The Louise Allen Collection: The Viscount's Betrothal / The Society Catch. Louise Allen
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