The Louise Allen Collection: The Viscount's Betrothal / The Society Catch. Louise AllenЧитать онлайн книгу.
carriage horses’ lines in one hand and the reins of the two hunters in the other.
‘We’ll take the women up with us on Ajax and Fox and the baggage up on the greys. Let me sort out a valise—is your gear all together?’
Bates grunted and gestured abruptly with his head towards a battered bag strapped on behind the curricle seat.
‘Good, then unhitch the greys and shorten the reins off.’
Adam rummaged rapidly through his bags and reduced his essentials to one valise, thankful for a lifetime’s habit of travelling light. Goodness knows what a lady with that taste in bonnets would consider she could not do without, and how many bags that would involve. He hefted the rest down and carried them back to the carriage. The snow was deepening by the minute; this was going to be a nightmare of a journey.
‘We are ready, my lord.’ By some miracle the two women were swathed in heavy hooded winter cloaks with not a sign of a fashionable bonnet. On the seat were two valises and a dressing case.
‘I congratulate you on both your dispatch and your packing, Miss Ross. Now, if you will just stand on the step I will carry you across to the horses.’
The wide grey eyes stared at him, then, disconcertingly, she coloured deeply. Now what had he said? Surely a lady willing to go with a stranger on trust was not going to baulk at being carried through a snowdrift?
‘Ma’am?’
The previously assured figure before him seemed to shrink back into herself. ‘My lord, I should tell you…I am five foot ten and one-quarter inches tall.’
It might, after all, be better to spend days shut up in the Cock rather than to face the shame of being lugged through the snow like a sack of coals. It would probably take both men to achieve it. No previous humiliation lived up to the prospect of this. Obviously the viscount had no idea when he suggested this scheme that he was dealing with a lady who was freakishly tall.
Adam Grantham was looking serious, although it was difficult to read his expression through the swirling snow. ‘Indeed, ma’am? I am six foot three. And one-half,’ he added after a moment’s thought. ‘I would be charmed to stand here all day exchanging shoe, glove and hat sizes, but I really feel we should be making a start.’
‘But you misunderstand me, my lord…’
His expression changed to one of chagrin. ‘You mean you think me incapable of carrying you, Miss Ross? I have to say I resent that slur upon my manhood.’
Completely thrown into disarray, Decima hastened to reassure him. ‘Lord Weston, I did not for a moment mean to imply any lack of strength on your part—’ There was a muffled choke of laughter from Pru behind her and Decima realised she was being teased. Teased about her height! Why, no one did that, no one considered it grounds for anything but the deepest shame and gloom.
Furious with herself, and with him, she threw the door open and stooped to step out. The wind hit her like a cold douche of water and the snow caught her breath in her throat, effectively stopping the stinging remark she was about to make.
She had hardly straightened when he swept her up, one arm behind her knees, the other across her back. ‘Can you free your left arm and put it about my neck?’ Apparently he did not even have to breathe deeply to cope with her weight.
Decima disentangled her arm and did as she was bid. It involved a fair amount of wriggling around and she was perversely gratified to observe a slight flush under the skin of the cheek her nose was so close to. Possibly you are not as strong as you think you are, my lord, she thought smugly to herself. Just so long as he did not fall into a ditch with her.
The snow was deepening by the minute, Decima realised, as the viscount turned and began to wade back through the drifts towards the horses. He was taking it slowly, placing his booted feet with care, which gave her the opportunity to experience this very strange experience to the full. It was the first time she had ever found herself in a man’s arms, and it was doubtless the last, so, in tune with her New Year’s resolution to live life positively, she might as well start here and absorb this new sensation.
The movement of his torso against her body was…disturbing. He was certainly strong and well-muscled. What did a gentleman do to get muscles like that? Charlton, at thirty-two, was already becoming soft around the midriff and she could have sworn he could not carry a toddler without puffing, let alone his beanpole of a sister. How old was Lord Weston? The same age as Charlton?
From within the shelter of her hood she studied what she could see of him. That chin was even more determined in profile, and his nose matched it. The first traces of dark stubble were showing under the skin on his cheeks—it seemed his beard would be as dark a brown as the hair she could see under his hat. A very male face indeed, Decima decided, and then saw that his eyelashes were quite ridiculously long and thick. Longer and thicker than hers, she thought resentfully. How very unfair. They had snowflakes caught on their tips.
From the side it was difficult to see his eyes. As she was considering this, he turned his head to glance at her and she saw that they were more grey than she had recalled from that first glimpse. Perhaps it was some strange reflection from the snow, but they seemed almost to have silver lights dancing in them. She blinked away the snowflakes from her own lashes and found he was smiling at her. Without considering, she smiled back.
‘Are you all right? Not much further now.’
‘Yes, yes. I am perfectly all right. Thank you. My lord.’ Just prattling like an idiot, she told herself. For Heaven’s sake, Decima, pull yourself together. Why being carried like this should make her feel so hot and breathless she could not imagine. It surely wasn’t embarrassment, not now it seemed certain he was not going to collapse under her weight.
She drew a deep breath and realised that to the list of new sensual impressions she could add scent. He 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