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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.
She soothed the invalid’s forehead with lavender water, glancing back over her shoulder with an uneasy smile that she hoped combined gratitude with dismissal. ‘I should not have been talking,’ she whispered, ‘I think it disturbs her.’
Adam merely smiled, a glint in his grey eyes that told her he knew that it was not Pru who was disturbed by his presence. Decima looked away and after a moment the door shut softly behind him.
‘Oh dear, Pru,’ she murmured, settling down again by the bedside. ‘This experiencing life is all very well, but I wish I knew what I was going to feel next. And what to do about it.’ She snuggled into the soft warmth of the dressing gown, took Pru’s hot, dry hand in hers and closed her eyes.
As the clock struck six Adam blinked and straightened up in the chair, wincing as his cramped muscles protested. Bates had finally succumbed to exhaustion and a quantity of brandy guaranteed to give him a headache that would take his mind off his broken leg in the morning. Now he was fast asleep, the air resounding with his snores.
Adam groped for the candle and made his way to the still-glowing fire to rekindle it, then reached for the cup of tea that had gone cold and gulped it down with a baleful glare at the clock. Was it worth going back to his own bed and snatching another hour’s sleep?
There were four horses to tend to, logs and coal to bring in, fires to make up and food to be found on top of whatever assistance Bates was going to need. He wrestled with unfamiliar priorities and decided on fuel first, then stables. And at some point during the morning, he promised himself, a hot bath. A deep hot bath. With fine milled soap. And the back brush. And a pile of Turkey towels that had been warming in front of the fire.
And who, he asked himself, through a jaw-cracking yawn, is going to lug up the cans of water, find the towels, empty the bathwater…? How much was he paying his staff? Not enough, obviously, if his experiences of domestic duties so far were anything to go by. And Mrs Chitty deserved a salary at least equivalent to that of a circuit-court judge.
He stretched, warming himself up with the thought of that imagined bath and Decima scrubbing his back, rasping the bristles across his shoulders in a mass of foam, running her—Stop it. He was certainly awake now. What was the matter with him? Adam grinned ruefully. It was no mystery what ailed him, only why, when it was but a few days since he had left the bed of his delightful and highly skilled mistress, that he should be lusting after a leggy spinster.
He padded across the landing and applied an ear to the door panels. Silence. He eased the door open and found Decima sleeping uncomfortably in the chair, her upper body slumped onto the bed beside Pru. He edged round and laid the back of his hand on the maid’s forehead. It was warm but damp, and she was sleeping heavily with none of the restlessness of the night. The fever had broken.
He stood for a long moment, staring down at Decima, surprised by the sudden wave of protectiveness that swept over him in place of the erotic thoughts that had been occupying his mind. She should have looked ridiculous, cramped and hunched, her face pressed against the counterpane, one tendril of hair straggling across her face where it blew slightly with every breath, her face shiny with sleep. Instead she looked adorable.
Cautiously, he bent and straightened her up, then scooped her into his arms and walked through to her bedchamber. The bedclothes were turned back from when she had got up to Pru and he laid Decima down into the dent her body had left. He straightened the dressing gown over her legs, eased off her kid slippers and drew the bedclothes back over her body. She did not stir.
Adam found that he was breathing as though he had carried her for a mile uphill and that he was uncomfortably hard. Damn it! One did not trifle with virgins, one did not take advantage of gentlewomen seeking sanctuary under your roof and one certainly did not stand there in a lady’s bedchamber, recalling with intense erotic detail the sensation of her long, strong legs flexing and balancing on your thighs as you rode with her through the snow. Not if one hoped for any relief at all from mental and physical torment.
It wasn’t even as though she had the slightest idea about flirtation, he thought. She had been taken utterly unaware when their impromptu waltz almost ended in a kiss and on the landing during the night she had been adorably, and very innocently, flustered by his teasing.
What on earth was wrong with the men she had met? Why wasn’t she married? It was obvious that she had this ridiculous self-consciousness about her height, but why? He had never come across a woman as tall as she, but society was full of tall gentlemen who would be as entranced as he was by her grace and beauty and original charm.
Brooding, Adam pulled himself away from her bedside and went to make up the fire, placing pieces of wood as delicately as though he were playing spillikins. No money, perhaps? A complete lack of dowry would be an impediment to the most handsome woman, but her style of dress, the quality of her hired coach and the presence of two postilions rebutted that theory.
With a lingering glance at the figure in the bed, Adam went to make up the other fires, then washed with haste in the cold water in his bedroom, dressed and went downstairs to face the waiting chores.
Decima woke slowly, more than a little inclined to snuggle back down into the warmth of the soft bed, into the caress of the wonderful silk sheets. Silk sheets? Her eyes opened with a snap. No, not silk sheets, her feet were tangled in the weighty luxury of an Oriental dressing gown.
‘How on earth did I get back to bed?’ Decima sat up and regarded the room in the clear, chilly morning light. The blankets were tucked in, which she could never have managed for herself, her slippers were neatly together in front of the fire and the fire itself was crackling cheerfully behind the screen. ‘Oh, heavens. He put me to bed.’
Decima gulped and threw back the covers. She was still decently tied up in the dressing gown, its skirts and those of her night rail gathered modestly around her calves. But that was not reassuring; Decima’s imagination produced a vivid mental picture of Adam’s tall figure bending over the bed, smoothing the clothing down, his fingers brushing against her ankles.
That strange, hot, molten feeling inside her came back. She felt restless. Tense. Surely she couldn’t be coming down with Pru’s fever?
Lord! Pru. She should not be idling in bed, wrestling with an utterly inappropriate and unmaidenly attraction to Adam Grantham, she should be nursing her poor maid. Decima scrambled out of bed and hurried to check on her.
‘Pru? Are you awake?’
‘Mmm? Miss Dessy? Ooh, my head.’ Anxiously Decima touched her forehead, deeply relieved to find it hot but damp. The confused expression of the night before had gone.
