by Louise Allen
‘Well, I come to considerably higher up, I know exactly where to look and my feet are large enough for you to tread all over with impunity.’ Adam found himself pushing back his plate and getting to his feet. I must be mad. ‘Shall we?’
‘What? Here?’ She thought he was mad, too. ‘There is no music and, besides, who’s going to do the washing up?’
‘Yes, here. I’ll hum and I expect we will both do the washing up, eventually. Now then, this side of the table, I think, we don’t want your skirts flying into the fire.’
Those wonderful grey eyes were wide and she was staring at him with a mixture of horror and mischief. Adam liked the mischief. ‘Flying?’
‘I am a very vigorous waltzer, Miss Ross. May I have this dance?’
There was that rich chuckle again. Decima got to her feet and made a neat curtsy. ‘Thank you, my lord, although I fear I have not been approved by the Patronesses.’
Adam took her in his arms. Oh, yes. ‘To hell with the Patronesses. Now. One, two, three…’
He was right: it was nothing like dancing with Signor Mazzetti at all And she could waltz, despite her sensible winter shoes and her heavy skirts, whirling between kitchen table and butter churn, dresser and flour bin, laughing, lending her voice to Adam’s tuneful, humming dance rhythm, breathless, exhilarated, round and round in the circle of his arms until she stumbled and found herself caught and held safely, close against his chest.
‘Oh, dear.’ Her breath was coming in pants; part effort, part laughter, part a strange, fizzing excitement. ‘That brandy—I must be tipsy.’
‘You are dizzy. Rest a little.’ Adam’s eyes were on her, their colour that strange, unsettling silver grey that became green as they caught the candle flare. ‘Just stand a moment.’ He did not release her, one hand quite still at her waist, the other one lowering her own hand until it was at waist height.
Adam’s breath was coming short, too—they must have been dancing more vigorously than she had thought. Decima felt herself leaning into him, towards that intent gaze, towards that sensuous mouth that so fascinated her.
Her lips parted instinctively. Why…what was she feeling? So breathless, so hot, so sensitised as though someone was drawing velvet over her bare skin. She should never have drunk that brandy; it was no wonder unmarried girls were forbidden spirits. ‘I think…’
‘Don’t think.’ His mouth was so close now, all she had to do was stand on tiptoe, just a little, lean just a little, raise her face. Her eyes closed. This was going to happen. Decima could not think any further forward than the next ten seconds. There was nothing beyond that. Nothing.
Warm breath feathering her lips. The scent of him, remembered from that cold ride: citrus, leather and now rather more of the exciting, disturbing muskiness of warm man. ‘Decima.’ The word was spoken so close to her lips that she felt, rather than heard, it.
‘Mmm?’
The sound of a door banging upstairs. A faint voice. ‘Miss Dessy?’ Decima blinked, staggered backwards and caught a chair back in both groping hands.
‘Pru. She must have woken up. I will just—I’ll just go and see…’ She fled.
Pru was standing unsteadily in the open doorway, blinking in the candlelight of the torchère that Adam had left on a table at the head of the stairs. Decima snatched it up and urged the maid back into the bedchamber. ‘Get back into bed, Pru, you’ll get chilled out here.’
‘I need the privy, Miss Decima, and I can’t find a chamberpot.’
That at least was one eminently practical problem to which she had an answer. ‘There is a real indoor water closet, just along here at the end of this side corridor.’
The pair of them, both unsteady on their feet for very different reasons, gazed at this modern luxury, then Pru tottered inside and closed the door, leaving Decima with no excuse to think of anything but her behaviour in the kitchen. The exhilaration of the dance still fizzed in her veins but under it was a deep ache of unsatisfied longing. Adam had almost kissed her. She had wanted him to kiss her and her body was punishing her now for being left unsatisfied.
No one had ever kissed Decima other than family members. How does my body know what it is missing? she thought distractedly, passing her hands up and down her arms to try and rub away that strange shivery feeling. Her breasts felt heavier, too, her stays tighter, and lower down there was a hot, molten sensation that was very disturbing indeed.
