by Louise Allen
‘Indeed? I am sorry to disappoint you, Olivia, but I have a fixed disgust of foreign travel.’
‘Oh.’ Her lower lip quivered pathetically. Any man of the slightest sensibility would want to comfort her, but Adam had been down that road already. ‘But I imagine you enjoy travel in the British Isles?’ she ventured. ‘Scotland, perhaps? I dote upon Sir Walter’s romances.’
‘Scott? Certainly not. I do hope you are not given to novel reading, Olivia. And as for Scotland, I would as soon sit under a pump for a week—one can then become wet, cold and miserable without the inconveniences of travel.’
‘Oh,’ she said again, thoroughly crushed. Adam just hoped he was providing a suitable contrast to Freshford, although it felt like kicking a kitten to be doing it.
It had seemed such an ideal solution, to throw Olivia and Freshford together. He was obviously besotted with her despite his efforts to hide it and Adam could not imagine that she could find a more compatible husband. But the combination of Olivia’s perfect obedience, her terror of her parents and Freshford’s apparently rigorous sense of honour was going to make this trickier than he thought. It didn’t help that Decima seemed so fixed on ensuring he treated Olivia as he should.
What if he did manage to disentangle himself from this coil with honour and she would not have him? Adam closed his eyes briefly, seeing Decima’s face against the blackness of his lids. At least he could explain what had happened, how he felt. If he couldn’t have her, that would be poor comfort indeed.
He came back to himself to find Olivia was regarding him anxiously ‘Do you have a headache, my lord?’ He could not persuade her to use his given name. All his attempts met only with a blush and a stammered, ‘Mama says it is not proper or respectful.’ Not for the first time Adam quailed inwardly at the thought of a wedding night with a bride who could not even bring herself to relax to that extent.
‘No, not a headache. Have you seen enough, or would you like to stay a little longer?’
‘No, thank you, I am quite ready to go, but I must wait for Decima and Sir Henry.’
‘No need. My business meeting this afternoon has had to be cancelled as my agent is unwell; I can escort you home.’
‘Oh, Sir Henry promised to lend me some of his foreign sketchbooks—but perhaps you would not care for me to borrow them?’ She looked up at him anxiously.
‘By all means, if that would give you pleasure.’ Well done, Freshford. Adam grinned at the approaching baronet, Decima still on his arm. The man’s tactics for maintaining perfectly respectable contact with Olivia were excellent, and very encouraging. But he still could not see how, unless Freshford could be persuaded to abduct Olivia and carry her off to the border, he was going to manage the thing. And Freshford did not strike him as the sort of gentleman who would even contemplate such irregularity.
‘It seems you have been kind enough to promise Olivia a sight of your sketch-books, Freshford. Would it be convenient if we return with you now?’ Sir Henry agreed immediately, but Decima narrowed her eyes and her brows drew together in a fleeting frown. If he was not careful, she would overset his entire scheme. This called for more dramatic action than he had at first contemplated.
Chapter Eighteen
Decima fretted all the way back to the Freshfords’ house, but Olivia’s presence in the barouche prevented her giving tongue to anything but careful comment on the exhibition. Olivia had quite naturally climbed into their carriage, only realising as she sat down that perhaps she should have gone with Lord Weston. But he seemed indifferent about the matter, causing Decima even greater anxiety.
Was he so blind? Should she say something? But to do so would be to suggest that Henry might act in a dishonourable manner—and that, of course, was unthinkable. With a sinking heart Decima decided that she would have to have an intimate talk with Olivia.
She was still brooding on exactly what form this embarrassing conversation should take when they arrived back to find Lady Freshford and Caroline entertaining in the green salon.
‘Decima, my dear, see who is here!’ Lady Freshford welcomed her with a smile that only Decima and her children would have recognised as desperate. ‘Your brother and dear Lady Carmichael.’ She smiled at her son, who hastened to introduce Olivia and Lord Weston.
Blushing, Olivia protested that she had no wish to disturb Lady Freshford whilst she had company, but Adam accepted the offer of a chair and a cup of tea with alacrity, urging Olivia to sit down beside him. Decima saw the light of unholy glee in his eyes and shut hers in horror. Adam was settling down to become fully acquainted with Charlton.
