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Kitabı oku: «The Louise Allen Collection», sayfa 10

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Chapter Twelve

Adam refixed the interested and attentive expression on his face and made himself concentrate on what Lady Brotherton was saying. Four weeks as an engaged man was already trying his patience to the utmost, and finding himself kicking his heels waiting for Olivia to return from a shopping expedition with her cousin Sophie Brotherton was definitely not to his taste.

‘They are naughty girls,’ Lady Brotherton clucked indulgently. ‘But I am sure you will forgive Olivia her excitement…it is not every day a girl is shopping for her trousseau.’

In Adam’s experience so far it seemed to be occupying Olivia’s every waking moment, which suited him very well, except when he was having to wait for her.

‘But you know what girls are,’ his hostess continued indulgently.

‘Well, I do have two sisters,’ Adam admitted.

‘Only the two?’ Lady Brotherton looked pitying. ‘Dear Sophie is the youngest of six.’

‘And all as lovely as she, I dare say,’ Adam responded, knowing what was expected of him.

‘To be sure, although it is boastful of me to say so. And all well married, too—I have high hopes for little Sophie.’ Lady Brotherton got to her feet. ‘Would you care to see their portrait?’

What Adam wanted to be doing was exercising his horses in his new curricle. He smiled with every appearance of delight and followed her to the other end of the room where a group portrait hung. The breath caught in his throat and time stopped.

Six charming versions of Sophie at various ages sat and stood, arms around each other, and at the back was a seventh girl. Head and shoulders taller than the others, a brunette with her hair scraped back into an unflattering plain style, her shoulders hunched and rounded and an expression quite lacking in any emotion. Her lids were hooded, hiding her eyes, but Adam was left with the impression of an animal, cornered and baited, retreating into its own blank misery.

‘Who is the seventh girl?’ he asked indifferently when he had control of his voice, knowing as he spoke what the answer would be.

‘Oh, that is Dessy Ross. Her mother’s first husband was some sort of connection of Lord Brotherton’s—I really cannot recall now what it was. But her brother Charlton was quite in despair about what to do with her, so we brought her out with our girls—one after the other. One tried one’s best to find her a match. Quite hopeless, of course—you might not be able to tell from the portrait, but she is impossibly tall and dreadfully freckled. And, of course, that unfortunate mouth. Sweet girl, although very quiet.’

Lady Brotherton went back to her chair, leaving Adam staring at the portrait. No wonder Decima was so self-conscious about her height, her looks. She had been brought up thinking she was not just plain, but irredeemably ineligible as a result. Her remarks about matchmakers hit Adam like a flick from a whip; her own experience of snubs and humiliations must be deep indeed—scars on her soul.

‘Charlton Ross,’ Adam said cautiously as he walked back to his seat. It would not do to let slip he knew Decima. ‘That sounds familiar. I wonder if I know him.’ He raised an interrogative eyebrow and Lady Brotherton shook her head.

‘No, my lord, it cannot be the man you know. Charlton is Dessy’s half-brother—Lord Carmichael. He lives in Nottinghamshire. Poor dear Dessy,’ she added with a pitying expression on her face. ‘I believe the Carmichaels have still not given up hope of finding her a husband. So optimistic of them, for what can one do about such handicaps? It is hardly as though it were spots—anyone might grow out of those.’ She regarded Adam with concern. ‘Are you quite well, my lord? You seem a little pale.’

As well I might, Adam thought bitterly. Decima Ross was the woman I joked about escaping from—and she knows it. And then he realised just what he had learned and what it meant.

He knew now why Decima had been so cold to him that last day, he knew how to find her—and that there was no honourable way he could seek her out. For he was betrothed to Olivia and he saw, with painful clarity, that what he wanted from Decima Ross was, quite simply, her hand in marriage.

Decima perched on the edge of the bed, sorting silk stockings from cotton ones while Pru carried her unpacked clothes from trunk to clothes presses.

‘Well, here we are, Pru. London again after so long. It must be four years since I managed to escape being dragged round by poor Lady Brotherton, doing the Season. Goodness, I had forgotten how noisy it is—and Lady Freshford was so pleased to tell me this was a nice quiet room!’

She scooped up the rolled stockings and went to drop them in a drawer, then turned to watch the maid. Four weeks ago Pru had confided stiffly that there was no unplanned consequence from her unwise dalliance with Bates, but since then had said nothing more about him.

Decima could tell she was not happy though, and sighed inwardly. ‘Pru, now we are in London, do you wish me to discover whether Lord Weston is in town, too?’

Pru hesitated, biting her lip, then sat down on the bed. ‘Yes, please, Miss Des…Miss Decima. But you won’t say anything to Bates, will you?’

