by Louise Allen
And she was being dragged about, pushed into society by her desperate mama, when she believed all she could expect was to be snubbed, despite her looks and her sweetness. A month ago he would have shrugged and taken no notice of her. Now, with Decima’s bitter words about matchmakers still ringing in his ears, he regarded her with sympathy and tried to make up to her for the fact that she found herself constantly on the outside of things.
She was a funny little thing, he thought. Even now she was used to him and had begun to chat to him with less constraint, he always had the feeling that she was glancing over his shoulder, checking for something.
He refilled his glass, dismissing Olivia as an insoluble problem. The presence of Peregrine Grantham, the son of his father’s late younger brother, was another matter altogether—both the silver lining to the visit and a heartening reminder that lectures on his duty to produce an heir could be met by pointing out young Perry’s numerous admirable qualities. Not that Perry, or his mother, were holding their breath at the thought of him stepping into his cousin’s shoes.
‘I do wish you’d get married, Adam,’ Perry had complained the day before as they trudged across a muddy field, retrievers at their heels and a dozen pigeons hanging from their shot belts. ‘Here I am, wanting to join up, and all I get from my guardians is lectures on how the heir to a viscounty doesn’t go risking his neck in the army.’
Adam had grinned at him and informed him that he had no intention of getting leg-shackled for his sake and he would just have to wait another couple of years until he could do as he chose.
‘The war’ll be over by then,’ Perry had retorted with good humour. ‘No, the answer is to get you married off, Adam.’
That evening, stretching long legs in front of a blazing fire and sipping Minster’s best liqueur brandy, Adam found himself contemplating matrimony seriously for perhaps the first time.
He was not staying single for Perry’s sake; the lad had too much intelligence and ambition to wait around for dead men’s shoes. No, Adam was unwed simply because no lady had ever piqued his interest enough to give up his independence and privacy. Except one.
He had set Franklin on Decima’s trail as soon as he had realised he could not find any mention of her brother in any of his reference books and that the polite note of thanks he had received three days after her departure gave no address. At the time he had not asked himself why he wanted to find her, only that he needed to make sure she was all right. The fact that her note left him in no doubt of that was beside the point.
Now Adam reluctantly faced the fact that he missed her. It was not just that his body ached for her, although it certainly did. He wanted to get to know her better, to hear that rich, wicked chuckle again, to dance a waltz with her and tease her about her cookery. He wanted to make her blush and cajole her out of her sudden fits of shyness. And he wanted to find out whether this unfamiliar ache around his heart was love.
And now, with the paperwork spread out before him detailing false trail after false trail, it seemed she had vanished. The only thing he could think was that she had not given him her true surname and, if that was the case, even setting the Bow Street Runners on her was not likely to be productive. It seemed that she was not as interested in resuming their strange friendship as he was himself.
He roused himself at the sound of the changing gong and made his way upstairs, only to remember that tonight was the occasion of the dance Aunt Minster was throwing to celebrate not only the arrival of her first grandchild, but also the betrothal of her last and youngest daughter, Sylvia.
There would be a family dinner first, then the arrival of guests and the prospect of a long night of dancing and making conversation in an overheated ballroom.
‘What are you about, Greaves?’ His valet was stropping a razor and regarding with some satisfaction his master’s newest and most elegant evening clothes laid out on the bed.
‘I had made sure your lordship would require to shave before dinner.’ He shook out a towel and waited patiently beside the chair, managing to ignore the singular lack of enthusiasm on his employer’s face.
With a sigh Adam cast himself down on the chair and did his best to suppress his bad humour. Greaves did not deserve having his employer’s disappointment and frustration taken out on him, nor was it his fault that Adam was in the worst possible state of mind to appreciate the elegance of the new satin knee breeches or the gloss the valet had achieved on the dancing pumps.
‘I’m not in the mood for a party, Greaves,’ he observed mildly as the man whipped up a lather and began to apply it to his face.
‘No, my lord. I have observed, if I might be so bold, that dances at which most of the partners are in some way related to a gentleman rarely offer him as much entertainment, however select the company.’
Despite himself Adam grinned. No, this was not likely to be the sort of party at which one could entertain oneself with dashing matrons or semi-respectable widows.
He went down to dinner only to realise that more guests had arrived, necessitating the butler to order all the extra leaves to be put in the dining table.
Perry wandered up to him, looking disgruntled. ‘I say, Adam, all the card tables are set out for whist for the old tabbies; we’re going to have to dance all evening.’
‘Well, find yourself some pretty girls to flirt with,’ Adam retorted unsympathetically. Perry was still at an age when girls were at best incomprehensible and at worst frightening. ‘What about Olivia over there? I’m sure she is your type. We’ll go over and you can practise on her.’
