The Viscount's Betrothal. Louise Allen
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chair by its side.
‘Mrs Chitty! Emily Jane?’ Lord Weston threw open the inner door and shouted. ‘No one. Bates, take the horses over to the stables, get them bedded down and check to see whether the gig is there—they must have gone into town shopping and been caught by the weather.’ The groom stomped off and Decima lowered a shivering Pru into a chair.
‘I must get her to bed at once. Which room shall I use, my lord?’
‘On the first floor. They should all have fires laid and the beds made. The one at the end is mine, use any of the others. Here…’ he lifted one of the spermaceti lamps ‘…I’ll come with you.’
‘I would rather you lit the range, my lord,’ Decima said frankly, taking the lamp from him. Now was no time to stand on ceremony. The housekeeper would have known exactly what was needed—now she had no compunction about making the viscount as useful as he could be. ‘I need hot bricks, hot drinks and hot food for her. Come along, Pru.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Dessy, don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ Pru mumbled as Decima hoisted her to her feet and guided her out of the room.
‘A fever, that’s what. Lady Carmichael’s maid had it over Christmas, don’t you remember? I expect you caught it from her. Come along, we’ll soon have you tucked up.’ In a cold bed, in a cold house with two strange men for company and probably no chance of a doctor for days. Decima bit her lip and hoped that the absent Mrs Chitty was a prudent housekeeper and kept a well-stocked stillroom.
They made their unsteady way up the stairs and along a corridor, Decima peering into each room in turn. What she wanted was a pair of bedchambers with an interconnecting door, She found them almost at the end of the passage: a spacious bedroom with an adjoining dressing room that had its own fireplace and small bed.
‘Here we are, Pru. Here’s a nice little room that will soon warm up.’ Pru sank down in the chair without any persuasion and Decima set a taper to the fire and checked the bed. Cold, but not damp. ‘Just you stop there a moment, I’ll fetch our bags and we’ll have you undressed and into bed in a trice.’ Somehow she kept the anxiety out of her voice.
Decima ran downstairs to find their valises on the kitchen floor and his lordship, hands on hips, regarding the range—the still-cold range—with a scowl.
‘You haven’t lit it!’ she accused.
‘I’m trying to work it out,’ he retorted. ‘It’s new. There are dampers and compartments and a bit with water in it and things to open and close. It’ll probably blow up if I shut the wrong thing.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake! Let me.’ Five frustrating minutes later Decima admitted defeat, and retreated to glower at the viscount. ‘Do something. You are a man.’
‘Although undoubtedly true, that does not give me an affinity with…’ he peered at the raised lettering on the cast-iron front plate ‘…Bodley’s Patent Range. I’ll open all the dampers, light it, stand well back and do not blame me if we find ourselves in the midst of smoking rubble.’
Decima looked up from her excavations in the valises. ‘I thought a gentleman should be master of everything in his household,’ she observed more mildly.
‘The last person to try and master Mrs Chitty and her kingdom was the late—and note that, late—Mr Chitty. There. Let me carry those up for you, Dessy.’
‘I can manage…What did you call me?’
‘Dessy. That’s what your maid called you, didn’t she? Miss Dessy?’
‘My name is Decima, my lord.’
‘And what does Charlton call you?’
‘Dessy.’
‘And do you like it?’
‘No.’ She hated it, she realised. It made her sound five years old, or completely totty-headed. Or both.
‘In that case I will call you Decima.’
Decima glared at him, but receiving no satisfaction beyond the undoubtedly admirable view of broad shoulders as he bent to light the range, she stalked out.
When she came back the viscount was hefting a large kettle onto the range. He gave the dampers a shove with the poker and rested one arm on the high mantelshelf, watching the fire. She stood silently in the doorway, studying her rescuer, glad of the opportunity while he was unaware of her scrutiny.
Tall, built to match, athletic-looking with an edge that made her think of racehorses in the peak of condition; everything about him seemed perfectly in proportion. Long legs: the recollection of those well-muscled thighs caused a distinct internal fluttering. Big hands with long fingers and one plain gold signet ring.
She raised her gaze to study his face in profile, lit by the flicker of the new fire. And a very good face it was, too, Decima decided. The strong jaw and nose gave him character, although he was no Adonis. His face was too characterful for any fatuous comparisons with Greek gods, however fashionable that type of look might be. Dark hair, ruffled so she could not tell whether its usual look was modish disorder or simple carelessness, those grey eyes now definitely more greenish in the lamp light. And the most sensual mouth she had ever seen.
Decima shut her own mouth with a snap and looked hastily away. Whatever had come over her? She had never in her life looked at a man’s mouth and thought about how sensual it was, let alone felt the urge to ponder over the curve of the lips or the flexibility of the smile, the way it might feel on hers. She looked back and as she did she felt a frisson of fear run down her spine.
Not fear of the viscount. For some reason Decima didn’t feel the slightest bit uncomfortable with this man. Why not? She should be feeling distinctly uneasy—after all, she was effectively trapped with a powerful, virile stranger in a house without any chaperonage.
No, the fear was of herself and the way she was reacting to him.
The strange, determined Decima who had rebelled that morning, decided to make up her own mind, think positively, live life—this Decima was experiencing the most wanton fancies. She wanted Lord Weston to kiss her, she wanted to feel the breadth of his shoulders under her palms again, not when she was shivering with cold, but now, when they were warm and safe inside. She wanted to touch his hair, run her fingers down the line of that determined jaw, know what it was like to have that expressive mouth covering hers.
This was dangerous folly, she knew it. However honourable a gentleman, it was asking too much of him to have an available female positively quivering with desire under his very nose.
Still, she thought, struggling to get her fantasies under control again, when he did look at her properly in good light at least there was the comfort that he knew the worst already and she would not have to see surprise be succeeded by pity or contempt in those grey eyes.
He was aware of her height, had carried her weight, and he had probably even noticed the freckles, the disastrous final straw as far as her looks were concerned, so he couldn’t be too surprised. He’d had enough warning to manage to keep the reaction off his face at any rate.
There were two basic ways men looked at Decima. Depressed resignation if they were male relatives, or alarm if they were potential suitors lured into meeting her and finding themselves confronted with a befreckled, awkward beanpole. In return, she judged them simply on whether they were polite enough to cover their dismay for however long it took them to tactfully disengage themselves from the encounter.
Except for Sir Henry Freshford, of course. Henry came up to her eye level and quite cheerfully agreed with her that the last thing they wanted to do was get married to each other, not while they were perfectly good friends and could sympathise with each other over the matchmaking wiles of their respective relations. With the exception of Henry, she had felt hideously self-conscious with all unrelated men. Until now.
She came round from her reverie to find herself the subject of an equally thorough, silent, survey.
‘Well,