The Louise Allen Collection: The Viscount's Betrothal / The Society Catch. Louise Allen
at the front. Pru was talking, wrenching her attention away from her own reflection.
‘I was wondering what time you’d be coming in, Miss Decima.’ She was fiddling with things on the dressing table, but the casual air did not deceive Decima.
‘Not before one, I should think. Why? Would you like to go out?’ Pru’s neck went pink. ‘Oh, Pru—is it Bates? Has he asked you out this evening?’
‘Mmm,’ Pru mumbled. ‘Just round to this tavern he knows, not far from here. He says it is quite respectable and we can have a bite of supper and a chat, sort of thing.’
‘That is nice,’ Decima said, sounding ridiculously bracing to her own ears, like a mother encouraging her reluctant offspring to try something new. ‘You want to go, don’t you?’
‘Suppose so. I’m just…’ Pru stood scrubbing one toe into the carpet ‘…shy. It’s different here, not like it was at the lodge, somehow.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Decima replied with feeling. ‘Never mind, go and have supper and, if that is all it leads to, well, at least you won’t be left wondering about might-have-beens.’ How easy it was to give advice to other people, even advice one was ignoring oneself.
The drive to Lady Cantline’s town mansion seemed unreal. Lady Freshford and Caroline chattered happily about who Caroline might meet at this, her very first big ball, and Henry sat next to Decima, looking exquisitely elegant, and conversing about any number of unexceptional subjects. All Decima wanted to do was hold his hand and whimper with nerves.
But she was twenty-seven years old, had made a New Year’s resolution that she must live up to and Lady Freshford would think her quite mad to be clinging to poor Henry’s hand.
Getting out of the carriage while maintaining her modesty in the new gown was a challenge that kept her mind off her terror until they were all climbing the stairs to the receiving line. Then sheer pride came to her aid.
I am not going to flee down these stairs, Decima told herself, linking her hand through Caroline’s elbow and squeezing encouragingly. Caroline turned wide, nervous eyes on her and Decima found herself smiling reassurance.
‘You look wonderful,’ she whispered. ‘You will be fighting the young men off the moment they see you. Now, don’t forget you must not waltz because you have not yet been approved by one of the Patronesses of Almack’s, and we do not know if any of them will be here this evening. And do not, whatever you do, dance more than twice with the same man.’
She spoke with the confidence of a woman who had had to deal with these social prohibitions on a regular basis and smiled at herself. Never mind, as long as it gave Caro reassurance, that was all that mattered.
Lady Freshford led the way confidently around the edge of the ballroom until she found a position that suited her and sank onto a satin chaise, waving her unmarried charges to the flanking chairs. Henry, as was expected, took up his position behind them. Decima glanced at him and he lowered one eyelid in the ghost of a wink; she strongly suspected he would slide away to the card room once he was confident his mama was comfortably settled. She wished she could go with him.
And then she looked across the room and saw Adam and the silly little fears and nerves vanished, swept away by an avalanche of conflicting emotions.
Pleasure, just to see him. Desire. Oh, the sheer, shaming heat of it, surging through her blood, leaving her tingling with urgency. Shyness about what he might think of her looks, of her gown. A faint hope that he might think well of her for facing down her fears and appearing at a ball at all. And love, and the knowledge that she must look away at once, now, or her feelings were going to be written on her face for all to see.
But, as her eyes dropped, she saw Adam was there for exactly the same reason as Henry—standing sentry over his little party of ladies—and the shameful jealousy swallowed all those other feelings. Olivia already had looks and youth, why should she have Adam Grantham, too? Other than the undeniable reason that she was exactly the sort of bride a viscount must be looking for.
Decima fought a silent battle with herself and won, just. If Lady Freshford or Caroline noticed the stains of colour on her cheekbones or the way her hands had twisted suddenly in her lap, they gave no sign of it. Decima took a long, steadying breath and blinked until the blurring had gone from her eyes. Then she fixed a smile on her lips and turned to watch the ebb and flow of arrivals with every sign of interest.
Across the room Adam fitted one shoulder more comfortably against a pillar and regarded the turbaned head of Mrs Channing, seated just in front of him, with cold dislike. He was going to keep his temper with her tonight, and on every occasion until he was married to Olivia, and then she would discover that her son-in-law was not going to dance to her tune, however neatly she had entrapped him.
But that could wait. His falling out with Mrs Channing would distress Olivia deeply—he already knew that raised voices, or even mild sarcasm, reduced her to miserable, quaking silence. There was no way he could teach her to show some backbone before the wedding; it would have to wait until afterwards.
And the damnable thing was, if he had never met Decima Ross he might very well have considered Olivia as a bride. She was exactly what everyone would consider suitable. Even her lack of dowry was a negligible factor given his wealth. Yes, BD—Before Decima, as he was beginning to think of it—Olivia fulfilled all his criteria. Well-bred, compliant, pretty, raised to make an excellent housekeeper and wife. If he was to yield to everyone’s wishes, including young Perry’s, and dutifully marry, Olivia Channing was just perfect.
Adam kept his face smoothly pleasant, nodding to acquaintances, straightening up to be introduced to the numerous ladies Mrs Channing was determined to gloat over, now the engagement notices had gone to the papers. Years of card playing had taught him the trick of an unreadable expression. Even the sanctuary of the card room was out of bounds tonight, he realised. It would be his duty to dance on several occasions with Olivia. In fact, she would probably expect to be able to demonstrate to her less fortunate friends that there was now one man she could dance with as often as she pleased, without causing the slightest scandal.
He bent over Olivia’s chair, turning his shoulder to exclude Mrs Channing. ‘Which dances will you permit me to have this evening?’ he murmured in her ear, deliberately making his voice slightly husky.
She smelt sweetly of roses; her blonde hair was caught up, exposing the soft delicacy of her throat, the fragile skin of her temples. Hidden by the lace of her bodice, the swell of her breasts curved with promise. She was utterly lovely, innocent and fresh. His. And he felt not one iota of desire for her.
‘Oh.’ She blushed, sent a desperate look in her mother’s direction for guidance and found no help, only his very close proximity. ‘Which would you like?’ Rather desperately she showed him her dance card and Adam pencilled his name against four, including one waltz.
‘Four? Is that not rather…I mean, I have not been approved by one of the Patronesses for waltzing…’
‘We will create a scandal,’ Adam said solemnly. ‘There is nothing for it, we will have to get married.’ If he had said such a thing to Decima, she would have caught him up in an instant. Laughed at his teasing, punished him in some way for his jest. Olivia simply looked terrified.
Damn. ‘I was only teasing you,’ he reassured her, smiling ruefully as the panic ebbed out of her face. Could he live with a woman who had no sense of humour? Or perhaps she was just frightened of the whole idea of marriage and would relax and show a different side to her character once they were wed. He could only pray it were true.
Then he straightened up to look round the room and saw her. Decima. Sitting almost opposite with a Roman-nosed matron he did not know, a very young lady and that damned starched-up friend of hers, Henry Freshford.
The madness seemed to sweep through him. He would cross the dance floor, catch her up in his arms, stride out of the house, into the night, take her away, make love to her until she sobbed with ecstasy, begged him never to stop—and the world could go