When the clock struck three the water was almost gone and the fire burned very low. Outside the door, all seemed quiet again. Decima stretched stiffly, went to make up the fire, then picked up the water jug. Best to refill it now while Pru was relatively quiet.
Opposite, Bates’s door was open, the branch of candles within throwing strong bars of light across the shadowy passageway. She peeped in, but the groom was lying quietly, flat on his back, eyes closed. Of Adam there was no sign. Decima tiptoed to the landing and froze at the sound of approaching footsteps, then Adam appeared from what she was beginning to think of as the Privy Corridor, carrying an object discreetly shrouded in a towel.
He smiled at the sight of her, his teeth white in the half-light. ‘Good morning, Decima.’ She averted her gaze from the disguised chamberpot, instead taking in the full glory of the quite splendid brocade dressing gown Adam was wearing. It must be Oriental silk, she realised; dramatic black dragons writhed across a background of scarlet, jets of gold issuing from their mouths. It was luxurious, exotic and masculine in the extreme.
‘How magnificent!’
‘Why, thank you, Miss Ross.’ Adam’s smile was quite blatantly flirtatious.
‘I meant your dressing gown,’ Decima retorted repressively, managing not to stare at his bare feet. Why the sight of a man’s bare feet should be quite so disturbing she could not imagine. And in any case, they’d be very cold and in bed that would be—She caught herself in this utterly improper thought and dropped her eyes, only to realise with horror that she had not stopped to put on her dressing gown and the only thing between her and the viscount’s interested gaze was a thin nightgown.
‘How magnificent,’ he echoed, his voice an appreciative purr. ‘You know, under normal circumstances the bedroom corridors of a country house at night would be busy with the guests swapping rooms on some amorous errand or another and here we are, each laden with an article of domestic chinaware, with nothing on our minds but sickroom nursing.’
From the glint in his eyes his mind was on almost anything but the sickroom. Decima felt her colour rising and realised in horror that her nipples were peaking under the thin cotton. It must be the cold, nothing else would make them react like that, but she was sure Adam had noticed.
‘I must get some more water,’ she squeaked, scuttling downstairs with more haste than dignity.
‘Could you put the kettle on?’ he called as she reached the hall. ‘I’ll come down for it in a minute.’
‘All right,’ she called back.
She filled her jug, dealt with the kettle, and stood for a moment, bathing in the heat from the range. Her nipples were still showing no sign of calming down, however warm she got. It was baffling.
Upstairs there was, thankfully, no sign of Adam. She pulled on her dressing gown, although it felt poor protection, for it was a thin cotton garment she had selected specifically to take up as little room as possible in her valise.
Pru sucked thirstily at the freshly wetted handkerchief and this time cooperated when Decima pressed a cup to her lips. Encouraged, she stirred a little of the headache powder into the water, then, when Pru would take no more, settled down to soothe her brow with lavender water.
Behind her the door opened and, before she could turn, the soft, heavy mass of a silk brocade dressing gown settled gently around her shoulders.
‘What…?’
‘Shh.’ It was Adam, leaning over to set a cup of tea on the bedside table. ‘I have two, use this one. Look, if you just slip your arms into the sleeves, I am sure we can roll them up.’
He showed every sign of helping her do it, so Decima got to her feet and shrugged on the garment, its heavy amber silk decorated in a dizzying pattern of orchids and lilies in ivory, gold and browns. ‘It is lovely,’ she breathed. The robe pooled around her feet and her hands vanished into the deep sleeves.
‘Let me.’ Adam’s hands were reassuringly brisk as he folded back the sleeves until her hands appeared again. ‘There. Now, if we just do up the sash…Where has that vanished to?’ And then things were not so reassuring after all. His hands went round her waist, searching for the dangling sash ends, and Decima was suddenly close against his chest, silk-covered breasts brushing against him in a manner that sent quivers of awareness through her body. And this time she was left in no doubt at all what was making her nipples hard.
‘I’ll do it!’ She snatched the ends from his hands and fumbled them into a bow. ‘Thank you!’ Beside her Pru stirred uneasily and Decima turned to her, thankful for the excuse. Adam was suddenly too close, too big, too warm and far too male, and she wanted to be left alone to come to terms with all the disturbing new reactions her body was producing in response to him.
She soothed the invalid’s forehead with lavender water, glancing back over her shoulder with an uneasy smile that she hoped combined gratitude with dismissal. ‘I should not have been talking,’ she whispered, ‘I think it disturbs her.’
Adam merely smiled, a glint in his grey eyes that told her he knew that it was not Pru who was disturbed by his presence. Decima looked away and after a moment the door shut softly behind him.
‘Oh dear, Pru,’ she murmured, settling down again by the bedside. ‘This experiencing life is all very well, but I wish I knew what I was going to feel next. And what to do about it.’ She snuggled into the soft warmth of the dressing gown, took Pru’s hot, dry hand in hers and closed her eyes.
As the clock struck six Adam blinked and straightened up in the chair, wincing as his cramped muscles protested. Bates had finally succumbed to exhaustion and a quantity of brandy guaranteed to give him a headache that would take his mind off his broken leg in the morning. Now he was fast asleep, the air resounding with his snores.
Adam groped for the candle and made his way to the still-glowing fire to rekindle it, then reached for the cup of tea that had gone cold and gulped it down with a baleful glare at the clock. Was it worth going back to his own bed and snatching another hour’s sleep?
There were four horses to tend to, logs and coal to bring in, fires to make up and food to be found on top of whatever assistance Bates was going to need. He wrestled with unfamiliar priorities and decided on fuel first, then stables. And at some point during the morning, he promised himself, a hot bath. A deep hot bath. With fine milled soap. And the back brush. And a pile of Turkey towels that had been warming in front of the fire.
And who, he asked himself, through a jaw-cracking yawn, is going to lug up the cans of water, find the towels, empty the bathwater…? How much was he paying his staff? Not enough, obviously, if his experiences of domestic duties so far were anything to go by. And Mrs Chitty deserved a salary at least equivalent to that of a circuit-court judge.
He stretched, warming himself up with the thought of that imagined bath and Decima scrubbing his back, rasping the bristles across his shoulders in a mass of foam, running her—Stop it. He was certainly awake now. What was the matter with him? Adam grinned ruefully. It was no mystery what ailed him, only why, when it was but a few days since he had left the bed of his delightful and highly skilled mistress, that he should be lusting after a leggy spinster.
He padded across the landing and applied an ear to the door panels. Silence. He eased the door open and found Decima sleeping uncomfortably in the chair, her upper body slumped onto the bed beside Pru. He edged round and laid the back of his hand on the maid’s forehead. It was warm but damp, and she was sleeping heavily with none of the restlessness of the night. The fever had broken.
He stood for a long moment, staring down at Decima, surprised by the sudden wave of protectiveness that swept over him in place of the erotic thoughts that had been occupying his mind. She should have looked ridiculous, cramped and hunched, her face