The Viscount's Betrothal

by Louise Allen

  Decima went to bed, expecting a night filled with restless dreams and tormenting longings. Instead she woke to the sound of the landing clock striking seven and the relentless sound of heavy rain against the window. She should be glad, she knew. But was it so very wicked to want this strange holiday from reality to continue for ever?

  When she padded into her maid’s room in bare feet, wrapped in the gorgeous Oriental dressing gown, she discovered that Pru was already up. Up, dressed and in full flow, arguing with Bates in his bedchamber by the sound of it.

  ‘His lordship’s downstairs cooking breakfast, which is where I should be if I didn’t have my lady to get dressed, so why you can’t have the sense you were born with and let me fetch you your hot water I don’t know.’

  A low grumble was all Decima could hear of Bates’s views on the matter. ‘I’m not offering to wash you, you stubborn man.’ Decima stepped back as the door swung open and Pru marched out. ‘Honestly, Miss Dessy—men.’ She looked her up and down sharply. ‘I’ll go and get your water then. The snow’s almost gone, you know.’

  Decima went back into her room and looked out of the window and the slush that yesterday had been the white yard. She could just see the remnants of their snowman, hat drooping, body already half-eaten away by the rain: nothing lasted, it seemed.

  Adam flipped the bacon over, wondering how long it would be before they could get fresh supplies of food. Not much longer, if this rain continued. And then Decima would be gone. After a restless night spent tossing and turning, in between dreams that were either guilt-racked or wildly erotic, he almost welcomed the thought of their separation.

  They both needed time, distance and a remedial dose of ordinary life. Perhaps then he could work out what he truly felt for her. He filled the kettle and put it on the hob, caught himself doing it without a second thought, and smiled at how rapidly the basic routines of kitchen life had become second nature.

  Decima. He desired her. Oh, how he desired her. But she was a gentlewoman—he could not make her his mistress. What did that leave? A chaste friendship? He grimaced. Marriage?

  The bacon was burning. He pulled the pan off the heat and stood there looking at it. He didn’t need to get married, not with his fifteen-year-old cousin Peregrine all a man could hope for in an heir, and more. He had his freedom now; that would be lost with marriage. The thought of losing that freedom, of finding himself leg-shackled to just one woman for the rest of his life had always seemed intolerable.

  On the other hand, he had spent several days cooped up in a snowbound house with just one particular female companion and there had not been a boring moment. Long hours of aching physical frustration, yes, but no boredom.

  He was contemplating exactly what that might mean when the back door banged open and his missing domestic staff bundled in, dripping wet and laden with parcels.

  ‘My lord!’ Mrs Chitty stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him. ‘What in the world are you doing in my kitchen?’

  ‘Cooking breakfast,’ Adam admitted, feeling as though he had been caught stealing cake from the pantry.

  ‘Never tell me your guests have arrived!’ The housekeeper took in the four plates on the table. ‘The only thing that kept my mind at rest these past few days was the thought that none of you would be able to get here.’ She cast off her vast bonnet and cloak and shook out her apron with a snap. ‘Who has been wearing this, might I ask, my lord?’

  ‘I have, and Miss Ross.’ That did it.

  ‘Miss Ross?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Chitty. I need to have a word with you about that.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord? Emily Jane, get outside and fetch the rest of the provisions and look sharp, girl.’ The silent kitchen maid scuttled back out into the rain.

  ‘Mrs Chitty, I almost did not manage to get here through the snow. On the way Bates and I helped a lady and her maid who were trapped in their carriage and brought them here. No one else has reached us.’

  ‘Well, at least she had her maid,’ the housekeeper observed, burrowing in her basket and producing a loaf. ‘And Bates—not that he’d be much use for keeping propriety.’

  There was no point in trying to put a fine gloss on the situation. ‘Miss Ross’s maid has been bedridden with a fever the whole time and Bates broke his leg the night we arrived here.’

  ‘Ah.’ Mrs Chitty regarded him with a trace of amusement tweaking at the corner of her mouth. ‘I’d say you were in a bit of a pickle, my lord, especially as I’ve no doubt your houseguests will be here shortly. The roads are mostly passable now, that we could see.’