‘I doubt I would see him,’ Decima soothed her. ‘If I can talk to Lord Weston, I will tell him that there appears to be some affection between the two of you and ask him to let drop, quite casually, where we are living. Then Bates can make up his own mind and will never know you are concerned.’

Pru nodded. ‘Yes, that would do it. I wouldn’t want him to think I was chasing him. But how will you find out about his lordship?’

‘I’ll ask Sir Henry,’ Decima said. ‘He will be sure to know.’ And before she went calling upon anyone she was going to send for a coiffeur and do some very serious shopping. She might be a spinster, but Decima was firmly decided that from now on she was going to be a very stylish spinster indeed. After all, she had told herself in the long days and nights of January and February as she brooded on her New Year’s resolution, I have no one to please but myself now. If she was no longer in the marriage mart, then she had nothing to prove, no one to compete with. There was no one whose opinion she had to pander to, and she had all the money she needed to indulge herself. And indulge herself she would.

Wanting to look her absolute best for a certain tall gentleman with grey eyes had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

Adam retreated into his study in his London town house to recover from the latest descent of his future mother-in-law, Olivia in tow, to discuss wedding plans. The wedding, it appeared, would take place in June; it did not seem she considered it necessary to consult his wishes in the matter. The announcement of the betrothal would go into the papers the next day—a suitable length of time from the compromising incident at the ball to ensure there was no talk.

On any other subject, with any other person, Adam would have no more stood for such Turkish treatment than he would have stood still to have his foot driven over. With Mrs Channing he had no wish to start her on one of her lectures on his libertine and rakish behaviour and how he should indulge Olivia in every way possible to make up for his outrageous attempt at seduction.

Considering that he knew all too well that he had been stalked and entrapped, and that she must know he knew, Adam wondered at her hypocrisy. All that stopped him retaliating was a chivalrous concern for Olivia, whom he knew had been merely a browbeaten pawn in her parents’ machinations. She would never dare to stand out against them, just as he knew, with a sinking heart, that, once married, his word would be law and she would never, ever, argue with him.

What he wanted was a bride who would argue, with her elbows on the table, waving her cutlery for emphasis if need be. He wanted a wife who would tease him, would join in foolish whims with a twinkle in her eye and would come into his arms with—

‘A lady has called my lord.’ It was Dalrymple, his butler.

‘What?’ Adam stared, aware that he had not even heard him come in.

‘A lady, my lord. She declined to give me her name.’

Adam felt both his eyebrows rise. It was not like Dalrymple to make such an elementary error of judgement. ‘Are you sure you mean a lady?’

‘Certainly, my lord. A most well-bred lady, if I might venture an opinion. With her maid in attendance.’

So, not an ex-mistress hoping to presume on past favours, then. ‘Show her in, Dalrymple.’

‘In here, my lord? Into your study?’ The man looked scandalised.

‘Certainly in here.’ It would be just like Mrs Channing to discover she had forgotten her parasol and return unexpectedly, and he had no intention of being found entertaining strange ladies in his drawing room. The butler bowed stiffly and went out.

‘Madam,’ he announced frigidly, holding the door for her to enter, then left, shutting it behind him with a decided click. The lady was alone.

Adam stared at his visitor for several seconds, half-convinced he was hallucinating. If it were not for her height, he would have thought he was looking at a complete stranger, an exquisitely dressed, elegantly coiffed young matron.

Then she smiled, curving her wide, generous mouth. Freckles danced across her cheeks as they rounded with the smile and the cool grey eyes sparkled. ‘My lord.’

‘Decima.’ Adam was across the room and had caught her in his arms before he could think. She gave a little gasp, but did not resist him, and her face tipped trustingly up to his. ‘Oh, God. I thought I’d never find you again.’

Her mouth was soft under his hard kiss, opening to him with an innocence that his previous embraces had still not taught to be knowing. It was that very innocence, the sweet scent of her, the way her palm fluttered against his cheek, that brought him to himself.

‘Decima,’ he said again, stepping back. ‘Forgive me, I was taken by surprise at seeing you. Please, will you not sit down.’ He gestured towards a chair, feeling hideously gauche, as formal now he had just been unforgivably free with her.

‘Thank you.’ She sank down gracefully and sat poised, watching him. She smiled suddenly, her nose wrinkling endearingly, and the elegant lady vanished to be replaced by the hoyden who groomed her own horses. ‘I was pleased to see you, too.’

Adam tugged at the bell pull before sitting opposite her. His heart was beating like a drum. Nothing mattered except that she was there.

‘Refreshments,’ he said impatiently as the butler appeared. He wanted to be alone with her, talk to her, put her at her ease—put himself at his ease, if it came to that.

‘You look…’ He struggled for the right word. ‘You look incredible. I hardly recognised you.’ Oh, no, that was hardly the most tactful thing to have said!

