The Louise Allen Collection: The Viscount's Betrothal / The Society Catch. Louise Allen
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ma’am.’ He set the tureen in front of her.
‘My goodness.’ Decima lifted the lid and sniffed. ‘It smells wonderful. And what is that?’
‘Ah.’ She was eyeing with cautious interest the dark brown lump he was attempting to slice. ‘Bread. I do not think it is supposed to be quite like this.’
‘I am sure it will be delicious,’ she said politely as a slice thumped onto her plate. ‘A local recipe, no doubt.’ She was teasing him, he was convinced of it. Yes, there was that wicked sparkle again. ‘Possibly it requires lemons?’
‘That’s the Leicestershire version,’ he retorted. ‘The Rutland receipt should really have walnuts. Tell me, Decima, what made you look so amused when you came downstairs just now?’
She paused in ladling out the soup and coloured slightly. Adam discovered that he enjoyed the fact that he could make her blush like that. The colour ebbed and flowed rapidly under her fine skin—the skin that was becoming an obsession with him. It was those damned freckles.
‘I could not possibly say.’ She passed him his soup and began to ladle out hers. Now, most women would have enquired archly what he meant, would have fluttered their eyelashes and would probably have giggled at him.
‘Why not?’ He pushed the butter towards her. The so-called bread would need all the help it could get.
She shook her head. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly. It is most improper. My goodness, this is excellent soup. What is it?’
Improper? Adam realised that he had not the slightest objection to provoking improper thoughts in Miss Ross. Quite the contrary. Although he had not expected her to admit to them quite so frankly.
‘There is probably a word for it in French, but I call it The Complete Larder soup—in other words, I threw in a bit of anything I could find. Now, Decima, you are going to have to tell me about your improper thoughts or I will be imagining the most lurid things.’
Not that he would be able to act upon any of them if he ate any more of this bread. God, it was like chewing tree bark.
‘Well…’ She stirred her soup and gazed thoughtfully into the bowl, then shot him an assessing glance from under her lashes. ‘I was thinking how much the gentleman you looked, and Pru had just observed that, despite you being a viscount, you obviously were a gentleman.’ She laughed at his expression. ‘I know, it puzzled me, too, but she maintains that you cannot trust the aristocracy, and all noblemen are rakes.’
‘Except me?’
‘Apparently.’ Decima chuckled. ‘You look as though you do not know whether you have been complimented or insulted.’
This was exactly what he was thinking. ‘Do you believe me to be a rake?’
‘Certainly not, otherwise I would not have dreamt of coming with you. You are too large, in any case.’ She chewed gamely on her bread.
‘Large?’
‘I have always pictured rakes as being thin and sinuous somehow. Insinuating, possibly. Not that I really have any idea what constitutes a rake, other than presumably they go about seducing innocent damsels as a matter of routine.’
‘That certainly. I believe it to be a prerequisite,’ Adam agreed gravely. ‘Along with a ruinously bad gaming habit, a tendency to stay up all night carousing, and frequenting the haunts of low company and loose women. Patronising actresses and opera dancers and, of course, maintaining a string of expensive mistresses are also essentials.’
‘Oh.’ He was coming to love the way she listened, thought about what he said and then came out with the most outrageously unexpected responses. What was she going to say to that?
‘Do you have a string of mistresses?’
Adam choked on a piece of carrot. ‘Certainly not! Just the one.’ Oh Lord, now what have I said?
‘Is she nice?’ Decima enquired.
‘Obviously, or I wouldn’t keep her,’ he retorted.
‘Well, you might if she was exceptionally beautiful, or…er…talented,’ Decima observed thoughtfully. ‘Are mistresses very expensive?’
‘Yes,’ he replied with feeling. ‘The er…talented ones are, if you keep them in style and look after them decently once the affair is over.’ Now why was he thinking about ending the affair? This time yesterday he had not the slightest intention of parting with Julia.
‘I do hope Charlton hasn’t got one. I am very fond of my sister-in-law and, although I am sure he could afford one, Hermione would not like it at all.’
‘I doubt if he has,’ Adam said encouragingly. ‘Charlton sounds far too respectable and somewhat stodgy. I am sure your sister-in-law enjoys his complete devotion.’
‘So, only stodgy husbands are devoted? Hmm.’ Decima regarded him quizzically. ‘It follows, then, that if one is to marry one must choose between stodgy devotion and interesting infidelity.’
‘Is that why you never married?’ he asked impetuously, and was punished by the instant extinguishing of the mischief in her grey eyes.
‘No,’ she said baldly.
Damnation. Adam found himself lost for a response: an unusual sensation.
She smiled and took pity on him. ‘This bread is really very good for a first attempt. What do you think we should have for dinner? If either of us has room for dinner, that is.’ She regarded the leaden lump on her side plate dubiously.
‘Pigeon, if I can shoot any.’
‘Then I will clear up and look after Pru and Bates. Could you carry me up some hot water? I promised her a bath.’
Half an hour later Adam let himself out of the back door, his shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm, his shot belt looped over his shoulder. He paused at the sound of running feet in the hall and Decima looked round the kitchen door. ‘You will wrap up, won’t you?’ She took in his greatcoat and muffler, nodded approvingly and vanished as quickly as she had appeared.
From one of his sisters that would have produced a growl of irritation. From Decima the solicitude left a small glow of warmth that she was concerned about him. Adam was halfway across the yard before the novelty of that response dawned on him. He frowned fiercely; he was going to have to get their relationship back onto a firm basis of stranded gentlewoman and accidental host before she got under his skin any further.
In twenty-four hours this Long Meg of a spinster had made him want to throw all tenets of gentlemanly behaviour to the winds and ravish her; had made him enjoy—most of the time—acting as his own footman, cook and groom; had created doubts in his mind about the desirability of keeping a mistress and now had reduced him to a state where he enjoyed being fussed over. With a scowl that boded ill for any passing pigeons, Adam crunched through the snow towards the copse.
Decima yawned, stretched and lay in bed watching the cold, clear light on her bedroom ceiling with a feeling of deep contentment. There had been no thaw in the night. Today was the first of January and she was still snowed in. With Adam.
With Pru as well, of course, and with Bates, but there was no need to feel guilty about them being out of reach of a doctor, for they were both doing well. Pru had even spent two hours sitting by the bedroom fire yesterday afternoon after her bath.
Decima sat up, reached for her shawl and listened to the regular sound of Pru’s breathing.
Yet there was a creeping unease as she thought about Adam. Last night, when all the chores were done and they had sat either side of the fire in the drawing room, he had seemed strangely distant, almost formal, as though she was a chance acquaintance he was having to entertain.