the floor as the reluctant partner of some unfortunate man.
She had no intention of dancing tonight, either, but she did have the firm resolve of holding her head up amidst the matrons and the chaperons, knowing she was impeccably gowned and had absolutely nothing to apologise for. She was no longer a shop-worn piece of merchandise on the marriage mart, she was not even on the shelf any longer, because she would not allow anyone to categorise her that way. She was single and happy to be so.
Brave words butter no parsnips, she thought, nervously picking up the powder puff and dusting again at the freckles that were sprinkled across her bosom. And an alarming amount of that bosom seemed to be on show tonight. Decima tugged at the lace trim of the low-scooped neckline and Pru put down the hairbrush and tugged it back into place again.
‘Leave it, do, Miss Dessy…Miss Decima.’ She still had not got used to Decima’s insistence on her full name. ‘It’s a lovely gown, don’t go pulling it out of shape.’
‘I will fall out,’ Decima moaned faintly. ‘It didn’t look this indecent in the modiste’s.’
‘You’re a grown-up lady, now; you can show off your boobies,’ Pru said stoutly. ‘They aren’t all that big, but they’re a perfectly nice pair and your shoulders are lovely and white.’
‘Freckles,’ Decima said despairingly as Pru fastened her necklace and handed her the pearl bob earrings. Your freckles. I wondered if they went all the way down and they do…Adam’s voice as his fingers had traced across her skin. And she had at least had her back to him. What would have happened if he had seen the dusting of freckles across the swell of her bosom and disappearing down into her cleavage? She closed her eyes tight against the picture her treacherous mind conjured up, then opened them again wide as the image of Adam’s face appeared like magic on the inside of her lids.
‘There now, you look lovely.’ Pru stepped back for Decima to stand and look at herself in the long cheval glass.
Oh, my. This was not her at all. Instinctively Decima rounded her shoulders and saw, to her horror, that the bodice of the gown gaped alarmingly. There was nothing for it but perfect deportment: head up, shoulders back and a startling show of bosom at the front. Pru was talking, wrenching her attention away from her own reflection.
‘I was wondering what time you’d be coming in, Miss Decima.’ She was fiddling with things on the dressing table, but the casual air did not deceive Decima.
‘Not before one, I should think. Why? Would you like to go out?’ Pru’s neck went pink. ‘Oh, Pru—is it Bates? Has he asked you out this evening?’
‘Mmm,’ Pru mumbled. ‘Just round to this tavern he knows, not far from here. He says it is quite respectable and we can have a bite of supper and a chat, sort of thing.’
‘That is nice,’ Decima said, sounding ridiculously bracing to her own ears, like a mother encouraging her reluctant offspring to try something new. ‘You want to go, don’t you?’
‘Suppose so. I’m just…’ Pru stood scrubbing one toe into the carpet ‘…shy. It’s different here, not like it was at the lodge, somehow.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Decima replied with feeling. ‘Never mind, go and have supper and, if that is all it leads to, well, at least you won’t be left wondering about might-have-beens.’ How easy it was to give advice to other people, even advice one was ignoring oneself.
The drive to Lady Cantline’s town mansion seemed unreal. Lady Freshford and Caroline chattered happily about who Caroline might meet at this, her very first big ball, and Henry sat next to Decima, looking exquisitely elegant, and conversing about any number of unexceptional subjects. All Decima wanted to do was hold his hand and whimper with nerves.
But she was twenty-seven years old, had made a New Year’s resolution that she must live up to and Lady Freshford would think her quite mad to be clinging to poor Henry’s hand.
Getting out of the carriage while maintaining her modesty in the new gown was a challenge that kept her mind off her terror until they were all climbing the stairs to the receiving line. Then sheer pride came to her aid.
I am not going to flee down these stairs, Decima told herself, linking her hand through Caroline’s elbow and squeezing encouragingly. Caroline turned wide, nervous eyes on her and Decima found herself smiling reassurance.
‘You look wonderful,’ she whispered. ‘You will be fighting the young men off the moment they see you. Now, don’t forget you must not waltz because you have not yet been approved by one of the Patronesses of Almack’s, and we do not know if any of them will be here this evening. And do not, whatever you do, dance more than twice with the same man.’
She spoke with the confidence of a woman who had had to deal with these social prohibitions on a regular basis and smiled at herself. Never mind, as long as it gave Caro reassurance, that was all that mattered.
Lady Freshford led the way confidently around the edge of the ballroom until she found a position that suited her and sank onto a satin chaise, waving her unmarried charges to the flanking chairs. Henry, as was expected, took up his position behind them. Decima glanced at him and he lowered one eyelid in the ghost of a wink; she strongly suspected he would slide away to the card room once he was confident his mama was comfortably settled. She wished she could go with him.
And then she looked across the room and saw Adam and the silly little fears and nerves vanished, swept away by an avalanche of conflicting emotions.
Pleasure, just to see him. Desire. Oh, the sheer, shaming heat of it, surging through her blood, leaving her tingling with urgency. Shyness about what he might think of her looks, of her gown. A faint hope that he might think well of her for facing down her fears and appearing at a ball at all. And love, and the knowledge that she must look away at once, now, or her feelings were going to be written on her face for all to see.
But, as her eyes dropped, she saw Adam was there for exactly the same reason as Henry—standing sentry over his little party of ladies—and the shameful jealousy swallowed all those other feelings. Olivia already had looks and youth, why should she have Adam Grantham, too? Other than the undeniable reason that she was exactly the sort of bride a viscount must be looking for.
Decima fought a silent battle with herself and won, just. If Lady Freshford or Caroline noticed the stains of colour on her cheekbones or the way her hands had twisted suddenly in her lap, they gave no sign of it. Decima took a long, steadying breath and blinked until the blurring had gone from her eyes. Then she fixed a smile on her lips and turned to watch the ebb and flow of arrivals with every sign of interest.
Across the room Adam fitted one shoulder more comfortably against a pillar and regarded the turbaned head of Mrs Channing, seated just in front of him, with cold dislike. He was going to keep his temper with her tonight, and on every occasion until he was married to Olivia, and then she would discover that her son-in-law was not going to dance to her tune, however neatly she had entrapped him.
But that could wait. His falling out with Mrs Channing would distress Olivia deeply—he already knew that raised voices, or even mild sarcasm, reduced her to miserable, quaking silence. There was no way he could teach her to show some backbone before the wedding; it would have to wait until afterwards.
And the damnable thing was, if he had never met Decima Ross he might very well have considered Olivia as a bride. She was exactly what everyone would consider suitable. Even her lack of dowry was a negligible factor given his wealth. Yes, BD—Before Decima, as he was beginning to think of it—Olivia fulfilled all his criteria. Well-bred, compliant, pretty, raised to make an excellent housekeeper and wife. If he was to yield to everyone’s wishes, including young Perry’s, and dutifully marry, Olivia Channing was just perfect.
Adam kept his face smoothly pleasant, nodding to acquaintances, straightening up to be introduced to the numerous ladies Mrs Channing was determined to gloat over, now the engagement notices had gone to the papers. Years of card playing had taught him the trick of an unreadable expression. Even the sanctuary of the card