Decima produced the gurgle of laughter that never failed to make his heart stutter. ‘Better than when I was grooming horses, perhaps? Or perhaps better than my kitchen-maid look?’

‘Not better, just different.’ What was the matter with him? Normally he had the smooth tongue and the flattering touch of the accomplished rake. Decima reduced him to a gibbering idiot in seconds. ‘Have you forgiven me?’ Better get it over with. ‘I now know your brother’s name and who it was I fled from rather than meet before New Year.’

‘Oh.’ She looked at him, her head slightly tipped to one side like a curious robin. ‘How?’

‘I saw your portrait at Lady Brotherton’s.’

‘Oh,’ she said again, dropping her gaze to her clasped hands. ‘Hideous, is it not?’

‘I thought it was sad that no one seemed capable of seeing your true beauty,’ he said gently, and was rewarded by a glowing look from her grey eyes.

‘Thank you. You seem to see something that other people do not, which is kind of you.’

‘I am not kind,’ he retorted roughly. ‘Why have you come?’ Damn it, Adam, why not show a complete lack of finesse while you’re about it?

‘Ah. Now that is difficult.’ Her gaze dropped again and the colour mounted in her cheeks. ‘It was hard to come and speak to you like this, I don’t deny it. Especially after all the things I said about marriage and matchmakers.’

Her colour was positively hectic now. With a visible effort she raised her eyes to his face and said, ‘You might not be…happy about what I have to say, but I think one should be…honest about…about love.’

Love? She was telling him she loved him? ‘Decima.’ He reached out and took her hands in his. ‘Decima, I think you had better say what you mean.’

‘This is very difficult. Has Bates said anything to you?’

‘Bates? Go away,’ he snapped at Dalrymple, who opened the door, a tray of refreshments neatly balanced on one gloved hand.

‘Very good, my lord.’ The butler executed a smart turn and removed himself.

‘What the hell has Bates got to do with anything?’ She was going to tell him she had fallen passionately for Bates, that was it. His life could hardly be in more of a mess.

‘It is Pru. I think she is in love with him. But you know what he’s like—so taciturn. I thought if you could drop a hint, let him know where she was to be found—then, if he was interested in her, he might make contact.’

‘I see,’ Adam said flatly, sitting back in his chair. ‘So this is all about Bates and Pru. You would not have come to find me if it had not been for that. Just how serious is it?’

He seemed to have flustered her. Good, Adam thought viciously, then hated himself.

‘Things apparently became quite…that is…I did worry at one point that she might be with child,’ Decima admitted, her high colour returning. ‘But fortunately not. But I have no idea if his affections are engaged, or simply his, er, physical reactions.’

Well, good for Bates, Adam thought bitterly. To manage a seduction with a broken leg argued a determination and aplomb he had been unaware of. In fact, he doubted he could have accomplished it himself. And the old devil had the nerve to lecture me about propriety!

‘By all means let us put ourselves about to secure the happiness of others,’ he said, hating the sarcastic edge to his voice. Decima looked bemused at his tone. Of course, he thought, she has no idea what I feel for her. How could she? She thinks she has had a salutary experience with a rake, that is all. ‘Are you sure it would not be—let me be sure I have the words right—a piece of meddling?’

‘Yes, I am sure,’ Decima snapped back, her understandable anger at his tone finally overcoming her good manners. ‘Pru wants to find out what he feels for her, that is all. He can choose to ignore the information if he so wishes—she has far too much pride to pursue him.’

She got to her feet in a swirl of skirts, so suddenly that he had to scramble to stand, too. ‘If you wish to have nothing to do with it, then I will go down to the mews and see him on the pretext of asking about Fox. You have absolutely no need to trouble yourself about the emotional well-being of your servants or mine, my lord. Good day to you.’

‘Decima.’ Adam managed to get between her and the door before she could swing it open and stalk out. ‘I beg your pardon. I was so taken aback at seeing you.’ Her eyebrows rose haughtily. ‘Yes, I know, that is no excuse. I feel guilty about how I behaved at my sister’s. I feel worse about what I said in your hearing. And I wanted to find you and could not and that hurt.’

‘So you were sulking?’ she suggested sweetly.

‘I do not—’ He met her eyes, saw the wicked glint in them and smiled ruefully. ‘Probably,’ he admitted. Now they were so close, the urge to take her in his arms again was a tangible force, as though someone was pushing him towards her. He knew how her skin would taste, how her mouth would feel under his, how her long, lovely body would fit and slide against his. He wanted to make love to her until she screamed his name and begged him never to stop. He wanted all the things he could not have.

‘Shall we go down to the mews, or would you like some refreshments first?’