  Oh, hell. Adam realised he had not thought about that. The arrival of four eminently respectable members of London society, two of whom he did not know well enough to confide in, was quite sufficient to ensure Decima was ruined.

  Even as he thought it, Emily Jane hurried in, hung about with more shopping. ‘There’s two carriages coming up the drive, my lord.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Then it’s a good thing I’ve been here all the time and only Emily Jane and William went into town, isn’t it, my lord?’ Mrs Chitty finished tying her apron strings round her plump middle and took the frying pan firmly from Adam’s hand.

  ‘Emily Jane, take off those wet things and go and open the front door. And no gossiping, mind.’ She turned back to Adam. ‘You’d better hurry and put your coat and neckcloth on, my lord, and warn the young lady what’s happening. And don’t you worry about Emily Jane and William, they won’t be saying anything out of turn, I’ll see to that.’

  ‘Mrs Chitty, you are a paragon. Whatever I pay you, you are going to get a raise.’ He bent and planted a kiss on her red cheek. ‘And what makes you think it’s a young lady?’

  The housekeeper merely looked at him; a long, slow stare that produced the first blush Adam was conscious of in over ten years. With a rueful grin he strode out of the room and up the stairs, just in time as the knocker thudded on the front door.

  Decima sat at the dressing table, guiltily enjoying having her hair properly dressed for the first time since she had left Charlton’s house. She had protested, but Pru refused to sit down and rest, so she gave in and allowed herself to be fussed over.

  The knock at the door startled them both. ‘Decima? Are you decent?’ Adam slipped inside before Decima had a chance to check whether she was or not.

  ‘My lord!’ Pru managed to sound like the most outraged chaperon, only to bridle indignantly as she was completely ignored.

  ‘Mrs Chitty, the kitchen maid and the footman are back—and my guests are at the front door now. Pru, are you well enough to come downstairs? Good. Mrs Chitty has, of course, been here the entire time. We have not been cooking, we have not been looking after ourselves and, Pru, you have not left Miss Ross’s side.

  ‘Mrs Chitty is cooking breakfast, and whatever the others need—I don’t know where they’ve come from this morning. I will go and warn Bates. Perhaps you and Pru can come down in about twenty minutes.’

  He vanished before they had the chance to reply. ‘Well, Pru…’ Decima took a deep breath and regarded her reflection carefully. Her mouth felt dry and her stomach contracted painfully. Strangers—that was enough under normal circumstances to send her into an agony of self-conscious shyness. But these strangers could ruin her. ‘Fetch my jewellery case, please, Pru, I can see that this is an occasion for the utmost respectability. Can you act like a dresser? I want you to pretend to be the sort of upper servant who could chaperon me.’

  ‘What, like Lady Ambridge’s dresser?’ Pru’s eyes widened at the recollection of the stately dame in the employ of one of Decima’s cousins. ‘All starched up and top lofty?’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘I can do that, I reckon. Ooh, yes.’

  When Decima descended the staircase she was followed by a haughty little person who looked down her nose at the footman and completely ignored the nervous kitchen maid who was carrying plates into the dining room.

  Decima hesitated outside the door. Strangers. The
familiar panic and shyness swept through her and she could feel her shoulders rounding into the defensive stoop that falsely promised invisibility.

  No. She could not skulk out here and she could not appear in the dining room behaving as though she had something to hide. At least, after one look at her, Adam’s guests would never suspect for a moment that anything untoward had been going on. If a gentleman was going to indulge in dalliance, he was not going to chose a gawky spinster who was almost thirty years of age. For once her failings would stand her in good stead.

  She stood up straight and walked in. By the fireplace two couples dressed in the height of fashion were talking animatedly to Adam, who turned at her entrance. His jaw dropped, just slightly, and she smiled, realising that with her hair up, her pearls glistening with expensive restraint and her one remaining respectable morning dress on she looked every inch a lady and not like the hoyden who had been rolling in the snow or grooming horses.

  She turned to Pru. ‘You may take your breakfast with Mrs Chitty this morning, Staples.’

