The Louise Allen Collection. Louise Allen
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that there was now one man she could dance with as often as she pleased, without causing the slightest scandal.
He bent over Olivia’s chair, turning his shoulder to exclude Mrs Channing. ‘Which dances will you permit me to have this evening?’ he murmured in her ear, deliberately making his voice slightly husky.
She smelt sweetly of roses; her blonde hair was caught up, exposing the soft delicacy of her throat, the fragile skin of her temples. Hidden by the lace of her bodice, the swell of her breasts curved with promise. She was utterly lovely, innocent and fresh. His. And he felt not one iota of desire for her.
‘Oh.’ She blushed, sent a desperate look in her mother’s direction for guidance and found no help, only his very close proximity. ‘Which would you like?’ Rather desperately she showed him her dance card and Adam pencilled his name against four, including one waltz.
‘Four? Is that not rather…I mean, I have not been approved by one of the Patronesses for waltzing…’
‘We will create a scandal,’ Adam said solemnly. ‘There is nothing for it, we will have to get married.’ If he had said such a thing to Decima, she would have caught him up in an instant. Laughed at his teasing, punished him in some way for his jest. Olivia simply looked terrified.
Damn. ‘I was only teasing you,’ he reassured her, smiling ruefully as the panic ebbed out of her face. Could he live with a woman who had no sense of humour? Or perhaps she was just frightened of the whole idea of marriage and would relax and show a different side to her character once they were wed. He could only pray it were true.
Then he straightened up to look round the room and saw her. Decima. Sitting almost opposite with a Roman-nosed matron he did not know, a very young lady and that damned starched-up friend of hers, Henry Freshford.
The madness seemed to sweep through him. He would cross the dance floor, catch her up in his arms, stride out of the house, into the night, take her away, make love to her until she sobbed with ecstasy, begged him never to stop—and the world could go hang.
Then he looked down and saw Olivia looking around her with innocent, nervous delight. He had compromised her, however unwittingly. He maintained he was a gentleman, he would fight any man who impugned his honour. And his honour required that he marry Olivia Channing.
He watched Decima shake her head as a gentleman bowed, obviously requesting a dance. It happened again. She was going to refuse to dance and sit out the ball as one of the chaperons, that was clear.
All his desires focused down, quite simply, on the need to have her in his arms one last time. To talk to her, to know she had forgiven him. He wasn’t given to prayer, considering that the life he led was not particularly deserving of any higher powers listening to erratic, and doubtless selfish, pleas from time to time. No. If he was going to achieve this, then he was going to have to manage it by himself.
Adam looked around the room for inspiration and his gaze lighted on one copper shock of hair, head and shoulders above the group of scarlet-coated army officers around it. Yes, there was George Mays, an unsuspecting good fairy. He bent over the ladies. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment? I have just seen a very old friend.’
Thank goodness. The steady trickle of gentlemen requesting her hand for a dance had finally dried up. Decima sat back and began to fan herself with short, nervous jerks. She had not been prepared for it, expecting all the attention to be lavished on Caro. And certainly her card would soon be full.
‘How well she looks on the dance floor,’ she remarked to Caro’s fond mama, who was observing Caroline’s progress through the measures of a cotillion with justifiable pride. Henry had slid away ten minutes ago, ostensibly in search of refreshments.
‘She does, does she not? I am not without hope that she will take very well indeed.’ Lady Freshford shot her a sharp glance. ‘And why have you not accepted any gentlemen, Decima? You have received some very flattering attention.’
‘They have no idea that I would step on their toes at every turn, and, in any case, I am sitting down. They would swoon when I stood up and they saw how tall I am,’ she said lightly. It did not hurt to admit it, she realised. Somehow that ridiculous waltz in the kitchen with Adam had given her the confidence to shrug aside the years of hurt and humiliation. In any case, it was probably this dratted dress with its indecent neckline attracting them. Until they got close enough to spot the freckles…
‘Ma’am? I realise it is quite outrageous of me to approach you without an introduction, but might I have the honour of a dance?’ It was a tall—a very tall—redheaded man with a pleasantly ugly face who was positively towering over her. ‘George Mays. Lady Freshford.’ He bowed. ‘I think my mama is possibly a connection on your father’s side?’
‘Of course. You must be Georgiana Stapleford’s son.’ Lady Freshford beamed. ‘How is she?’
‘Yes, ma’am, you are correct, and she is very well, I thank you. She and my father are in Scotland at the moment.’ He produced a charming smile, transforming his face. ‘Might I hope you will introduce me to this lady?’
Lady Freshford smiled indulgently. ‘Mr Mays, Miss Ross. Dear Decima is a friend of ours from Norfolk and is kindly supporting me through Caroline’s first Season.’
‘Miss Ross.’ They exchanged bows. ‘Is there any chance that you might fit me into your dance card?’
‘Thank you, but I am not dancing this evening, Mr Mays.’
‘Oh.’ He seemed cast down. ‘Might I…’ He gestured to the chair beside her.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Miss Ross, may I confide in you?’ When Decima murmured something inarticulate, he bent his head over his clasped hands and blurted out, ‘I never usually dance either. But when I saw you, I thought perhaps you would understand.’
‘Understand? I am sorry, Mr Mays…’
‘It was foolish of me, for I could see how many invitations you were turning down—obviously you would not understand. But you see, I am so very tall, most ladies do not wish to dance with me—they feel awkward about it. I saw you were…forgive me, I am making a mull of this.’
He looked wretched. Impetuously Decima said, ‘You thought I might not feel the same way?’ He nodded. ‘Because I am tall, too?’ Another nod. How on earth could she refuse him? ‘Of course I will dance with you, Mr Mays. I would be delighted.’
‘The next dance?’ he asked eagerly.
Decima knew she should make some show of consulting her card, or at least make sure it was something she could recall the steps to. ‘The next dance,’ she agreed with a smile she did not have to force.
The dance proved to be a waltz and Mr Mays to be a most accomplished dancer. Decima took his hand, managed to fight the urge to gaze at her feet, and allowed herself to be swept into the dance with a partner who was a highly energetic waltzer.
After the first sweep around the floor she managed to unfix her gaze from his lapels and glance upwards. He looked down, his eyes lighting with a sudden appreciative warmth and she recalled her low-cut gown—goodness, he must be able to see right down it! Hastily she pushed back her shoulders and smiled brightly. At least the freckles appeared not to repulse him. This was actually very good fun.
‘We are well matched, Miss Ross,’ he confided. ‘I cannot tell you how refreshing it is to be able to talk to the young lady I am dancing with instead of looking at the top of her head.’
‘And for me too—oh!’ He assayed a daring swoop around a corner and her skirts flew out, brushing against Olivia’s modest white muslin as she circled in Adam’s embrace. Their eyes met for a second and she found herself smiling at him, a wide beam of pure enjoyment. At least there was no kitchen table or butter churn to avoid