I think,’ Decima replied honestly. If this was a snare and a lure and his lordship was intent upon ravishment, then he was both extremely opportunistic and pretty desperate to drag two women miles in the teeth of a blizzard. ‘And I think I am prepared to believe that you are surprised as we to find the house apparently unoccupied.’

‘Thank you, ma’am, for your good opinion.’ He bowed.

‘I must believe it. After all, my lord, if you prove to be a wicked seducer, then think how cast down I must be that my own initial judgement of your character was so at fault.’

That provoked a snort of laughter. ‘Your own good opinion of your judgement must indeed be preserved at all costs, Miss Ross. Now, let me see if the door is unlocked.’

‘Sir.’ It was Bates. Decima turned to find him supporting the sagging figure of Pru, doubled up in a fit of coughing. ‘The wench is in a fair poor state.’

‘Pru, what is it?’ Decima put an arm round the maid and touched her forehead. What had she done, dragging the poor girl out on this journey in the teeth of the threatening snow? ‘She’s burning up with fever. My lord, please, open up as quickly as possible, we must get her inside.’

She bundled Pru into an unlit, cold room, blinking impatiently at the gloom while Bates groped around for lights. At last one, then several lamps flickered into life, showing that they were in a kitchen. The range was dead, an apron neatly draped across the chair by its side.

‘Mrs Chitty! Emily Jane?’ Lord Weston threw open the inner door and shouted. ‘No one. Bates, take the horses over to the stables, get them bedded down and check to see whether the gig is there—they must have gone into town shopping and been caught by the weather.’ The groom stomped off and Decima lowered a shivering Pru into a chair.

‘I must get her to bed at once. Which room shall I use, my lord?’

‘On the first floor. They should all have fires laid and the beds made. The one at the end is mine, use any of the others. Here…’ he lifted one of the spermaceti lamps ‘…I’ll come with you.’

‘I would rather you lit the range, my lord,’ Decima said frankly, taking the lamp from him. Now was no time to stand on ceremony. The housekeeper would have known exactly what was needed—now she had no compunction about making the viscount as useful as he could be. ‘I need hot bricks, hot drinks and hot food for her. Come along, Pru.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Dessy, don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ Pru mumbled as Decima hoisted her to her feet and guided her out of the room.

‘A fever, that’s what. Lady Carmichael’s maid had it over Christmas, don’t you remember? I expect you caught it from her. Come along, we’ll soon have you tucked up.’ In a cold bed, in a cold house with two strange men for company and probably no chance of a doctor for days. Decima bit her lip and hoped that the absent Mrs Chitty was a prudent housekeeper and kept a well-stocked stillroom.

They made their unsteady way up the stairs and along a corridor, Decima peering into each room in turn. What she wanted was a pair of bedchambers with an interconnecting door, She found them almost at the end of the passage: a spacious bedroom with an adjoining dressing room that had its own fireplace and small bed.

‘Here we are, Pru. Here’s a nice little room that will soon warm up.’ Pru sank down in the chair without any persuasion and Decima set a taper to the fire and checked the bed. Cold, but not damp. ‘Just you stop there a moment, I’ll fetch our bags and we’ll have you undressed and into bed in a trice.’ Somehow she kept the anxiety out of her voice.

Decima ran downstairs to find their valises on the kitchen floor and his lordship, hands on hips, regarding the range—the still-cold range—with a scowl.

‘You haven’t lit it!’ she accused.

‘I’m trying to work it out,’ he retorted. ‘It’s new. There are dampers and compartments and a bit with water in it and things to open and close. It’ll probably blow up if I shut the wrong thing.’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake! Let me.’ Five frustrating minutes later Decima admitted defeat, and retreated to glower at the viscount. ‘Do something. You are a man.’

‘Although undoubtedly true, that does not give me an affinity with…’ he peered at the raised lettering on the cast-iron front plate ‘…Bodley’s Patent Range. I’ll open all the dampers, light it, stand well back and do not blame me if we find ourselves in the midst of smoking rubble.’

Decima looked up from her excavations in the valises. ‘I thought a gentleman should be master of everything in his household,’ she observed more mildly.

‘The last person to try and master Mrs Chitty and her kingdom was the late—and note that, late—Mr Chitty. There. Let me carry those up for you, Dessy.’