But Charlton, with his usual single-minded concerns for his own priorities, rapidly returned to what he had obviously been discussing before they had arrived.
‘I was just saying to Lady Freshford, it is most kind of her to look after you, Dessy, but now we are in town there is absolutely no need for her to be troubled. In fact, if you pack now, you may return with us immediately.’
‘But—’
‘But, Lord Carmichael, I would be most distressed if dear Decima were to leave us,’ Lady Freshford cut neatly across Decima’s protest. ‘In fact, I would find myself quite at a stand, for in making my plans to bring Caroline out, I had no idea that Decima would not be able to stay with me for the entire Season.’
‘Dessy? She is assisting with Miss Freshford’s come-out?’ Hermione regarded her hostess blankly.
‘Why, yes. I am not strong,’ Lady Freshford said, with a brazen disregard for the robust health she enjoyed. ‘And dear Decima is able to take much of the burden of chaperonage from me, besides being such a help in showing Caroline how to go on.’
‘Dessy?’ Charlton interjected.
‘Why, certainly.’ That was Adam, leaning back in his chair and smiling benignly on the astonished Carmichaels. ‘Miss Ross’s style on the dance floor is much admired—I am sure it is not just Miss Freshford whose mama is pointing her out as an example of grace and deportment.’
‘My mama is always very happy when she knows Miss Ross is with me,’ Olivia chimed in with her sweet smile.
‘But Dessy is single and—’
Adam cut in before Charlton had the opportunity to display his crashing lack of tact. ‘But of mature years.’ Decima forgot to be grateful for his interjection and glared at him. ‘And she has such poise and judgement.’
Charlton spluttered, ‘That’s as may be…’ The glance he shot Decima plainly said he did not believe a word of it and had wandered into a house full of lunatics. ‘…But I am afraid I must insist. Hermione will depend upon Dessy for her companionship and support, and, as family, that is where she belongs.’
‘No,’ Decima said baldly, knowing she should have waited to discuss the matter until they were alone. But if she did, she had the terrible fear that Charlton would simply sweep her away with his bullying and she would feebly agree. ‘No, I am afraid that would not be convenient. I am fixed here, I promised Lady Freshford; in any case, I have so many engagements I really would be of little use to Hermione.’ She smiled at her sister-in-law. ‘Would Cousin Gertrude not be free?’
‘Engagements? What, pray?’
‘Four balls during the next sennight, a luncheon engagement—’
‘Lady Hale’s At Home,’ Caroline chimed in. ‘And you promised you would take me for my court-dress fittings because Mama finds that too fatiguing,’ she announced inventively.
‘And Miss Ross will be chaperoning Miss Channing on an expedition to Richmond,’ Adam added. It was the first Decima had heard of it, but she nodded in agreement.
‘Then there are my own fittings, and so forth,’ she improvised. ‘I am sorry, Hermione, not to be able to oblige you at such short notice, but I am sure Cousin Gertrude would be only too happy to join you.’
Charlton surged to his feet, his face red. Decima feared an outburst, but at the last moment he seemed to recall that he was in company and refrained. With a stiff bow to Lady Freshford and a curt nod to the rest
of the company he took his leave, Hermione anxious on his heels.
There was silence, then an almost collective drawing of breath. Adam put down his cup and tactfully took his leave, Olivia pressing Decima’s hands and assuring her she was looking forward to seeing her again at the Laxtons’ ball tomorrow.
When the door shut behind them Lady Freshford regarded Decima anxiously. ‘Did I do right, my dear? Somehow I did not think that you wished to leave us, but if I am wrong, please do not hesitate to say so.’
‘I am delighted to stay, if you wish me to, ma’am,’ Decima assured her, clasping her hands tightly in her lap to quell their shaking. She would not have heard the last of this from Charlton, and, thankful though she was for the support of her friends, she could have wished for that unpleasant little encounter to have been in private.
