‘Miss Ross.’ Adam emerged from one of the front rooms and sketched a bow. ‘If you would care to go into the dining room, I will bring you your luncheon.’
Decima swallowed. She had been expecting an afternoon spent in the kitchen and running up and down the stairs looking after Pru and Bates. That was safe, practical and distanced her completely from being Miss Ross, who had to make polite social conversation with a gentleman.
This particular gentleman had transformed himself from a good imitation of a groom into the perfect image of the Englishman at home in his country retreat—elegant without trying too hard just about summed it up. And heart-thumpingly attractive without trying at all. Decima remembered Pru’s approving words. No, he might not be a rake, but that did not make him any safer.
Adam observed the flicker of surprise, swiftly followed by a flash of some other emotion. Was it mischief? Laughter? Then Decima had her face perfectly under control. Now, what had provoked that?
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but you should let me help.’
‘Not at all.’ Adam opened the dining room door for her and smiled at her exclamation of surprise. The fire was lit, the room warm, candles flickered and he had laid the table. ‘I decided that we had had enough of playing at Below Stairs, so I have lit fires here and in the small salon and, although we might have to slip back into our roles of groom, cook, housemaid and sick nurse at regular intervals, at least we can come here afterwards. Now, if you will excuse me, Miss Ross, I will become the butler for one moment.’
She meekly took the chair he pulled out for her and shook out her napkin. Adam retreated to the kitchen, admitting to himself that he was a trifle apprehensive about her reaction to his morning efforts in the kitchen. It was an interesting novelty to be attempting to please a woman in an area where one was a complete beginner. He grinned to himself; the last time he’d been in that position he had been—what? Just seventeen? And the field of expertise to be acquired was somewhat different. Learning to cook seemed unlikely to be as fascinating, but was probably much safer.
‘Soup, ma’am.’ He set the tureen in front of her.
‘My goodness.’ Decima lifted the lid and sniffed. ‘It smells wonderful. And what is that?’
‘Ah.’ She was eyeing with cautious interest the dark brown lump he was attempting to slice. ‘Bread. I do not think it is supposed to be quite like this.’
‘I am sure it will be delicious,’ she said politely as a slice thumped onto her plate. ‘A local recipe, no doubt.’ She was teasing him, he was convinced of it. Yes, there was that wicked sparkle again. ‘Possibly it requires lemons?’
‘That’s the Leicestershire version,’ he retorted. ‘The Rutland receipt should really have walnuts. Tell me, Decima, what made you look so amused when you came downstairs just now?’
She paused in ladling out the soup and coloured slightly. Adam discovered that he enjoyed the fact that he could make her blush like that. The colour ebbed and flowed rapidly under her fine skin—the skin that was becoming an obsession with him. It was those damned freckles.
‘I could not possibly say.’ She passed him his soup and began to ladle out hers. Now, most women would have enquired archly what he meant, would have fluttered their eyelashes and would probably have giggled at him.
‘Why not?’ He pushed the butter towards her. The so-called bread would need all the help it could get.
She shook her head. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly. It is most improper. My goodness, this is excellent soup. What is it?’
Improper? Adam realised that he had not the slightest objection to provoking improper thoughts in Miss Ross. Quite the contrary. Although he had not expected her to admit to them quite so frankly.
‘There is probably a word for it in French, but I call it The Complete Larder soup—in other words, I threw in a bit of anything I could find. Now, Decima, you are going to have to tell me about your improper thoughts or I will be imagining the most lurid things.’
Not that he would be able to act upon any of them if he ate any more of this bread. God, it was like chewing tree bark.
‘Well…’ She stirred her soup and gazed thoughtfully into the bowl, then shot him an assessing glance from under her lashes. ‘I was thinking how much the gentleman you looked, and Pru had just observed that, despite you being a viscount, you obviously were a gentleman.’ She laughed at his expression. ‘I know, it puzzled me, too, but she maintains that you cannot trust the aristocracy, and all noblemen are rakes.’
‘Except me?’
‘Apparently.’ Decima chuckled. ‘You look as though you do not know whether you have been complimented or insulted.’
This was exactly what he was thinking. ‘Do you believe me to be a rake?’
‘Certainly not, otherwise I would not have dreamt of coming with you. You are too large, in any case.’ She chewed gamely on her bread.
‘Large?’
‘I have always pictured rakes as being thin and sinuous somehow. Insinuating, possibly. Not that I really have any idea what constitutes a rake, other than presumably they go about seducing innocent damsels as a matter of routine.’
‘That certainly. I believe it to be a prerequisite,’ Adam agreed gravely. ‘Along with a ruinously bad gaming habit, a tendency to stay up all night carousing, and frequenting the haunts of low company and loose women. Patronising actresses and opera dancers and, of course, maintaining a string of expensive mistresses are also essentials.’
‘Oh.’ He was coming to love the way she listened, thought about what he said and then came out with the most outrageously unexpected responses. What was she going to say to that?
‘Do you have a string of mistresses?’
Adam choked on a piece of carrot. ‘Certainly not! Just the one.’ Oh Lord, now what have I said?
‘Is she nice?’ Decima enquired.
‘Obviously, or I wouldn’t keep her,’ he retorted.
‘Well, you might if she was exceptionally beautiful, or…er…talented,’ Decima observed thoughtfully. ‘Are mistresses very expensive?’
‘Yes,’ he replied with feeling. ‘The er…talented ones are, if you keep them in style and look after them decently once the affair is over.’ Now why was he thinking about ending the affair? This time yesterday he had not the slightest intention of parting with Julia.
‘I do hope Charlton hasn’t got one. I am very fond of my sister-in-law and, although I am sure he could afford one, Hermione would not like it at all.’
‘I doubt if he has,’ Adam said encouragingly. ‘Charlton sounds far too respectable and somewhat stodgy. I am sure your sister-in-law enjoys his complete devotion.’
‘So, only stodgy husbands are devoted? Hmm.’ Decima regarded him quizzically. ‘It follows, then, that if one is to marry one must choose between stodgy devotion and interesting infidelity.’
‘Is that why you never married?’ he asked impetuously, and was punished by the instant extinguishing of the mischief in her grey eyes.
‘No,’ she said baldly.
Damnation. Adam found himself lost for a response: an unusual sensation.
She smiled and took pity on him. ‘This bread is really very good for a first attempt. What do you think we should have for dinner? If either of us has room for dinner, that is.’ She regarded the leaden lump on her side plate dubiously.
‘Pigeon, if I can shoot any.’
‘Then I will clear up and look after Pru and Bates. Could you carry me up some hot water? I promised her a bath.’