The Louise Allen Collection. Louise Allen
satisfied, he stopped and began the whole process over again.
‘What are you doing?’ Decima approached cautiously.
‘Building a snowman. You do a smaller ball for his head.’
‘But I haven’t built a snowman since I was—’ She broke off, racking her brains. ‘Eight. I must have been eight.’
‘I don’t think I have, either.’ Adam lifted the snowman’s torso up with a grunt and settled it on the base. ‘But as we do not have any eight-year-olds to hand, and all this good snow is going to waste, it seems a pity not to take advantage.’
Decima looked from the half-built snow figure to Adam and then hastily back again. The sudden dark mood by the ice patch had vanished; he was quite obviously intending to play. His eyes sparkled, his grin was infectious—but there was nothing in the least childlike about the breadth of his shoulders or the length of leg where the muscles rippled as he bent and lifted.
Decima had always considered that she and Augusta had enjoyed themselves quite light-heartedly whenever the mood took them. Skating in the winter, picnics in the summer, riding and shopping and socialising with neighbours all the year round. But it had never occurred to her to do something so spontaneous, so undignified, so unladylike, as to play in the snow.
She bent and gathered up a handful of snow, shaped it into a ball and began to push it along, patting and shaping as it grew. When it seemed big enough she lifted it and set it in place, only to find Adam had vanished. The snowman appeared well built, but somewhat lacking in features. Decima went and picked up broken branches from under a tree and set them in as arms, then had another idea and ran to the coal shed, returning with enough small pieces for eyes, buttons and a row of black teeth.
She was just standing back to view the effect when Adam reappeared from the stables, his arms full.
‘There.’ He set a battered tricorne on the figure’s head, fashioned a scarf out of sacking and added one of the bruised carrots that were used in the horses’ feed for a nose.
They backed off to admire their work. Decima found she was taking the most ridiculous amount of pleasure from the crude figure and turned, laughing, to look at Adam. He was regarding it with an expression of smug satisfaction that struck her as so typically male that she gathered up a handful of snow and threw it, hitting him neatly in mid chest.
‘Why, you little…’
Decima took to her heels, but not before a snowball broke against her backside with a resounding thump. She whirled round, convinced that was no random shot, and saw from the wicked grin that he had struck her exactly where he had intended.
Grabbing snow, she retaliated with a throw that hit Adam in the top vee of his coat. ‘This is cheating,’ he said, frantically shaking snow out before it melted. ‘Girls are not supposed to be able to throw, let alone hit anything.’
Laughing, Decima began shaping another missile, only to back away hastily as Adam scooped up a double handful of loose snow and began to run towards her. ‘No! You wouldn’t! You beast…’
Breathless and gasping with laughter, she found herself backed up against the stables wall with no escape. ‘No, Adam, you wouldn’t…please…’
With a teasing grin he lifted his hands, then opened them, letting the snow shower harmlessly down between their bodies. Suddenly they were very close indeed, their breath mingling as steam on the cold air.
Decima’s heart was tight in her chest, her breathing jerking as though she had raced the length of the stable yard. Adam’s eyes were on her mouth and she remembered his words. She wasn’t pouting, was she? Her lips parted, the tip of her tongue running nervously between them. He was going to kiss her. Oh, please…please…
Right overhead the stable-yard clock struck one like a blow from her conscience. Decima blinked and slipped sideways away from Adam. ‘Goodness, look at the time. Poor Pru and Bates will be wanting their luncheon.’
Without looking back, she walked briskly to the kitchen door, untying her shawl as she went. She could hear his footsteps following her. ‘There is some soup left, and cheese and pickles,’ she called from the scullery where she was washing her hands.
Adam was making up the fire. He turned at the sound of her coming out again, his face betraying nothing but agreement with what she was saying. She must have misunderstood his intentions, or more likely it was her own overheated imagination and longings that were behind her discomfort. Probably he had had some secreted snow still in his hand to drop on her head and had not the slightest intention of kissing her. She must have misheard, or misunderstood, that remark about her lips.
They climbed the stairs together with loaded trays, only to stop on the landing at the sound of voices. Adam raised an eyebrow and edged forward to look round the door of Bates’s room.
The groom was sitting up in bed, his leg still protected by the tented bedclothes. Beside him in an armchair Pru was curled up, a pile of journals by her side and one clasped in her hands.
‘That’s just plain foolishness,’ Bates was saying. ‘Why did they go to the castle in the middle of the night when everyone had warned them about it? Young idiots.’
‘But don’t you recall, in the last episode they discovered that their wicked guardian had secreted the papers proving Adelbert’s inheritance in the vaults of Castle Grim,’ Pru explained earnestly. ‘How else could they retrieve them and prove he was the rightful heir?’
‘Well, he’s a mutton-headed brat is all I can say,’ the groom grumbled. ‘Fancy dragging that Mirabelle along with him; a pretty little thing like that should be at home safe.’
‘She’s his sister, and ready to undergo any trials for his sake and that of the family’s honour. I think it’s lovely.’ Pru’s voice shook with emotion. ‘Oh, my lord, Miss Dessy, I didn’t see you there.’
Bates had gone a deep and unlovely crimson, not helped by the expression of unholy glee on Adam’s face as he took in the mass of reading matter strewn across the floor.
‘A change from your usual sporting news, Bates,’ Adam observed with every appearance of interest. ‘How kind of Miss Prudence to keep you entertained. You must explain the plot to me later, possibly I would enjoy it, too.’
‘It’s the most chuckle-headed load of whipped syllabub I’ve heard in my whole life,’ Bates muttered defensively.
‘And you are on episode eight.’ Decima picked up the discarded journal. ‘How patient of you to listen to all that, Bates, just for Pru’s amusement.’
Adam finally took pity on the fulminating groom. ‘I think you ladies had better excuse us.’ Decima helped Pru to her feet and tactfully removed her from the room with a hissed word in her ear.
‘Well, why wouldn’t he say so?’ Pru hissed back on the landing. ‘It isn’t as though I haven’t taken gentlemen their chamber pots, time out of mind.’
‘I doubt Bates is used to receiving such attention, though. Come along, I have brought your luncheon and then you should have a lie down.’
Decima went out to retrieve the tray, unashamedly pausing for a moment to listen to what the men were saying.
‘…butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth,’ Adam said. ‘You old fool—what are you carrying on so for?’
‘Aye, and cheese wouldn’t choke her, either!’ Bates retorted. ‘Didn’t know where to look when she marched in with her journals, me in my nightshirt and stuck in bed…’
‘She obviously feels quite safe with you,’ Adam said consolingly. ‘A mature, respectable man like yourself.’ Could Bates hear that betraying thread of laughter? No, he was still indignantly trying to cover up being caught