She had her opportunity for a private conversation with her half-brother rather sooner than she would have wished for. No sooner had the Freshford party entered Lady Laxton’s ballroom for her masquerade ball the following evening, than she saw Charlton and Hermione, deep in conversation with their friends the Fosters.
Decima’s hands went instinctively to put on her mask, then she realised that not only would it give rise to ill-bred gossip if she avoided her own family all evening, but her height made her easily distinguishable in any event.
Henry, dressed as Robin Hood, found them a comfortable alcove with sofas from where they could admire the multi-coloured throng in front of them. Lady Freshford had been so taken with Henry’s costume that she had decreed a greenwood theme for the party. Caroline was Maid Marion, Lady Freshford was a sweetbriar with rose petals covering her mask and Decima had decided upon going as a willow tree in a gown of shimmering fresh green and a mask created out of silk leaves.
Charlton, so far as they could make out, had unwisely decided upon dressing as a Roman emperor. The effect was more pleasing on his wife, who carried off the lines of a classical tunic with somewhat angular elegance.
‘Charlton is certainly visible in that outfit,’ Decima observed in a whisper to Henry, who turned, saw him and succumbed to a regrettable fit of stifled laughter.
‘I thought it was the Regent for a moment,’ he gasped, snorting despite his mother’s reproving look. ‘What he needs are a set of corsets and a much more concealing mask.’
He had to pull himself together rapidly, for the first of a steady stream of gentlemen began to arrive to beg the hands of Miss Ross and Miss Freshford in almost equal numbers.
‘It is most unfair,’ Caro observed teasingly as she viewed her dance card with complacence. ‘You are attracting all the tall gentlemen, Decima, and I only get the short ones.’
There was one tall gentleman whose name did not appear on Decima’s card, however. Of Adam Grantham there was no sign. Decima had just concluded that Mrs Channing had decreed the more free and easy atmosphere of a masquerade ball unsuitable for Olivia when a familiar dark head appeared amidst the throng. Decima blinked. Adam seemed taller than she recalled, then she saw that he was in the dress of the middle of the last century—severe black, laced with silver, his coat skirts stiffened with whalebone, his feet in buckled shoes with red heels. He looked magnificent. By his side Olivia was in the dress of a Meissen figurine, all bouffant blue skirts and tight-laced waist, her hair arranged into a cascade of ringlets. Her mother, nodding graciously from side to side, was gowned in a rather more restrained version of the same period. Like many of the chaperons, she had dispensed with a mask.
Henry took a step forward, hesitated and remained where he was. ‘Are you not going to ask Miss Channing to dance, dear?’ his mother asked. ‘She is a nice child, is she not?’
Henry hesitated, avoiding Decima’s gaze, then took himself off across the room. ‘I like Miss Channing, too,’ Caro remarked. ‘What a pity she is betrothed to Lord Weston—she is just the girl for Henry.’
This innocent observation seemed to hang in the air and Decima saw Lady Freshford’s gaze sharpen and focus on her son. She turned slightly, her eyes meeting Decima’s with startled realisation.
Decima stayed silent until Caro’s partner came to claim her, then said quietly, ‘I am sure Henry would do nothing…imprudent.’
‘No, of course not,’ his mother said stoutly, her anxious gaze fixed on the small group across the floor. ‘I expect we are refining too much upon it.’ She collected herself and observed, ‘Here comes Lord Carmichael.’
Charlton was, indeed, making his way towards them, laurel wreath slipping dangerously on his balding pate, toga draped like a vast bath towel.
‘Ma’am.’ He bowed to Lady Freshford and glared at his sister. ‘Dessy.’
‘I hope you have not come to ask me to dance, Charlton,’ Decima remarked, sounding regrettably pert to her own ears. ‘I believe I have virtually nothing left but country dances and you certainly cannot perform those in that costume.’
‘Of course I am not intending to dance,’ Charlton fumed. He took Decima’s arm and steered her away from Lady Freshford’s seat. ‘I attended only to accompany Hermione and to remonstrate with you about where your duty should lie.’
