The Viscount's Betrothal. Louise Allen
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to eat stable boys.’
‘I am not a stable boy.’
‘No, and that horse is an arrant flirt. I’d never have thought it of him.’ Lashes even longer than his master’s were being batted at Decima as she continued to rub just the right spot on the chestnut’s nose.
‘Yes, you are beautiful,’ she cooed, looking at the strongly arched neck and broad chest. ‘Is he a stallion?’ Without thinking, she bobbed down to look. He was, very obviously. ‘So he is. He is very well made.’
Oh, no! As soon as the words were out of her mouth she realised what she had said, and to whom she had said it. That was not the sort of observation a lady was supposed to make, however much she knew about horses. Now, what did one say to a complete stranger after one had commented on his horse’s…er…masculine attributes? The viscount had assumed an expression one could only describe as stuffed.
She was saved from floundering any further by an outraged shriek from the direction of the carriage. ‘Put me down, you cork-brained jackanapes!’ Pru’s tirade was cut short on a gasp and Bates appeared through the swirling snow, the maid thrown over his shoulder. The effect as she wriggled was not unlike a man carrying a sack full of outraged piglets.
Their progress was slow. Decima watched with bated breath, not daring to look at Lord Weston. Bates was a slight man, if wiry. Pru, who stood a mere five foot two inches in her stockinged feet, more than made up for lack of vertical inches with a quite magnificent bosom and a rounded figure to match. At any minute the groom was going to sink into a snowdrift, of that she was sure.
The postilion with the valises overtook them with ease, depositing his burden at the viscount’s feet. ‘We’ll be heading back to the Cock, sir. Where would you be wishful for us to call for the lady when the snow clears?’
‘Um?’ Lord Weston tore his gaze from the floundering figure of his groom and dug a card out of his pocket. ‘Here. Anyone in Whissendine will give you directions. Mind you keep that baggage safe.’ As this instruction was accompanied by the clink of coin, the man tugged his forelock respectfully and waded back, making some comment as he passed the labouring groom that provoked an even more violent wriggle from Pru.
‘Stubble it, do, woman.’ Bates arrived in front of them and set Pru on her feet with more haste than care. Red-faced and furious, she opened her mouth to berate him and succumbed to a paroxysm of coughing.
‘Pru, are you all right?’ Decima crunched through the snow to her side.
‘Just a cold, that’s all,’ the maid assured her hoarsely, shooting a venomous glare in Bates’s direction. ‘Not helped by being hauled around like a sack of potatoes by that weasel-gutted looby.’
‘If you are ready, I think we had better be getting on.’ The viscount was dealing with this minor spat by the simple expedient of ignoring it. Decima envied him such a lofty disregard of his environment, or perhaps he was simply better at disciplining his subordinates than she was and did not look forward to an evening of being grumbled at.
‘Bates, if those bags are secure, mount up and I’ll lift your passenger up to you.’
Decima derived some amusement at the groom’s face on being expected to ride with the fulminating Miss Staples and the coy expression that the prospect of being lifted up by his lordship produced on Pru’s flushed countenance. It was certainly a welcome distraction from her own faux pas concerning Fox.
With Bates and Pru settled, the viscount turned and offered his cupped hands for Decima’s foot. ‘If I boost you up and then mount behind you, will you be all right?’
‘Certainly.’ Decima gathered the reins confidently and lifted her foot. As soon as she was in the saddle she began to have doubts. Riding sideways on a man’s saddle would be manageable, for the pommel gave her enough purchase for her right knee, and the stirrup could be adjusted for her foot. But where would his lordship sit?
He swung up behind her, keeping his weight in the stirrups so he was virtually standing. Decima found herself lifted as he slid into the saddle beneath her and set her down again. Only this time she was sitting in his lap, her weight on his thighs.
‘My lord!’
‘Yes, Miss Ross?’ He leaned over, took the reins of one of the greys from Bates, then turned Fox’s head towards the right-hand arm of the crossroads. Under her she could feel the movement of muscles in his thighs, his arms were tight on either side of her and all she could do to avoid the painful pressure of the pommel on her own thigh was to lean into his body. It felt like leaning into a tree trunk.
‘This is most…most…’
‘Uncomfortable? I’m afraid it is, at least for you, but in those skirts I really do not think you could sit astride, and perching on Fox’s rump is not going to be secure, not over this uneven surface.’ As though to prove his point the big horse plunged into a depression, surging out of it again with a scramble. ‘That must be the ditch.’ He twisted in the saddle, giving Decima more unusual sensations to come to terms with as she balanced on moving muscle. ‘Bates, keep to the right, I got too close to the edge just now.’
There was silence for a few moments, then the viscount commented, ‘I imagine you ride very well, Miss Ross.’
‘It is my chief enjoyment,’ she confessed, pleased by the compliment. ‘My father knew a great deal about horses and encouraged me to take an interest, too.’
‘Did he breed his own?’ Decima risked a glance at Lord Weston’s face, but he was looking ahead, his eyes fixed on the road.
‘Yes, and I helped him choose the bloodlines for the mare I have now.’
‘Ah, I thought you knew your stuff.’ There was the barest hint of amusement and Decima felt herself colouring. No, he hadn’t forgotten her unmaidenly remark about the stallion.
‘What makes you think I ride well?’ Anything to move the conversation on to safer ground.
‘You are riding me now, just as you would a horse, shifting your weight to respond to my movements.’ He said it in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone, but to Decima’s ears it sounded suggestively improper. It felt improper. She had never had more than a hand touched by a man who was not a close relative.
‘I am sorry. Only I don’t have anything to hold on to and I cannot keep my balance unless I shift my weight.’ His thighs must be numb by now, she thought, new embarrassment seizing her.
‘I see the problem.’ His breathing seemed to be coming rather short—she could see the puffs of warm breath on the cold air. ‘Look, if you undo my greatcoat and put your arms around me inside it, then my arms holding the reins will trap it around you. Just hang on and try and sit—still.’ The final word came out as a gasp as Decima twisted to get at the big mother-of-pearl buttons. After a tussle she managed to open the coat and wriggle enough to wrap her arms around the viscount’s body. The flaps of the coat closed with the pressure of his arms and she found herself in warm, man-scented semidarkness.
It was very odd. Sounds from outside were muffled, but her ear, pressed against his chest, could hear the sound of his heartbeat, out of rhythm with hers. Her palms curled against his sides with her fingers curving into his back—goodness, but he was large.
Certainly she didn’t need to shift to keep her balance any longer, but things felt somehow different than before when she’d sat further forward. Decima settled more comfortably, then her mind caught up with what her body was feeling. Oh, my heavens! She suddenly became very still. No wonder he hadn’t wanted her moving about. It seemed the cold had done nothing whatsoever to diminish his lordship’s male reflexes.
Adam relaxed a little. Thank God she’d stopped wriggling. Now all he had to do was to breathe this blessedly freezing air deeply and think of completely unerotic things such as dying of exposure in a snowdrift or Fox breaking a leg in a concealed pothole and possibly, in about a week, his painful state of arousal might subside.
Why