‘I can manage…What did you call me?’

‘Dessy. That’s what your maid called you, didn’t she? Miss Dessy?’

‘My name is Decima, my lord.’

‘And what does Charlton call you?’

‘Dessy.’

‘And do you like it?’

‘No.’ She hated it, she realised. It made her sound five years old, or completely totty-headed. Or both.

‘In that case I will call you Decima.’

Decima glared at him, but receiving no satisfaction beyond the undoubtedly admirable view of broad shoulders as he bent to light the range, she stalked out.

When she came back the viscount was hefting a large kettle onto the range. He gave the dampers a shove with the poker and rested one arm on the high mantelshelf, watching the fire. She stood silently in the doorway, studying her rescuer, glad of the opportunity while he was unaware of her scrutiny.

Tall, built to match, athletic-looking with an edge that made her think of racehorses in the peak of condition; everything about him seemed perfectly in proportion. Long legs: the recollection of those well-muscled thighs caused a distinct internal fluttering. Big hands with long fingers and one plain gold signet ring.

She raised her gaze to study his face in profile, lit by the flicker of the new fire. And a very good face it was, too, Decima decided. The strong jaw and nose gave him character, although he was no Adonis. His face was too characterful for any fatuous comparisons with Greek gods, however fashionable that type of look might be. Dark hair, ruffled so she could not tell whether its usual look was modish disorder or simple carelessness, those grey eyes now definitely more greenish in the lamp light. And the most sensual mouth she had ever seen.

Decima shut her own mouth with a snap and looked hastily away. Whatever had come over her? She had never in her life looked at a man’s mouth and thought about how sensual it was, let alone felt the urge to ponder over the curve of the lips or the flexibility of the smile, the way it might feel on hers. She looked back and as she did she felt a frisson of fear run down her spine.

Not fear of the viscount. For some reason Decima didn’t feel the slightest bit uncomfortable with this man. Why not? She should be feeling distinctly uneasy—after all, she was effectively trapped with a powerful, virile stranger in a house without any chaperonage.

No, the fear was of herself and the way she was reacting to him.

The strange, determined Decima who had rebelled that morning, decided to make up her own mind, think positively, live life—this Decima was experiencing the most wanton fancies. She wanted Lord Weston to kiss her, she wanted to feel the breadth of his shoulders under her palms again, not when she was shivering with cold, but now, when they were warm and safe inside. She wanted to touch his hair, run her fingers down the line of that determined jaw, know what it was like to have that expressive mouth covering hers.

This was dangerous folly, she knew it. However honourable a gentleman, it was asking too much of him to have an available female positively quivering with desire under his very nose.

Still, she thought, struggling to get her fantasies under control again, when he did look at her properly in good light at least there was the comfort that he knew the worst already and she would not have to see surprise be succeeded by pity or contempt in those grey eyes.

He was aware of her height, had carried her weight, and he had probably even noticed the freckles, the disastrous final straw as far as her looks were concerned, so he couldn’t be too surprised. He’d had enough warning to manage to keep the reaction off his face at any rate.

There were two basic ways men looked at Decima. Depressed resignation if they were male relatives, or alarm if they were potential suitors lured into meeting her and finding themselves confronted with a befreckled, awkward beanpole. In return, she judged them simply on whether they were polite enough to cover their dismay for however long it took them to tactfully disengage themselves from the encounter.

Except for Sir Henry Freshford, of course. Henry came up to her eye level and quite cheerfully agreed with her that the last thing they wanted to do was get married to each other, not while they were perfectly good friends and could sympathise with each other over the matchmaking wiles of their respective relations. With the exception of Henry, she had felt hideously self-conscious with all unrelated men. Until now.

She came round from her reverie to find herself the subject of an equally thorough, silent, survey.

‘Well, Decima? Do I pass muster?’

How long had she been silently studying him, and how long had he been aware of her doing just that? Decima smiled brightly. Keep it light. Apparently the words wanton virgin seeks kisses were not emblazoned across her forehead, or if they were he was well able to ignore them.

‘You do. Provided you can keep that range in.’

‘I’ve put bricks in the oven to heat and the kettle on the hob.’

‘Oh, good. Nothing has exploded, then?’ She sank down in one of the Windsor chairs and untied the strings of her cloak. ‘Pru’s gone to sleep. I’ve lit fires in all the rooms, including yours. I drew the curtains as well.’