‘If Hermione had invited me to join her in London when I was with you at Christmas, I would most certainly have been glad to oblige her.’ Decima had qualms about whether that was the truth, but she was not going to refine upon the matter now. ‘But to expect me to change my plans and to inconvenience Lady Freshford, who has been most kind to me, at no notice whatsoever—why, Charlton, that is the outside of enough.’
Her brother began to splutter, then his face went rigid. Decima was conscious of a presence close behind her and somehow knew who it was before he spoke. ‘Miss Ross, Carmichael, good evening.’
‘Lord Weston.’ She turned and dropped a slight curtsy. ‘May I say what a very fine costume group your party makes.’
‘Why, thank you, Miss Weston. You present the most elegant of willow trees, if I may be so bold. And, Lord Carmichael, what an admirable guise! But where is your barrel?’
‘Barrel?’ Charlton boggled at Adam ‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Why, you are representing Archimedes, are you not? At the point where you have leapt out of the barrel, wrapped a bath towel around yourself and cried “Eureka”?’
Charlton was becoming puce. Hastily Decima intervened before he had the threatened stroke. ‘My brother is representing a Roman emperor, my lord. Surely you observe the wreath upon his brow?’
It was very hard to control her laughter. She fixed Adam with an imploring look and he took her arm.
‘But enough of costumes. My dance, I think, Miss Ross; we must make haste or miss the opening notes.’
The formal sets of a cotillion were not the best place to remonstrate with one’s partner, but Decima did her best as they came together and parted.
‘How could you? Bath towel indeed!’
‘A genuine mistake,’ Adam observed as the measure brought him back to her side.
‘That, my lord, is a complete untruth,’ she scolded.
‘True,’ he agreed maddeningly.
‘And this is not your dance, either,’ she added.
‘Was it anyone else’s?’
‘No,’ she conceded, ‘but that is not the point. You are extremely autocratic, my lord.’
They were swept apart by the dance. When he took her hand again Adam was serious. ‘Will you give in to your brother on his demands to stay with him?’
‘No.’ Decima shook her head decisively. ‘It makes me feel guilty to defy him—he is the head of the family, after all—but I resolved to be independent, and I will be.’
‘Good.’ The smile came back to Adam’s face and with it a warm glow filled her. His approval meant so much—and it should not, she knew it. She should be guided only by her own conscience and her own sense of duty.
As the dance came to an end he retained her hand as they walked off the floor. Decima turned to thank him and was shocked into silence as he lifted her hand a
nd, turning it in his, dropped a light kiss on the skin of her wrist where the buttons of her long gloves parted.
‘Good,’ he repeated. ‘I would hate to think I had misjudged you, Decima.’ And then he was gone, leaving her blushing on the edge of the dance floor. She was only a few steps from Lady Freshford, but Decima felt as though she had been abandoned in the midst of a throng of critical strangers. She glanced round wildly, expecting to see the chaperons all pointing at her and hissing about her wanton behaviour, allowing her bare wrist to be caressed in public.
But no one was looking at her, not even Lady Freshford, who was chatting animatedly to a friend. Still hot-cheeked, Decima escaped to the retiring room and retreated behind a screen to peer anxiously into a mirror and try to restore her countenance. A word of thanks sent the hovering maid away, leaving her alone.
This would not do, it really would not. She was relying too much upon Adam’s approval, his very presence, for her happiness and that was madness. He obviously felt so little for her that it never occurred to him that paying her attention might rouse unsuitable feelings in her breast.
Presumably now he was engaged to be married he was able to put aside their lovemaking in the hunting lodge and assumed she could do so as easily. And yet he had seemed jealous of Henry’s attachment to her. Men were very strange; she must have another talk with Henry.
Decima sighed and began to twirl strands of hair, that had lost a little curl in the warmth of the ballroom, between finger and thumb. They really needed the application of a hot iron again, but the fruitless exercise at least offered her some excuse for not going back out again for a few minutes.
The outer door opened. ‘Good evening. May I assist you, ladies?’ The maid had obviously stepped forward and this time was requested to find needle and thread for a torn hem. It was Mrs Channing, and as she chatted to her companion, loftily ignoring the maid’s presence, it was obvious that the possessor of the damaged dress was Olivia.