smelt of some subtle citrus cologne, of leather and, faintly, of what she could only imagine was warm man.
Something was making her feel quite strange inside: melting and flustered. And then she realised that if she could catch the scent of him, so he could of her. That was a thoroughly unsettling thought for some reason. Not that there was anything more exotic for him to inhale than good Castile soap and a suitably refined jasmine toilet water. And there was no reason to think that he would find that remotely interesting or disturbing.
‘Here we are.’ He trampled a circle of snow, then set her on her feet, a few paces away from the groom who handed him the reins of two hunters with a grunt.
‘Tied the carriage horses to that bush.’ The man jerked his head in the direction of a pair of dark greys who seemed half lost already in the swirling whiteness as they turned their hindquarters to the prevailing wind.
His master did not appear to take either the curtness, or the scowl that accompanied it, amiss. ‘Are our valises tied on, Bates?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Then go and fetch Miss Ross’s maid. Here, you!’ he shouted at the postilions, who were sitting hunched and miserable against the snow. ‘Bring the valises from inside the coach.’ Reluctantly, one of the men dismounted and trudged back passing the groom who, being considerably shorter in the leg than the viscount, was sensibly using his footsteps to make his way to the carriage.
‘King Wenceslas,’ Decima observed with a gurgle of laughter, and was answered with a deep chuckle.
‘I cannot see Bates as anyone’s attentive page, and I fear we are not going to be lit by the brightly shining moon tonight. No! I would not touch Fox—’
But Decima was already stroking the soft muzzle that was thrusting hopefully into her gloved palm. ‘What a handsome fellow you are to be sure, and so good, standing here patiently in this horrid snow. What is the matter, my lord?’ The viscount let out his breath in a hiss.
‘Fox is reputed to eat stable boys.’
‘I am not a stable boy.’
‘No, and that horse is an arrant flirt. I’d never have thought it of him.’ Lashes even longer than his master’s were being batted at Decima as she continued to rub just the right spot on the chestnut’s nose.
‘Yes, you are beautiful,’ she cooed, looking at the strongly arched neck and broad chest. ‘Is he a stallion?’ Without thinking, she bobbed down to look. He was, very obviously. ‘So he is. He is very well made.’
Oh, no! As soon as the words were out of her mouth she realised what she had said, and to whom she had said it. That was not the sort of observation a lady was supposed to make, however much she knew about horses. Now, what did one say to a complete stranger after one had commented on his horse’s…er…masculine attributes? The viscount had assumed an expression one could only describe as stuffed.
She was saved from floundering any further by an outraged shriek from the direction of the carriage. ‘Put me down, you cork-brained jackanapes!’ Pru’s tirade was cut short on a gasp and Bates appeared through the swirling snow, the maid thrown over his shoulder. The effect as she wriggled was not unlike a man carrying a sack full of outraged piglets.
Their progress was slow. Decima watched with bated breath, not daring to look at Lord Weston. Bates was a slight man, if wiry. Pru, who stood a mere five foot two inches in her stockinged feet, more than made up for lack of vertical inches with a quite magnificent bosom and a rounded figure to match. At any minute the groom was going to sink into a snowdrift, of that she was sure.
The postilion with the valises overtook them with ease, depositing his burden at the viscount’s feet. ‘We’ll be heading back to the Cock, sir. Where would you be wishful for us to call for the lady when the snow clears?’
‘Um?’ Lord Weston tore his gaze from the floundering figure of his groom and dug a card out of his pocket. ‘Here. Anyone in Whissendine will give you directions. Mind you keep that baggage safe.’ As this instruction was accompanied by the clink of coin, the man tugged his forelock respectfully and waded back, making some comment as he passed the labouring groom that provoked an even more violent wriggle from Pru.
‘Stubble it, do, woman.’ Bates arrived in front of them and set Pru on her feet with more haste than care. Red-faced and furious, she opened her mouth to berate him and succumbed to a paroxysm of coughing.
‘Pru, are you all right?’ Decima crunched through the snow to her side.
‘Just a cold, that’s all,’ the maid assured her hoarsely, shooting a venomous glare in Bates’s direction. ‘Not helped by being hauled around like a sack of potatoes by that weasel-gutted looby.’
‘If you are ready, I think we had better be getting on.’ The viscount was dealing with this minor spat by the simple expedient of ignoring it. Decima envied him such a lofty disregard of his environment, or perhaps he was simply better at disciplining his subordinates than she was and did not look forward to an evening of being grumbled at.
‘Bates, if those bags are secure, mount up and I’ll lift your passenger up to you.’
Decima derived some amusement at the groom’s face on being expected to ride with the fulminating Miss Staples and the coy expression that the prospect of being lifted up by his lordship produced on Pru’s flushed countenance. It was certainly a welcome distraction from her own faux pas concerning Fox.
With Bates and Pru settled, the viscount turned and offered his cupped hands for Decima’s foot. ‘If I boost you up and then mount behind you, will you be all right?’
‘Certainly.’ Decima gathered the reins confidently and lifted her foot. As soon as she was in the saddle she began to have doubts. Riding sideways on a man’s saddle would be manageable, for the pommel gave her enough purchase for her right knee, and the stirrup could be adjusted for her foot. But where would his lordship sit?
He swung up behind her, keeping his weight in the stirrups so he was virtually standing. Decima found herself lifted as he slid into the saddle beneath her and set her down again. Only this time she was sitting in his lap, her weight on his thighs.
‘My lord!’
‘Yes, Miss Ross?’ He leaned over, took the reins of one of the greys from Bates, then turned Fox’s head towards the right-hand arm of the crossroads. Under her she could feel the movement of muscles in his thighs, his arms were tight on either side of her and all she could do to avoid the painful pressure of the pommel on her own thigh was to lean into his body. It felt like leaning into a tree trunk.
‘This is most…most…’
‘Uncomfortable? I’m afraid it is, at least for you, but in those skirts I really do not think you could sit astride, and perching on Fox’s rump is not going to be secure, not over this uneven surface.’ As though to prove his point the big horse plunged into a depression, surging out of it again with a scramble. ‘That must be the ditch.’ He twisted in the saddle, giving Decima more unusual sensations to come to terms with as she balanced on moving muscle. ‘Bates, keep to the right, I got too close to the edge just now.’
There was silence for a few moments, then the viscount commented, ‘I imagine you ride very well, Miss Ross.’
‘It is my chief enjoyment,’ she confessed, pleased by the compliment. ‘My father knew a great deal about horses and encouraged me to take an interest, too.’
‘Did he breed his own?’ Decima risked a glance at Lord Weston’s face, but he was looking ahead, his eyes fixed on the road.
‘Yes, and I helped him choose the bloodlines for the mare I have now.’
‘Ah, I thought you knew your stuff.’ There was the barest hint of amusement and Decima felt herself colouring. No, he hadn’t forgotten her unmaidenly remark about the stallion.
‘What makes you think I ride well?’ Anything to move the conversation