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Decima’s heart was tight in her chest, her breathing jerking as though she had raced the length of the stable yard. Adam’s eyes were on her mouth and she remembered his words. She wasn’t pouting, was she? Her lips parted, the tip of her tongue running nervously between them. He was going to kiss her. Oh, please…please…
Chapter Eight
Right overhead the stable-yard clock struck one like a blow from her conscience. Decima blinked and slipped sideways away from Adam. ‘Goodness, look at the time. Poor Pru and Bates will be wanting their luncheon.’
Without looking back, she walked briskly to the kitchen door, untying her shawl as she went. She could hear his footsteps following her. ‘There is some soup left, and cheese and pickles,’ she called from the scullery where she was washing her hands.
Adam was making up the fire. He turned at the sound of her coming out again, his face betraying nothing but agreement with what she was saying. She must have misunderstood his intentions, or more likely it was her own overheated imagination and longings that were behind her discomfort. Probably he had had some secreted snow still in his hand to drop on her head and had not the slightest intention of kissing her. She must have misheard, or misunderstood, that remark about her lips.
They climbed the stairs together with loaded trays, only to stop on the landing at the sound of voices. Adam raised an eyebrow and edged forward to look round the door of Bates’s room.
The groom was sitting up in bed, his leg still protected by the tented bedclothes. Beside him in an armchair Pru was curled up, a pile of journals by her side and one clasped in her hands.
‘That’s just plain foolishness,’ Bates was saying. ‘Why did they go to the castle in the middle of the night when everyone had warned them about it? Young idiots.’
‘But don’t you recall, in the last episode they discovered that their wicked guardian had secreted the papers proving Adelbert’s inheritance in the vaults of Castle Grim,’ Pru explained earnestly. ‘How else could they retrieve them and prove he was the rightful heir?’
‘Well, he’s a mutton-headed brat is all I can say,’ the groom grumbled. ‘Fancy dragging that Mirabelle along with him; a pretty little thing like that should be at home safe.’
‘She’s his sister, and ready to undergo any trials for his sake and that of the family’s honour. I think it’s lovely.’ Pru’s voice shook with emotion. ‘Oh, my lord, Miss Dessy, I didn’t see you there.’
Bates had gone a deep and unlovely crimson, not helped by the expression of unholy glee on Adam’s face as he took in the mass of reading matter strewn across the floor.
‘A change from your usual sporting news, Bates,’ Adam observed with every appearance of interest. ‘How kind of Miss Prudence to keep you entertained. You must explain the plot to me later, possibly I would enjoy it, too.’
‘It’s the most chuckle-headed load of whipped syllabub I’ve heard in my whole life,’ Bates muttered defensively.
‘And you are on episode eight.’ Decima picked up the discarded journal. ‘How patient of you to listen to all that, Bates, just for Pru’s amusement.’
Adam finally took pity on the fulminating groom. ‘I think you ladies had better excuse us.’ Decima helped Pru to her feet and tactfully removed her from the room with a hissed word in her ear.
‘Well, why wouldn’t he say so?’ Pru hissed back on the landing. ‘It isn’t as though I haven’t taken gentlemen their chamber pots, time out of mind.’
‘I doubt Bates is used to receiving such attention, though. Come along, I have brought your luncheon and then you should have a lie down.’
Decima went out to retrieve the tray, unashamedly pausing for a moment to listen to what the men were saying.
‘…butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth,’ Adam said. ‘You old fool—what are you carrying on so for?’
‘Aye, and cheese wouldn’t choke her, either!’ Bates retorted. ‘Didn’t know where to look when she marched in with her journals, me in my nightshirt and stuck in bed…’
‘She obviously feels quite safe with you,’ Adam said consolingly. ‘A mature, respectable man like yourself.’ Could Bates hear that betraying thread of laughter? No, he was still indignantly trying to cover up being caught listening, enthralled, to a Gothic novel.
They were both still chuckling when they went downstairs to prepare their own meal. ‘It seems Pru has forgiven Bates for manhandling her,’ Adam remarked, cutting wedges out of the Stilton.
‘More likely they are both so bored they have arrived at a truce,’ Decima countered. ‘Pru is normally of the opinion that all males are a lesser life form and barely to be tolerated beyond normal politeness to her employers.’
‘Of course, you have told me her thinking on noblemen. What is your opinion of men, Decima?’
She pushed the jar of pickles across the table while she thought. ‘I think it would be easier to accept the male sex’s valuation of itself as lords of creation if so many of them were not arrogant, ineffectual, blustering bullies.’
There was a pause. ‘I was waiting for you to say, “Present company excluded, of course,”’ he remarked.
Decima smiled. Adam wasn’t looking exactly offended, but he had put on the expression she thought of as gentleman on his dignity. It appeared to be a universal male expression. ‘I acquit you of all of those, although I must tell you that you do a very good impression of being a lord of creation on occasion.’
‘Mmm.’ Very sensibly he was not going to pursue that. ‘And is your poor opinion of men the reason you are still unmarried?’ Decima stared at him. Was he serious? Didn’t one good look at her tell him why she was unwed? For some strange reason he seemed inclined to flirt with her, so he obviously did not find her entirely repulsive, but on the other hand flirting was probably an almost automatic reaction to being alone with a female, especially if one was an active male cooped up with little diversion.
She thought of giving him an honest answer, but then common sense took over. If she listed her faults, a man with his good manners would feel bound to disagree with her and she couldn’t face getting into an argument over such a sensitive topic.
