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‘Decima. I am sorry.’ She had not heard him going back to his room, but Adam had changed his clothing for the dark elegance of evening dress, as though to reassure her with its formality. ‘I cannot pretend I didn’t want to kiss you, but I never meant for it to go so far.’
‘I…I liked it. It would be unfair of me to say I did not. But it was too much, all at once, so I didn’t know how to stop.’ She made herself keep her eyes on his face. He was being honest, so should she. ‘But you did, so that’s all right.’
Adam turned away sharply. ‘You really are a quite remarkable woman.’
Decima flushed. ‘A wanton one, you mean. Perhaps I led you on, I am sorry—’
‘Don’t apologise!’ He swung back to face her, his face full of an anger that she knew was not directed at her. ‘I said extraordinary—I mean just that. Why aren’t you having the vapours, threatening me with your brother?’
‘I told you,’ she said patiently, going over to dip a spoon in the fragrant, bubbling stew. ‘It was at least as much my fault as yours, it was extremely…interesting and there is nothing to have the vapours about. This is very good stew. Shall I peel some potatoes?’
Suddenly it was all right again. Adam was obviously unconvinced, but she felt quite calm and almost at ease. True, her knees were knocking and her skin felt as though someone was caressing it with thousands of tiny feathers and, if they touched again, she thought she would probably swoon, but other than that she was all right. Of course she was. I am an independent grown-up woman, she told herself, and I can learn to cope with new situations.
Adam hefted another pan onto the stove and reached for the salt box. ‘I’ve done them. Pru seems better.’
‘Yes, she does.’ Decima gathered up cutlery. ‘I will lay the table in the dining room. How is Bates?’
They were having a perfectly ordinary domestic conversation while underneath her mind was whirling and her body behaving in ways she had never believed possible. Did Adam feel like this? Presumably all sorts of people went through life feeling like this on occasion; it was amazing what went on under the bland face of everyday life.
The evening passed pleasantly enough. Any invisible onlooker would have observed the unusual sig
ht of a lady and gentleman waiting on their own servants, and then on themselves at dinner. But they would have been hard put to detect either the slightest impropriety or even undue familiarity in the rest of the evening, which was passed by the lady and her companion in desultory conversation, the reading of somewhat out-of-date journals and the exchange of opinion from time to time upon clues in the acrostic the lady was attempting to complete.
Or perhaps the unseen watcher would have noticed the way the lady’s eyes would rest on the gentleman’s bent head, or the manner in which her lashes would sweep down to disguise her interest the moment he moved. And they might also have noticed the way in which he shifted restlessly in his chair and the tight line of his mouth when he caught himself doing so.
As the hall clock struck ten Decima looked up from the Ladies’ Journal with an arrested expression. ‘What is that noise?’
Adam got to his feet and moved to the window, flicking aside the heavy drapes. ‘Rain. The thaw has come.’ He turned and looked at her and Decima struggled to read the message in eyes suddenly the colour of dark flint. ‘The outside world may well reach us tomorrow.’
‘The end of our sojourn out of time and away from reality,’ she said, trying to make the remark light—and realising almost too late that she wanted to cry.
Decima got to her feet, holding on to the arm of the chair as though she, and not Pru, was weak from a fever. She had the strangest feeling that if she held out her arms now he would come to her and to hell with the consequences. Last time he had had the strength to step away. Now it was her turn to be strong.
‘I think I am probably keeping Pru up,’ she said with a firm smile. ‘And if there is travelling to do tomorrow, we must both get some rest. Goodnight, Adam.’
He took two long strides across the room to her side and did something he had never done before, lifting her hand in his and lightly kissing her fingertips. ‘Goodbye, Decima.’
She was halfway up the stairs before she had got her reaction to the fleeting touch of his lips under control and thought about what he had just said. Goodbye?
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.
