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‘And all as lovely as she, I dare say,’ Adam responded, knowing what was expected of him.
‘To be sure, although it is boastful of me to say so. And all well married, too—I have high hopes for little Sophie.’ Lady Brotherton got to her feet. ‘Would you care to see their portrait?’
What Adam wanted to be doing was exercising his horses in his new curricle. He smiled with every appearance of delight and followed her to the other end of the room where a group portrait hung. The breath caught in his throat and time stopped.
Six charming versions of Sophie at various ages sat and stood, arms around each other, and at the back was a seventh girl. Head and shoulders taller than the others, a brunette with her hair scraped back into an unflattering plain style, her shoulders hunched and rounded and an expression quite lacking in any emotion. Her lids were hooded, hiding her eyes, but Adam was left with the impression of an animal, cornered and baited, retreating into its own blank misery.
‘Who is the seventh girl?’ he asked indifferently when he had control of his voice, knowing as he spoke what the answer would be.
‘Oh, that is Dessy Ross. Her mother’s first husband was some sort of connection of Lord Brotherton’s—I really cannot recall now what it was. But her brother Charlton was quite in despair about what to do with her, so we brought her out with our girls—one after the other. One tried one’s best to find her a match. Quite hopeless, of course—you might not be able to tell from the portrait, but she is impossibly tall and dreadfully freckled. And, of course, that unfortunate mouth. Sweet girl, although very quiet.’
Lady Brotherton went back to her chair, leaving Adam staring at the portrait. No wonder Decima was so self-conscious about her height, her looks. She had been brought up thinking she was not just plain, but irredeemably ineligible as a result. Her remarks about matchmakers hit Adam like a flick from a whip; her own experience of snubs and humiliations must be deep indeed—scars on her soul.
‘Charlton Ross,’ Adam said cautiously as he walked back to his seat. It would not do to let slip he knew Decima. ‘That sounds familiar. I wonder if I know him.’ He raised an interrogative eyebrow and Lady Brotherton shook her head.
‘No, my lord, it cannot be the man you know. Charlton is Dessy’s half-brother—Lord Carmichael. He lives in Nottinghamshire. Poor dear Dessy,’ she added with a pitying expression on her face. ‘I believe the Carmichaels have still not given up hope of finding her a husband. So optimistic of them, for what can one do about such handicaps? It is hardly as though it were spots—anyone might grow out of those.’ She regarded Adam with concern. ‘Are you quite well, my lord? You seem a little pale.’
As well I might, Adam thought bitterly. Decima Ross was the woman I joked about escaping from—and she knows it. And then he realised just what he had learned and what it meant.
He knew now why Decima had been so cold to him that last day, he knew how to find her—and that there was no honourable way he could seek her out. For he was betrothed to Olivia and he saw, with painful clarity, that what he wanted from Decima Ross was, quite simply, her hand in marriage.
Decima perched on the edge of the bed, sorting silk stockings from cotton ones while Pru carried her unpacked clothes from trunk to clothes presses.
‘Well, here we are, Pru. London again after so long. It must be four years since I managed to escape being dragged round by poor Lady Brotherton, doing the Season. Goodness, I had forgotten how noisy it is—and Lady Freshford was so pleased to tell me this was a nice quiet room!’
She scooped up the rolled stockings and went to drop them in a drawer, then turned to watch the maid. Four weeks ago Pru had confided stiffly that there was no unplanned consequence from her unwise dalliance with Bates, but since then had said nothing more about him.
Decima could tell she was not happy though, and sighed inwardly. ‘Pru, now we are in London, do you wish me to discover whether Lord Weston is in town, too?’
Pru hesitated, biting her lip, then sat down on the bed. ‘Yes, please, Miss Des…Miss Decima. But you won’t say anything to Bates, will you?’
‘I doubt I would see him,’ Decima soothed her. ‘If I can talk to Lord Weston, I will tell him that there appears to be some affection between the two of you and ask him to let drop, quite casually, where we are living. Then Bates can make up his own mind and will never know you are concerned.’
Pru nodded. ‘Yes, that would do it. I wou
ldn’t want him to think I was chasing him. But how will you find out about his lordship?’
‘I’ll ask Sir Henry,’ Decima said. ‘He will be sure to know.’ And before she went calling upon anyone she was going to send for a coiffeur and do some very serious shopping. She might be a spinster, but Decima was firmly decided that from now on she was going to be a very stylish spinster indeed. After all, she had told herself in the long days and nights of January and February as she brooded on her New Year’s resolution, I have no one to please but myself now. If she was no longer in the marriage mart, then she had nothing to prove, no one to compete with. There was no one whose opinion she had to pander to, and she had all the money she needed to indulge herself. And indulge herself she would.
Wanting to look her absolute best for a certain tall gentleman with grey eyes had nothing whatsoever to do with it.
Adam retreated into his study in his London town house to recover from the latest descent of his future mother-in-law, Olivia in tow, to discuss wedding plans. The wedding, it appeared, would take place in June; it did not seem she considered it necessary to consult his wishes in the matter. The announcement of the betrothal would go into the papers the next day—a suitable length of time from the compromising incident at the ball to ensure there was no talk.
On any other subject, with any other person, Adam would have no more stood for such Turkish treatment than he would have stood still to have his foot driven over. With Mrs Channing he had no wish to start her on one of her lectures on his libertine and rakish behaviour and how he should indulge Olivia in every way possible to make up for his outrageous attempt at seduction.
Considering that he knew all too well that he had been stalked and entrapped, and that she must know he knew, Adam wondered at her hypocrisy. All that stopped him retaliating was a chivalrous concern for Olivia, whom he knew had been merely a browbeaten pawn in her parents’ machinations. She would never dare to stand out against them, just as he knew, with a sinking heart, that, once married, his word would be law and she would never, ever, argue with him.
What he wanted was a bride who would argue, with her elbows on the table, waving her cutlery for emphasis if need be. He wanted a wife who would tease him, would join in foolish whims with a twinkle in her eye and would come into his arms with—
‘A lady has called my lord.’ It was Dalrymple, his butler.
‘What?’ Adam stared, aware that he had not even heard him come in.
‘A lady, my lord. She declined to give me her name.’
Adam felt both his eyebrows rise. It was not like Dalrymple to make such an elementary error of judgement. ‘Are you sure you mean a lady?’
‘Certainly, my lord. A most well-bred lady, if I might venture an opinion. With her maid in attendance.’