How on earth am I going to face him again? He must think me some love-starved old maid desperate for caresses. A nagging little voice, the voice that she had thought she had left behind with Charlton and would form no part of her new, resolute self, hissed, And so you are. A desperate virgin, throwing yourself at a handsome man.
The rattle of the metal mechanism and the gush of water provided a fitting counterpoint to this unpleasant truth. Decima forced herself to concentrate on the matter at hand; at least Pru could not be feeling too poorly if she could work out how to flush the unfamiliar closet.
The maid emerged and blinked confusedly up at Decima. ‘Where are we, Miss Dessy? This isn’t the Sun, is it?’
Oh, Lord! Decima made her voice as matter of fact as possible. ‘No, Pru. This is Lord Weston’s house. Don’t you recall he rescued us from the snow?’ She urged the unsteady figure back to her room.
‘Snow? I don’t remember any snow, Miss Dessy. Or any lord. Oh, my head…’
Decima smoothed the rumpled sheets, plumped up the pillows and tucked the maid back into bed. ‘We are snowbound, Pru, and you are not at all well, but we’re quite safe here.’ She flinched inwardly at the lie. Pru might be safe, but her mistress was within an ame’s ace of serious danger, mostly from herself. ‘Now try and drink some water.’ She really needed one of the drinks Decima could remember Cook producing during childhood illnesses. Barley water? Could that be one? ‘Are you hungry?’ That produced a grimace of rejection. ‘How about a hot drink?’
‘No, Miss Decima, I just want to sleep.’
The bed seemed warm enough now and the room was snug with the fire flickering behind its screen. There was probably something she should be doing, but goodness knew what. Biting her lip, Decima left the door ajar and went to look at Bates. He was sleeping soundly, snoring his head off, no doubt happily unconscious on laudanum and brandy. She made up his fire, then checked the fires in her room and Adam’s before accepting that she was putting off the evil moment when she must go back downstairs.
Outside the kitchen door Decima stood breathing deeply, fighting to compose her face. She realised that her shoulders were hunching into the all-too-familiar defensive slouch that she used to use in a vain attempt to hide her height. It seemed that living life to the full meant taking responsibility for your own mistakes as well. Come on, Decima. She pulled back her shoulders and swept into the kitchen.
There was no sign of Adam but then she heard sounds from the scullery and peeped round the door, her embarrassment disappearing in a gurgle of laughter. His lordship was swathed in a vast white apron and had his hands in a bowl of hot water in which he was vigorously scrubbing a plate. ‘What are you doing?’
‘The washing up. The range had heated the water up very efficiently so I thought I would get it out of the way.’
‘I am most impressed,’ Decima admitted.
Adam regarded her seriously. ‘This soda is vicious stuff. The maids’ hands must get raw.’
‘There should be some lanolin somewhere. That’s what our cook uses.’ Decima began to hunt. ‘Look, here by the jar of soda crystals. Rinse your hands in clean water, dry them and rub some in.’
Adam fished out the last plate and did as she suggested, wrinkling his nose at the lanolin. ‘It smells of sheep.’
‘Now why haven’t the apothecaries thought of that?’ Decima mused, finding a cloth and beginning to dry the plates. ‘Scented hand cream for the gentleman who does his own dishes. They could sell it with your crest on the jars—“Lord Weston’s Special Washing-Up Hand Balm: By appointme
nt. Every kitchen maid can have hands as soft as a viscount’s.”’
‘Minx,’ he observed appreciatively. She could feel his gaze on her as she stacked away the plates, then began to hunt along the shelves, but there was nothing of that sensual heat in his gaze now and she felt quite comfortable. She must have imagined that they had stood so close, imagined that his lips had almost been on hers. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Something to feed Pru when she wakes up again. I must tempt her appetite, she is feeling very poorly. And we’ll need to feed Bates up; I am sure that helps knit bones. And then we will need breakfast, and meals tomorrow. Oh, yes, and I need barley water for Pru as well.’
‘Try the stillroom,’ he suggested. ‘That’s where I found the laudanum.’
