Decima had vanished now. Reluctant to move back into the chattering throng, Adam leaned against the door pillar and thought about her. His body ached with the need to possess her, but this was different from anything he had experienced with women in the past. Ruefully he acknowledged there had been plenty to provide a comparison.
But always what he had desired had been the physical satisfaction that they could give each other. With Decima it was different. He wanted her in that way, of course, his body was telling him so quite plainly, but what he needed was to look into her eyes as he made love to her, to read her feelings in those depths, to open his soul to her and to glimpse hers.
This was love, it had to be. He shut his eyes and tried to push back the memory of her wide eyes on his as his weight bore her down into the snow.
‘Decima.’ He was unaware of whispering her name aloud.
‘Are you all right, old chap? I mean, talking to yourself and so forth?’ Adam’s eyes snapped open and he found George Mays gazing at him with concern on his face. ‘A bit mellow, are you? Only I thought you’d want to know your future mama-in-law is on your trail and wondering where you’ve got to.’
‘Marvellous. In fact, wonderful. Thought I’d lost her—such a relief to know she’s still here.’
George’s eyebrows climbed in incredulity. ‘Really, old chap? I have to say: fiancée—what a cracker. But mama-in-law’s a bit of a dragon in my opinion. Anyways, wanted to mention—thanks for marking my card with Miss Ross, she’s a damn fine girl. Enlisting her sympathy about my height did the trick, just like you said it would. I’ve half a mind to call. In fact, I think I’ll send flowers and call. What do you think?’
Adam looked at George narrowly. He, Adam, might not be mellow, but Mays certainly was. ‘Why not, George? I am sure Miss Ross would be delighted.’ He slapped his friend on the back and strolled off in search of the Channings, his spirits suddenly lifted. The game was on.
He stopped a few yards from where Olivia was sitting with her mother, chatting animatedly with a young man Adam assumed was her next dance partner. She looked up and the vivacity drained from her face, leaving only the perfectly behaved young miss. No. This was not a game, this was at least as serious as a duel.
Decima was perfectly aware that her attention was distracted over the very late breakfast she was sharing with the Freshfords. They were all heavy-eyed from the events of the night before. Caroline had tried to sleep, but had been too excited by her first proper ball, her mother was showing signs of the strain of the event on a lady who was on the shady side of forty-five and Henry looked…well, grim, Decima decided.
She studied his hooded eyes, the hard set of his mouth and his lack of sparkle, and concluded that a pile of Caro’s bills must have landed upon his desk that morning. It was all she could think of to explain it, although it was unlike Henry to fret about money. Henry was a wealthy man who believed in making his wealth work. Decima knew all about the investments in canals and coalmines and even in the new-fangled steam-powered machinery.
She gave a mental shrug, dismissing the problem for the moment, and went back to brooding on Adam. Part of her was pleased that he had seen her looking her best, that she had danced with him and had succeeded in managing her unruly emotions when she was alone with him. Decima was confident that he had no idea that she felt any more for him than friendship and gratitude for rescuing her.
But how to resist his flirting? Or the effect his steady gaze had on her heart? Decima cut into her ham and eggs and took herself to task. If someone had asked her, as she had sat at Charlton’s breakfast table that day after Christmas, if she would be content to be independent, confident, enjoying all that London had to offer her, she would have answered with an unhesitating yes. If that same questioner had asked her if she expected to fall in love, she would have laughed in their face and maintained that the summit of her ambitions for happiness was her independence and the company of her good friends.
Decima sighed and Henry’s deep blue gaze shifted from a moody contemplation of the paper to her face. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Just counting my blessings,’ Decima answered with a smile.
‘It didn’t sound like it.’ His mother and sister had their heads together over a fashion journal. ‘Shall we walk after breakfast?’
‘Yes, that would be pleasant, I would welcome the fresh air. Shall I see if your mama and Caro…?’
‘No.’ Henry shook his head. ‘I want to talk with you alone.’
When Decima came downstairs an hour later, dressed for walking, she found him fidgeting moodily around the hall. ‘The park?’ she queried, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm as they went down the steps.
‘Mmm?’
‘Henry! Shall we go into the park?’
‘Yes, very well, provided your friend Weston isn’t exercising his horses again.’ Henry, normally easygoing to a fault, sounded positively hostile. Decima watched him out of the corner of her eye as they negotiated the Park Lane traffic.
‘Did you enjoy yourself last night?’ she asked casually. ‘Caro had a great success, I thought. She is so natural and vivacious, yet with such a touching shyness. I am sure she is going to take.’
‘Mmm.’
Now what to say? ‘Are you intending to go to the Haydons’ soirée this evening? I said I would, but I don’t believe I will stay very late, not after—’
‘Are you still in love with that fellow Weston?’ Henry demanded, cutting across her in mid-sentence. Decima doubted he had even realised she was speaking.
‘Yes,’ she blurted out before she had time to recollect herself and wonder that she should so expose herself. It had been one thing to confide in Henry when Adam was a distant figure. Now her friend knew only too well that the object of her desires was very publicly attached to another woman.
‘Then what is he doing engaged to Olivia…Miss Channing?’ Henry took a savage swipe at an innocent weed with his cane.
‘Intending to marry her, I imagine,’ Decima retorted tartly. ‘He has no idea—I sincerely hope—that I have any feelings for him other than friendship.’ She shot Henry a swift, frowning glance. ‘And I want it to stay like that.’
‘Is he in love with her?’ Henry persisted.
‘Well, of course he is! Why would he marry her if he is not?’ Decima demanded. She sounded no more certain, to her own ears, than she felt. Adam showed no signs of deep love for Olivia. He treated her with coolly respectful politeness, was obviously squiring her about attentively and appeared to be able to tolerate her mother, but there was no heat in his eyes when he looked at her, no depths of tenderness in his voice when he spoke of her.
‘It cannot be for her money,’ she added. ‘And although her family is perfectly respectable, I am not aware that she has any connections that might be desirable. A viscount is hardly likely to be in need of such in any case.’
‘Do you think she loves him?’
‘No.’ Decima spoke without needing to think about it. ‘No,’ she added more thoughtfully. ‘I think she is in awe of him and very shy. But he is a marvellous match for her.’
‘I would say she is terrified,’ Henry observed so dispassionately that Decima would have been quite taken in, if another unfortunate plant was not decapitated as he spoke.
‘Surely not? What is there to be frightened of?’ Decima looked at her friend incredulously. ‘Adam has the most even temper—look how he coped with all the problems when we were snowed in. Why, Charlton would have been in a flaming rage after an hour, and I am sure even you would have