  ‘Very good, Miss Ross.’ Pru dropped a starchy curtsy and followed it with an inclination of her head towards Adam. ‘Good morning, your lordship.’

  Her exit seemed to bring Adam to his senses. ‘Miss Ross, please allow me to introduce you to my friends. My cousin, Lady Wendover, and her husband, Lord Wendover.’ A lively-looking lady of about five and twenty with an older husband with a grave expression and amused eyes. ‘Mr and Mrs Highton.’ A slightly older couple, beautifully dressed and she with languorous blue eyes. ‘This is Miss Ross, who has been snowed up here and must be delighted to see some new faces after three days of boredom.’

  ‘Not at all, my lord. I am delighted to meet your friends, of course, but I have been far from bored.’ Decima smiled her thanks to Mr Highton, who pulled out a chair for her. ‘You and Mrs Chitty have looked after us admirably.’ She looked round at the others as they took their places. ‘My only refuge until Lord Weston came to my aid was a most disreputable alehouse. You may imagine my relief at finding shelter here. Were you snowed up, too?’

  Conversation flowed easily. It seemed Adam’s guests had reached Grantham before they wisely decided to go no further than a comfortable inn and had set out early that morning. ‘We were looking forward to Mrs Chitty’s cooking,’ Lord Wendover remarked, helping himself lavishly from the platter of ham, eggs and sliced sausage the footman presented.

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ Decima agreed. ‘It is excellent, is it not?’ This was all right, she could manage. They were too polite to stare at her height, in such a small group they could not whisper about her gawky plainness, and best of all, none of them were trying to marry her off.

  After the meal she got to her feet. ‘If you will excuse me, I think I should go and oversee my packing. I imagine my carriage should be here shortly.’

  Pru was already upstairs, but, although the portmanteaux were out and open and several drawers had already been emptied onto the bed, there was no sign of her, only the sound of all-too-familiar bickering from the room across the landing.

  ‘Pru!’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Pru positively flounced out of Bates’s room and into her own. ‘That man!’

  ‘I see you have started the packing.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Dessy.’

  ‘Then shall we finish before the postilions arrive?’ she suggested briskly.

  At last, leaving Pru to organise William the footman into carrying down the bags, she went to rejoin the guests. It would seem odd to avoid doing so any longer. Voices led her towards the drawing room and she slipped in unnoticed, taking a chair by the door. The others were all grouped facing towards the fireplace with its cheerful blaze, and seemed to be engaged in ragging Adam.

  ‘So, was Sally as intent on finding you a bride as you feared, Adam?’ Lady Wendover asked with teasing laughter in her voice.

  ‘She was indeed, although I was completely lulled at first,’ Adam answered ruefully. ‘I was in the house for two days and there was not the hint of danger. No ingenuous young houseguest, no visiting bluestocking, no intimate parties threatened. I had let down my guard and then, out of the blue, the casual announcement that we were to expect a visit from some neighbours.’

  ‘Who proved to be accompanied by whom? An unmarried daughter? A plain niece?’ Mrs Highton enquired, much amused.

  ‘No, worse.’ Adam shuddered. ‘An unmarried, middle-aged sister. A lady, I was assured, of fortune and possessed of intelligence and amiability. I took to my heels before they arrived and ended up in a snowdrift for my pains.’

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ Mrs Highton produced a trill of knowing laughter. ‘A plain Jane, in other words. What was Sally thinking of? She must know what a high stickler you are.’

  The shocked anger burned through Decima’s veins. How could he? How could Adam joke with them about it? Oh, no names had been said, of course, he was too much the gentleman for that. Somewhere there was another woman, just like her, breathing a sigh of relief because her unwanted ‘suitor’ had fled. And no doubt she was having to endure her relatives’ endless lamentations that another ‘opportunity’ had been missed.

  She heard the sound of her own voice sounding coolly amused. ‘I should imagine she was thinking—like so many matchmakers think when they meddle in their single friends’ lives—that she was doing it for the sake of the people concerned, when in fact it is something that neither party would want.’

