The Louise Allen Collection: The Viscount's Betrothal / The Society Catch. Louise Allen
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‘How on earth did I get back to bed?’ Decima sat up and regarded the room in the clear, chilly morning light. The blankets were tucked in, which she could never have managed for herself, her slippers were neatly together in front of the fire and the fire itself was crackling cheerfully behind the screen. ‘Oh, heavens. He put me to bed.’
Decima gulped and threw back the covers. She was still decently tied up in the dressing gown, its skirts and those of her night rail gathered modestly around her calves. But that was not reassuring; Decima’s imagination produced a vivid mental picture of Adam’s tall figure bending over the bed, smoothing the clothing down, his fingers brushing against her ankles.
That strange, hot, molten feeling inside her came back. She felt restless. Tense. Surely she couldn’t be coming down with Pru’s fever?
Lord! Pru. She should not be idling in bed, wrestling with an utterly inappropriate and unmaidenly attraction to Adam Grantham, she should be nursing her poor maid. Decima scrambled out of bed and hurried to check on her.
‘Pru? Are you awake?’
‘Mmm? Miss Dessy? Ooh, my head.’ Anxiously Decima touched her forehead, deeply relieved to find it hot but damp. The confused expression of the night before had gone.
‘Lie still, Pru, you’ve got a nasty fever. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please, Miss Dessy.’ She struggled to sit and Decima helped her up against the pillows. ‘But you shouldn’t be waiting on me, where’s the maid?’
‘There are no staff here, Pru. Here, let me put this shawl around your shoulders. We’re snowed in with Lord Weston and his groom, who has broken his leg.’ Pru blinked in surprise, but seemed to be understanding what she was being told. ‘I’ll find you some breakfast and then you can have a nice wash and a fresh nightgown.’
Downstairs there was no sign of Adam, but a glance across the yard showed the stable door open and a wheelbarrow full of soiled straw steamed in the cold air. Inside, the range was glowing and beside the door was a stack of damp logs.
Twenty minutes later she climbed the stairs with a tray, pleased with her efforts. She had found milk, still fresh-tasting thanks to the cold, and had warmed it on the fire, adding torn-up bread, sugar and a little cinnamon. Surely Pru’s poor throat could manage that?
Pru spooned it down eagerly and drank the tea, as well. Decima began to feel quite encouraged, but, after a slow trip along the landing to the water closet, the maid suddenly seemed to fail again, and Decima had to virtually lift her into bed. She was asleep before she could finish tucking her in.
It was only to be expected, she told herself, and the more sleep she got the better; a wash could wait. Bates was still snoring away, so she went back to her room, pulled on her heavy shoes, wrapped a thick shawl around her shoulders and ran downstairs. Time to face his lordship again.
Adam dragged a shirtsleeve over his sweating brow and started grooming the second carriage horse. He had mucked out the four stalls, fed and watered the animals and was now working his way along the line, grooming and checking for any injury sustained in the journey through the snow. Bates would have checked yesterday evening, but a strain might have made itself felt overnight.
His greatcoat hung on a bridle peg with the coat he’d discarded after five minutes and the waistcoat he’d stripped off after that. The hard physical work felt good. In the crisp air the heat and the honest smell of the horses were invigorating and the practical tasks kept his mind off concerns about what to do with an unchaperoned lady he wanted to take to his bed, and the singular lack of anyone to cook for them.
The door creaked behind him and a welcome pungent smell wreathed around his nostrils. ‘Coffee?’ Decima enquired, coming in to set a sturdy earthenware mug on the edge of the manger. ‘I have left it black, with sugar, but I can bring some more if that is not right.’
Adam ducked under the horse’s neck to reach the mug, realising as he did so that he was avoiding looking at Decima or getting too close to her. ‘Just right, thank you. Good morning. Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes, I did. Thank you for putting me to bed.’ No beating about the bush then! She sounded quite composed, if a trifle cool.
‘You looked uncomfortable. I thought you would sleep better and your maid seemed quiet.’
‘She managed some bread and milk this morning, although she is as weak as a kitten.’ Decima’s voice seemed to be coming from further away. Adam ducked back under the grey’s neck and found her gone. ‘Good morning, beautiful! Yes, you are a handsome fellow now I can see you properly. And how did you know I’ve got sugar in my pocket, might I ask?’
She was in Fox’s stall. With a muffled oath Adam followed her, expecting to find her cornered by the stallion’s snapping teeth. Instead she was feeding him titbits with one hand and scratching him gently behind one ear with the other. The great horse had an expression of sleepy contentment, although at Adam’s arrival he rolled an eye in his direction.
‘You might well look bashful, you old fraud,’ Adam scolded. ‘He has the most shocking reputation for biting, but just look at him,’ he added to Decima.
‘That’s enough,’ she said firmly, dusting off her palms. ‘You’ll get fat. He is a pussy cat really, it just needs confidence. He does not bite you, I imagine.’
‘No.’ Adam regarded her warily. She was wearing a plain brown dress with a large wool shawl wrapped over her shoulders, then crossed to tie behind her waist. Her hair was pulled back by a ribbon into a long tail down her back and her hands were ungloved. Her nose was pink with the cold, tendrils of hair were escaping to curl around her cheeks and Adam thought she looked utterly enchanting. Why? Her dress was utilitarian, her coiffure non-existent, she wasn’t jewelled or powdered or perfumed. In fact, with smudges of tiredness under her eyes and Fox’s affectionate slobber on her sleeve, she looked completely unladylike. And original. And beddable.
‘What is wrong?’ She was regarding him with anxious eyes. ‘You are frowning so.’
‘I am sorry. Fox has slobbered all over your sleeve.’ Adam gulped hot coffee. ‘Don’t stay out here, you will get cold.’
‘Not if I do some work.’ She reached up, took the dandy brush and curry comb off the beam above the manger and slapped Fox on the shoulder. ‘Get over now.’
‘You cannot groom my horses!’
‘Why ever not? Papa always insisted I groomed mine at least once a week, otherwise you do not know all about them, however good your grooms are. I still do it.’ She was passing the brush over Fox’s neck in long, hard sweeps, dragging it across the teeth of the curry comb after each stroke. Adam watched, mesmerised. She was strong; those were no mere pats with the brush, but good firm strokes, massaging the skin and muscles beneath it. With her height she had all the reach she needed, except to brush Fox’s poll, and there she simply grabbed his forelock and pulled until the big horse obediently lowered his head for her.
Strong, confident, tall—she should have seemed unfeminine, but instead Adam thought her like some goddess, or an Amazon, magnificently female with her long limbs and her mane of hair.
‘His legs are cool.’ She looked up from her bent position, running her hands down Fox’s legs. ‘He doesn’t seem to have strained anything yesterday.’
‘Good.’ Adam did not seem to be able to find anything else to say. All the words that occurred to him were either banal or would get his face slapped. Instead, he leaned on the half-door and watched.
‘Have you finished the others? Only I want my breakfast.’ It was not a complaint, he realised, just a cheerful observation. Decima would quite obviously work away until the horses were looked after, however hungry she was.
‘No, a horse and a half left to go.’ He strode back to finish the grey and found the hoof pick, praying that by some miracle Mrs Chitty would appear out of the snowdrifts before he found something