‘Oh, the mews, please. Have you brought Fox up to town with you?’ She shot him a slanting, sideways look as he opened the door for her. ‘Will you still agree to put him to my mare, now we have made up our quarrel?’

‘Have we been quarrelling?’

‘Just a little bit, I think. Margery, come along, we are going down to the mews with his lordship.’ The maid, a quiet girl who had been sitting on a hard chair in the hall, stood and helped Decima into her pelisse, then curtsied to Adam. ‘I thought it better not to bring Pru,’ she confided quietly. ‘Now, if you wait until we are close to Bates before you ask me my direction, that should do it.’

Decima slipped her hand into the crook of Adam’s arm and let him guide her down the steps and along the pavement of Portman Square. Margery, borrowed from Lady Freshford, followed behind at a discreet distance like the well-trained attendant she was.

The luxury of being close to Adam, of touching him, made her pulse race. She tried not think about his kiss, but all the strange new feelings she had been suppressing flooded back to swamp her body. Her breathing was short, heat seemed to run up and down her body and an intimate pulse of arousal beat distractingly.

With him she felt different, strangely confident, able to show her real feelings whether they were shyness or anger. It was an intoxicating sensation, to be herself. And then she realised why he made her feel like this. With a dawning sense of wonder Decima turned her head to look at the strong profile of the man beside her. I love him.

Bates had Fox tied up outside and was grooming him as they walked into the mews yard. He straightened up and stared for a long moment, then put down his brushes and limped towards her, tugging off his hat. ‘Good day to you, Miss Decima, ma’am.’

‘Good day to you, Bates! And how is your leg? Still troubling you, I see.’ It made things easier, having to focus on someone else, to think about managing this carefully for Pru’s sake. Anything rather than think about the implications of what she had just discovered about herself.

‘Getting better, I thank you, ma’am. I expect I’ll be a bit of a Hopping Giles all my days, but it could be worse.’

‘His lordship and I did not make too bad a job of it, then?’

‘No, ma’am, and I’m powerful sorry my language wasn’t all it might have been either.’ He glanced behind her as he spoke and Decima watched his expression stiffen as he saw who was accompanying her. He had been expecting to see Pru and was disconcerted that she was not there. Good.

‘It was very educational, Bates,’ she said lightly, stepping past him to stroke Fox. ‘How’s my favourite boy, then?’ The stallion rewarded her with a gentle butt with his nose. Decima turned back to Adam. ‘We really must make arrangements for putting him to my mare, my lord. I will be staying in town for the Season and I will be in touch before I go back to Norfolk.’

She delved in her reticule and then produced a realistic smile of realisation. ‘Of course, I have no card with my London address. I am staying with Lady Freshford in Green Street. Number Eleven. Green Street.’

Adam turned as though to escort her out of the mews. ‘And is Miss Prudence with you? I trust she recovered from her illness.’

‘Oh, yes. She is with me. She seemed a little cast down—the after-effects of the fever, I expect—so I thought the change of scene would do her good. Goodbye, Bates. I do hope your leg continues to improve.’

Adam took her arm and began to guide her back out of the yard. ‘Let me take you back to the house and Dalrymple will call you a hackney.’

Decima said little on their way back other than to whisper, ‘That should have done the trick. If he does nothing now, at least Pru knows where she stands.’ But what of her? Would Adam make the slightest push to see her again?

As they neared the front steps Decima saw that a barouche had drawn up and the footman was just helping down an exquisite blonde lady. She started slightly when she saw them, and stood waiting, a look of somewhat nervous anticipation on her face.

‘What a beautiful young woman,’ Decima murmured. ‘She is like a little fairy.’

‘Exquisite,’ Adam rejoined. Curious, Decima glanced at him; he had sounded almost sardonic.

Then she saw the lady more clearly. ‘But I know her, surely!’ She let go of Adam’s arm and hurried forward. ‘Olivia? Miss Channing, I should say. I am sure you do not remember me, but I stayed for several Seasons with your cousins, the Brothertons.’

The blue eyes widened with recognition and the apprehensive half smile was replaced by a genuine look of pleasure. ‘But of course I remember you—Dessy Ross, isn’t it? You were so kind to me, even though I was still in the schoolroom. You used to help me with my French recitation when I found it so hard.’

‘You are most certainly out of the schoolroom now,’ Decima observed admiringly. ‘I almost did not recognise you.’ Olivia blushed and demurred and Decima remembered her manners. ‘Forgive me, I should perhaps introduce you to Viscount Weston. My lord…’

‘That is quite all right.’ Adam stepped forward and took Olivia’s little kid-gloved hand in his. ‘I already know Miss Channing. We are betrothed.’

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1682 s. 4 illüstrasyon
ISBN:
9781474082266
Telif hakkı:
HarperCollins
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