  The five people around the fire turned as one to gaze at her in surprise. As well they might, she realised in horror. As soon as the words were out of her mouth she knew how rude she was being about Adam’s sister.

  Adam’s face went blank, but Lady Wendover recovered herself with a laugh. ‘You are too severe, Miss Ross. Surely a sister must be concerned for her brother’s welfare?’

  ‘And this can be achieved by trying to fob an unwilling lady off on him? I am sure Lord Weston is more than capable of finding himself an entirely eligible bride, when he wishes to do so.’ She had already unforgivably accused his sister of meddling, she might as well face this out and say what she thought for once.

  ‘Well, I agree Adam might be unwilling to be party to such a thing, but surely not the lady? Presumably she is at her last prayers,’ Lord Wendover observed.

  ‘Is the married state so desirable that the humiliation of being paraded around by one’s relatives is a price worth paying to achieve it? It is nothing but a mortification for the lady concerned and a source of discomfort to any man of sensibility. And, in fact, I am sure many men who remain bachelors for perfectly sound reasons of their own also suffer this sort of interference.’ She was in full flow now, her new, strong inner voice carrying her along in the face of their surprise.

  ‘You do not approve of matchmakers, then, Miss Ross?’ Mr Highton enquired.

  ‘I despise matchmakers,’ she said roundly, then caught sight of Adam’s frozen expression. She had gone too far. ‘I beg your pardon, Lord Weston, if I have spoken disrespectfully of your sister. I am sure her motives are purely those of family affection.’ The lady probably could not help herself, any more than Hermione could; it seemed that, once married, any female was immediately seized with the urge to see her entire acquaintance paired off.

  Adam grimaced, apparently unoffended. ‘Sally is certainly motivated by a strong concern for my interests. Unfortunately she does not take my views of what those are into account one jot. As for the lady in this case, probably Sally can imagine no greater felicity than being married to me and would be incredulous to learn she might not wish for such a meeting.’

  ‘Dear Lady Jardine.’ Mrs Highton smiled affectionately. ‘I do miss her now she has moved to Nottinghamshire.’

  ‘Lord Weston’s sister Lady Jardine lives in Nottinghamshire?’ Decima repeated blankly. She could feel the sickening certainty taking hold of her stomach. Suddenly she wished she had not eaten breakfast. It could not be a coincidence. There could not be two Lady Jardines in Nottinghamshire who ha
d both tried to introduce an eligible brother to someone’s spinster sister in the week before New Year. She was the lady ‘at her last prayers’ from whom Adam had run.

  ‘Yes, they have recently moved there,’ Adam said. ‘Have you met them? I have just realised I never asked you where you had come from, the day we met in the snow. Had you come from Nottinghamshire?’

  ‘No.’ Her friend Henry always said that if one was going to tell a lie, it might as well be a wholehearted one. ‘No, Leicestershire. I regret I have not had the pleasure of Lady Jardine’s acquaintance.’

  She was saved by the footman entering. ‘Miss Ross’s carriage has arrived, my lord. I have brought in your baggage that was left with it. Everything appears to be in order.’

  Decima rose to her feet. ‘Then I must be on my way. Thank you so much, Lord Weston, for rescuing me from a most uncomfortable predicament. If you will excuse me, I must just go and thank Mrs Chitty.’ She exchanged farewells with Adam’s guests and escaped into the kitchen where Pru was organising the footman.

  ‘All those bags inside the carriage, I don’t want my lady’s things getting cold and damp…Miss Dessy, I’ll just run up and get our cloaks.’

  Her head was still buzzing with shock and emotion, but Decima made herself speak pleasantly to the housekeeper. ‘You must be Mrs Chitty. I have to thank you for your discretion, and also for your wonderfully well-stocked stillroom. I do trust we have not wreaked too much havoc with your domestic arrangements.’

  ‘I’m only too glad it was of help, ma’am.’ Mrs Chitty’s eyes were regarding Decima with sharp intelligence, but her voice was entirely respectful as she added, ‘I’m sure his lordship took great care of you.’

  ‘Will you allow me to escort you to the front door, Miss Ross?’ It was Adam, entering soundlessly behind her.