One dark eyebrow rose, very slightly. ‘You lit the fire in my bedchamber? Thank you, Decima.’

Decima felt herself flush at the fancied criticism. ‘I do not see why you should go to a cold bed simply to save me from the shocking sight of a gentleman’s chamber, my lord.’

‘Indeed not, and with any luck Mrs Chitty had cleared away the scandalous prints, the empty brandy bottles and the more outrageous items of underwear. And my given name is Adam. Will you not use it?’

As he had no doubt hoped, the ridiculous nonsense provoked a smile from her before she could decide to be stuffy about first names. ‘Very well, as I imagine we are going to be housekeeping together for several days. Adam.’

It was a good name, and it suited him. Decima let herself relax a little.

‘Can you cook?’

‘Oh…more or less,’ she replied cheerfully, suppressing the truthful answer that she couldn’t boil water and they would almost certainly starve if it was up to her. Perhaps Bates could cook. ‘Shall I have a look and see what food there is?’ After all, how hard could cookery be?

She had just put her head around the door of the larder when the crash and the yell came. Adam was across the room, the back door banging, before she could wrap her cloak around her and snatch up the largest lamp. In its light she saw the sprawled figure of Bates in the middle of the patch of treacherous, glittering ice that spilt out from the base of the horse trough.

Even from that distance there was no mistaking the implication of the way Bates’s lower right leg was twisted at an angle that was totally unnatural. The snow had ceased and everything sparkled with a hard cold.

Ducking back inside, Decima snatched up Pru’s cloak and made her way gingerly across the glassy surface. ‘Here.’ She tucked it around the groom’s shoulders. ‘Have you hurt anything besides your leg?’

‘No, and that’s enough of a bl…No, miss, thank you.’ He was white to the lips and, as Adam touched his leg, he recoiled convulsively. ‘Hell and the devil! Leave it be, damn it!’

‘Oh, yes,’ Adam said sympathetically. ‘I’ll just leave you here, nice and comfy, to freeze to death, shall I? And watch your language while Miss Ross is within earshot.’

‘Let him swear,’ Decima urged, ‘I’m sure it will help. We really ought to splint it before you move him,’ she added.

‘No time. It will hurt, but that’s better than frostbite. Up you come, Bates.’

The resulting language as Adam hoisted the man up and carried him across the yard made Decima clap her hands to her ears, then cautiously remove them out of sheer curiosity. The groom did not seem to repeat himself once. She shut the door behind them and regarded Adam. ‘Here on the kitchen table? It is warm and the light’s good.’

‘No, I’ll take him upstairs. I don’t want to have to move him once it’s set. Which room did you light the fire in for him?’

‘First on the right.’ Decima ran on ahead up the stairs and cast a rapid glance around the room. The bed would have to move. She dragged it out from the wall, her muscles protesting, and shoved it back at right angles so there was access to it on either side. As Adam came in she pulled off the top bedclothes, then lit all the candles. ‘There. Now, what do we need?’

‘Go downstairs, please, Miss Ross.’ Adam was bent over the bed, his gaze rueful as he met the groom’s eyes. ‘I do not think we are in for a very enjoyable quarter of an hour.’

Decima sighed. Men. Even this one, whom she had put down as sensible and non-patronising. She began to think out loud, counting off items on her fingers. ‘A sharp knife to cut off the boot and his breeches. A nightshirt so we can get him into that first to save moving him later.’ Bates sent her a look compounded of shock and outrage. ‘Splints, bandages and laudanum. I’ll go and see what I can find.’

When she returned Adam had got the groom out of his upper clothes and into his nightshirt, draped modestly to preserve everyone’s blushes. She handed him the knife and began to pour laudanum into a glass. ‘Miss Chitty has an admirable stillroom, thank goodness. Here, Bates, drink this, it will help. Do you think some brandy as well, my lord? I’ve brought a bottle.’

The groom swigged back the drug and Adam shrugged. ‘Give him a stiff tot, it can’t do any harm; he has a head like teak.’

‘I’ve got the best straight kindling wood I could find for splints and I’ve torn up a sheet that was in the mending basket.’