Half an hour later there was a pile of notebooks at one end of the kitchen table and a row of small bottles at the other. Decima regarded them gratefully. ‘Thank goodness for Mrs Chitty. There is cough syrup there, and a headache powder and lavender water and that red notebook is full of cures and recipes for medicines.’
Adam was thumbing through it. ‘Here is the receipt for barley water. You’ll need to put the barley into water to steep overnight.’ He continued to read while Decima rummaged in the storage bins, emerging triumphant with a scoop full of barley and a bowl to soak it in. ‘Warm water. Then in the morning, add lemon juice and sugar.’
‘No lemons, but there is apple juice.’ She came and leaned on the table next to him, reading over his shoulder. ‘Stewed Quaker—what’s that?’
‘A sovereign remedy for colds, apparently. Burnt rum and butter. I must try it.’
‘I think we will have to try baking before anything else,’ Decima said ruefully, reaching over to pick up one of the cookery notebooks. ‘There is one loaf left. And we cannot survive on cold meat for much longer, either.’
Adam twisted half-round in his chair to grin at her. ‘I don’t think we are going to be bored, Miss Ross.’ Her heart gave a little flip at his nearness, but he looked away and began to turn the cookery book pages. ‘To boil a turkey with oyster sauce—all we need is a score of oysters, a loaf and a lemon for this recipe. We have the loaf.’
‘But no turkey or oysters,’ Decima pointed out practically, squashing this flight of fancy. ‘I just hope that Mrs Chitty does not think making bread too basic to put in her notebooks. Oh, my!’ She broke off as a jaw-cracking yawn seized her. ‘I must go to bed.’
Adam filled hot water cans and carried them up while Decima lit the way. ‘I could make a reasonable hand at being a footman, don’t you think?’ He grounded one can on her washstand and paused by the door as she came in. ‘Good night, Decima.’ The kiss he dropped on her forehead was so swift that she was still blinking in shock as the bedchamber door closed behind him.
‘Goodnight, Adam,’ she said blankly to the expressionless panels of the door. That was not quite the kiss she had been fantasising about. With a little smile at her own foolishness, Decima turned back her bedcovers and began to undress.
Chapter Five
Decima managed two hours of sleep before sounds from the adjoining bedroom dragged her back to consciousness. She had expected it, leaving the interconnecting door wide open so she could hear Pru, but even so it seemed a bottomless pit that she had to haul herself out of before her eyes opened.
‘I’m coming!’ But Pru was not calling to her, simply talking loudly in her fever. Her forehead was burning hot as she tossed and turned, moaning and coughing. Decima worried that the fact she did not wake herself up meant her fever was very serious, but she had nothing to judge it against.
All she could do was sit by the bed, sponging Pru’s burning face with cold water and talking soothingly to her. She vaguely recalled hearing that it was serious if the patient was not sweating, but as the memory contained nothing about how one could induce this, it left her anxious but no further forward.
Trying to support Pru’s head in an attempt to get her to drink was fruitless, but eventually Decima hit on the idea of dipping a clean handkerchief in the water, then trickling it between the maid’s parched lips. That seemed to help; Pru even sucked feebly at the moisture and, after several redippings, became quieter and calmer.
Out on the landing Decima could hear the sound of soft footsteps and the murmur of voices. His lordship was up and occupied with Bates. She hoped that did not mean the poor man was in too much pain, but it was reassuring to know that others were awake in the cold, still house.
She sat gazing into the fire, suddenly struck by how very lucky she was that Adam Grantham was the sort of man he was. An out-and-out rake, bent on seduction or worse, was one danger, of course, but she had never been in any real fear of that since the first moment she’d met those steady grey eyes with their intelligence and humour.
But she could never have hoped for a gentleman—a nobleman—who coped with unclouded good humour with housekeeping and sick nursing, or who could so cheerfully disregard his own comfort and convenience. Charlton might, if absolutely desperate, light a fire or scavenge in the larder for a snack for himself, but as for him happily consuming a makeshift meal or washing up afterwards, that was beyond her powers of imagination.
When the clock struck three the water was almost gone and the fire burned very low. Outside the door, all seemed quiet again. Decima stretched stiffly, went to make up the fire, then picked up the water jug. Best to refill it now while Pru was relatively quiet.