Perry, suspecting teasing, shot a hunted look in the direction of Adam’s gaze and relaxed. ‘Oh, Olivia Channing. I’m sure she’ll take no interest in me with you around.’
Adam put this down to adolescent insecurity and ignored it. The chit looked suitable for helping overcome Perry’s awkwardness—there was a sweet expression on her face and an air of modest shyness about her that was appealing. She would gaze at Perry as though he were wonderful and not make him feel threatened.
Adam took his cousin firmly by the elbow and began to make his way through the dinner guests, only for them to be hailed imperiously by his Aunt Minster.
‘There you are, Peregrine. Stop gossiping to Adam about shooting or horses or whatever you are doing and come and talk to the admiral.’ She detached Perry from his grip, hooked her own hand through his arm and carried on in the direction she had been heading.
Deprived of his companion, Adam carried on to Olivia’s side. She bobbed a curtsy. ‘My lord.’ Her voice was soft and slightly breathless and she regarded him with wide eyes.
Too young, too spiritless and far too short, Adam thought, his mind suddenly full of a tall, unconventional lady a good eight or nine years older than this child. And her mama should never have dressed Olivia in that daring style with such low-set sleeves. It was more suited to a married woman. Then his natural kindness took over and he set himself to charm her out of the worst of her nerves.
She certainly opened up a little in the interval before dinner was announced, although Adam once again had the uneasy feeling that she was constantly looking behind him at someone or something. As he took her arm to take her to find her dinner partner, he glanced back and recognised her parents. They seemed to be keeping a very close eye on her, although, with her seeming so nervous, perhaps that was only to be expected.
Dinner was as boring as he expected, trapped between an aunt who twittered and a matron who showed a disconcerting inclination to flirt with him. Adam was aware of drinking steadily and of an overwhelming desire to escape as soon as the covers were drawn. What he wanted was an unconventional lady to talk to, to tease, to—
‘Grantham!’
He looked up, startled out of his reverie.
‘You are chased,’ his uncle said sternly and he found that, indeed, the decanters were at his elbow. With a careless hand he filled his glass and pushed them on down the table.
When the gentlemen m
ade their way through to the ballroom he looked around for escape. Good, the conservatory looked like a shaded haven of palms, comfortable seating and solitude. It was too early in the evening for daring couples to seek it out for a little dalliance or for desperate wallflowers to retreat there to hide.
Snagging a glass of champagne off a tray as the footman passed, Adam slid in through the nearest door and retreated as far into the leafy sanctuary as he could.
Now, at last, he could sit and think in peace about what he was going to do about Decima. A swish of skirts made him stiffen and draw back. He could glimpse a blonde head through the foliage and the sound of a bravely suppressed sob.
Damn it. It was Olivia. Adam eased round until he could see her, head bent, applying a fragile scrap of lace to her eyes. With a sigh he reached into his pocket and found a clean handkerchief.
‘Olivia?’ She started dramatically and stared at him.
‘Oh, thank you, my lord.’ As he pressed the linen into her hand her fingers gripped his and he found himself on the seat beside her.
‘Olivia? What is wrong?’ Hell, what did one say to weeping girls? ‘There, there.’ He patted her shoulder, wishing he hadn’t had quite so much to drink and could think about what to do for the best. Fetch her mama? She gave a gasping sob and the next thing he knew he had an armful of quivering young lady.
Instinct took over and Adam gathered her into a comforting embrace, only to find that her gown appeared to have a life of its own and was sliding off her shoulders. Under his palms he could feel soft, bare, heated skin.
‘Olivia? You must try and…’ Her face tipped up to his, piquant with some trembling emotion he did not understand. Her lashes were spiked with tears, her soft pink lips parted. So he kissed her, a gentle, chaste kiss intended purely to comfort.
‘My lord!’
‘Adam!’
Startled, he twisted round, instinctively sheltering Olivia in his arm. Facing him were both her parents and his Aunt Minster. And even as he stared at them he realised that Olivia was tugging at the neckline of a bodice which had fallen quite scandalously low over her pretty breasts.
‘Well, my lord,’ Mr Channing uttered in outraged tones, ‘just what do you think you are about?’ Beside him his wife could not quite keep the look of triumph off her face.
Under the circumstances, what was there to say? Or even to do? He was caught by the oldest trick in the book. ‘Mr Channing.’ Adam got to his feet, keeping his body between himself and Olivia, who was frantically trying to rearrange her bodice. ‘I will do myself the honour of speaking to you tomorrow morning.’
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 wou
ldn’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.