‘Thank you, Miss Ross, you are most resourceful.’ Adam pulled off the boot from the uninjured leg, then fell to studying the other thoughtfully. ‘Now go away, please.’

Decima turned to the door. She did not want to stay and see Bates suffering. She certainly did not want to see whatever removing that boot revealed and what would happen next. But it felt like cowardice to go meekly off downstairs like a good little woman when she could be helping.

She got as far as the landing before the sobbing intake of breath drove her back into the room and onto her knees next to the bed. ‘Shove off, miss,’ Bates snapped.

‘You swear as much as you like,’ she said encouragingly, hoping she wasn’t as green in the face as he was. ‘Just hold on to my hands and it will soon be over. And, no, my lord,’ she said as Adam began to speak. ‘I am not going to shove off downstairs, whatever either of you says.’

‘Have you ever met a woman who wasn’t as stubborn as a mule, Bates?’ Adam remarked conversationally.

‘Can’t say as I have, my lord.’

‘I have to say I am shocked at your language, Miss Ross: you must be mixing with the most uncouth men. Right, Bates, that’s the boot. Now for the breeches. Are the horses all right, or am I going to have to drag over there after I’ve patched you up and sort them out?’

Decima half-turned indignantly, recalled Bates’s state of undress and turned back in time to see him produce a twisted grin. ‘They’re all right and tight and rugged up, my lord.’ Adam was talking to him to keep his mind off what was happening, she realised.

‘Gig gone? Bates? Pay attention.’ The groom, whose eyes had begun to roll up in his head, snapped back to consciousness.

‘Yes. Gig’s gone and the riding horse. Looks as though the lot of them went off for marketing and couldn’t get—bloody hell!’

‘Sorry. I needed to check if there’s just the one break. Hmm. Skin isn’t pierced at any rate. I’ll set it now, there’s no point in hanging around and letting the swelling get worse. You may faint any time you see fit, Bates.’

‘Thank you. My lord.’ Bates sounded anything but grateful. Decima shifted her position so that she blocked off as much of his line of vision as she could and smiled encouragingly. There was a minute of major unpleasantness while Bates went even whiter and she thought her fingers were going to be crushed in his calloused grip. Adam swore softly and continuously under his breath. Then Bates gasped and fell back, unconscious.

‘He’s fainted.’ She was not going to be sick.

‘Good. Look, I need another pair of hands. Can you grip his leg just above the knee and hang on while I pull to get the bones aligned?’

Don’t think about it. Just do it. If it was a horse you’d do it. She fixed her eyes on the top of Adam’s bent head, held on and prayed that Bates would stay oblivious.

‘All right. You can let go now. Decima? Let go.’

‘Oh. Of course.’ She forced her fingers open and sat back on her heels. ‘The splints and the bandages are…’ Decima swallowed and got up. ‘I’ll go and get the hot bricks.’

She managed to get to the kitchen simply by talking to herself all the way down the stairs. ‘Hot bricks for Bates and Pru. Might as well do all the beds while I’m at it. I must find something to wrap them in. Check the kettle, see the fire is all right in the range. We’ll need something to keep the bedclothes off that leg.’

The admirable Mrs Chitty kept a stack of neatly hemmed flannel squares in the stillroom. Decima wrapped four bricks and made her way unsteadily upstairs to meet Adam on the landing, a bolster under each arm. ‘I can’t find a stool the right size, but these should do to keep the weight off. You’ve got the bricks? Admirable woman. Here, give me one and you go and see to your maid.’

Pru was sleeping soundly and even Decima’s touch on her hot forehead and the insertion of the brick at the foot of the bed did not rouse her. Decima hoped she would stay asleep until morning, but rather feared she would not. This could be a long night, and she only wished she did not feel quite so queasy.

She put a brick in her own bed, then opened Adam’s door to tuck the remaining one between his sheets. From Bates’s room came a gasp of anguish, cut off by the sound of Adam’s voice. It was too much; to hear someone in so much pain clutched sickeningly at the pit of her stomach. Decima doubled up, retching feebly and unproductively over the lovely porcelain basin on the washstand.

‘Decima? Where are you? Oh, my poor girl. Here, come and sit down and I’ll fetch you something to drink.’

She clutched at the glass blindly and gulped, then choked as the fiery spirit burned down her throat. ‘That’s brandy!’