Opposite, Bates’s door was open, the branch of candles within throwing strong bars of light across the shadowy passageway. She peeped in, but the groom was lying quietly, flat on his back, eyes closed. Of Adam there was no sign. Decima tiptoed to the landing and froze at the sound of approaching footsteps, then Adam appeared from what she was beginning to think of as the Privy Corridor, carrying an object discreetly shrouded in a towel.
He smiled at the sight of her, his teeth white in the half-light. ‘Good morning, Decima.’ She averted her gaze from the disguised chamberpot, instead taking in the full glory of the quite splendid brocade dressing gown Adam was wearing. It must be Oriental silk, she realised; dramatic black dragons writhed across a background of scarlet, jets of gold issuing from their mouths. It was luxurious, exotic and masculine in the extreme.
‘How magnificent!’
‘Why, thank you, Miss Ross.’ Adam’s smile was quite blatantly flirtatious.
‘I meant your dressing gown,’ Decima retorted repressively, managing not to stare at his bare feet. Why the sight of a man’s bare feet should be quite so disturbing she could not imagine. And in any case, they’d be very cold and in bed that would be—She caught herself in this utterly improper thought and dropped her eyes, only to realise with horror that she had not stopped to put on her dressing gown and the only thing between her and the viscount’s interested gaze was a thin nightgown.
‘How magnificent,’ he echoed, his voice an appreciative purr. ‘You know, under normal circumstances the bedroom corridors of a country house at night would be busy with the guests swapping rooms on some amorous errand or another and here we are, each laden with an article of domestic chinaware, with nothing on our minds but sickroom nursing.’
From the glint in his eyes his mind was on almost anything but the sickroom. Decima felt her colour rising and realised in horror that her nipples were peaking under the thin cotton. It must be the cold, nothing else would make them react like that, but she was sure Adam had noticed.
‘I must get some more water,’ she squeaked, scuttling downstairs with more haste than dignity.
‘Could you put the kettle on?’ he called as she reached the hall. ‘I’ll come down for it in a minute.’
‘All right,’ she called back.
She filled her jug, dealt with the kettle, and stood for a moment, bathing in the heat from the range. Her nipples were still showing no sign of calming down, however warm she got. It was baffling.
Upstairs there was, thankfully, no sign of Adam. She pulled on her
dressing gown, although it felt poor protection, for it was a thin cotton garment she had selected specifically to take up as little room as possible in her valise.
Pru sucked thirstily at the freshly wetted handkerchief and this time cooperated when Decima pressed a cup to her lips. Encouraged, she stirred a little of the headache powder into the water, then, when Pru would take no more, settled down to soothe her brow with lavender water.
Behind her the door opened and, before she could turn, the soft, heavy mass of a silk brocade dressing gown settled gently around her shoulders.
‘What…?’
‘Shh.’ It was Adam, leaning over to set a cup of tea on the bedside table. ‘I have two, use this one. Look, if you just slip your arms into the sleeves, I am sure we can roll them up.’
He showed every sign of helping her do it, so Decima got to her feet and shrugged on the garment, its heavy amber silk decorated in a dizzying pattern of orchids and lilies in ivory, gold and browns. ‘It is lovely,’ she breathed. The robe pooled around her feet and her hands vanished into the deep sleeves.
‘Let me.’ Adam’s hands were reassuringly brisk as he folded back the sleeves until her hands appeared again. ‘There. Now, if we just do up the sash…Where has that vanished to?’ And then things were not so reassuring after all. His hands went round her waist, searching for the dangling sash ends, and Decima was suddenly close against his chest, silk-covered breasts brushing against him in a manner that sent quivers of awareness through her body. And this time she was left in no doubt at all what was making her nipples hard.
‘I’ll do it!’ She snatched the ends from his hands and fumbled them into a bow. ‘Thank you!’ Beside her Pru stirred uneasily and Decima turned to her, thankful for the excuse. Adam was suddenly too close, too big, too warm and far too male, and she wanted to be left alone to come to terms with all the disturbing new reactions her body was producing in response to him.
