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rather than the rule. But there must be mutual affection and respect, I am sure—do you not feel those things for Lord Weston?’

      ‘He was very kind to me before we became betrothed.’ For some reason Olivia blushed scarlet. ‘And, of course, I respect him because he is so intelligent and has such a great position.’

      ‘Well, then, I expect this is all nerves and you will be very happy when you are married.’ Decima thought she sounded like Hermione. But what else could she say? Should she encourage Olivia in her doubts in the hope that she would jilt Adam? That would be despicable, besides risking ruining the girl’s reputation.

      ‘And do not forget he proposed to you despite the fact that you are not titled and—forgive me—perhaps not as richly dowered as some young ladies.’

      For some reason that produced an even deeper blush and a look of total misery. ‘I am sure he had no intention of proposing to me before the Longminster house party.’

      ‘Then that shows how taken he was with you,’ Decima said, attempting to inject a rallying tone into her voice. ‘You must know how beautiful you are, and I am sure you have all the skills needed to manage a great house.’

      ‘Th…thank you.’ Olivia dabbed at her eyes. ‘You do not seem at all afraid of him.’

      ‘Why, no. Why ever should I be? Has he said anything to give you a fear of him?’

      ‘No…’ Olivia did not seem too sure. ‘He seems very stern sometimes, but then so is Papa.’

      Not very romantic. ‘Has he done anything to alarm you, then?’ Decima persisted.

      ‘He…kissed me.’

      ‘Oh. Well, that is to be expected, is it not? I mean, you are engaged to be married.’

      ‘I did not think it would be so…so…’ Olivia stammered. ‘I thought he might kiss me on the cheek, or my hand, but not on the mouth like…like that.’

      ‘Ah. Er…has your mama explained about…um…marriage?’

      ‘Not really. She says I am a goose.’

      ‘Well, I cannot talk to you about it, Olivia. After all, I am unmarried myself and really do not know about these things.’ Decima could feel the blush rising up her throat and only hoped the girl would attribute it to the embarrassment of discussing intimate matters. She tried again.

      ‘But don’t you think, if you were to attempt to return any affectionate, or even passionate, gesture by at least not shrinking from him, that might help? He would feel you trust him and you might sooner become accustomed to his…caresses.’ Olivia nodded thoughtfully, dabbing her eyes. ‘And if you were to confide in him a little, explain that you feel nervous—not about kissing, but about some subject that is easy to discuss, say, how you will get on with a large household to manage—then you will get to know him better and he will make allowances for your inexperience.’

      ‘I will try,’ Olivia said bravely. ‘Thank you so very much, Decima. I would never have dared discuss such things with Mama.’

      ‘But you were having real doubts about the betrothal? Is there anyone else?’ Decima pursued.

      ‘Oh, no! Mama would be so angry if I were to fall in—I mean, if I were to do such a thing.’ The colour was ebbing and flowing under Olivia’s fine skin as she looked both guilty and utterly wretched. She was obviously a very poor liar. ‘I could never go against what Mama felt to be right.’

      Decima waved goodbye to Olivia as she stepped up into her carriage with mixed feelings and a crashing headache. Loving Adam meant she should want what was best for him, and if that meant Olivia, then so be it. On the other hand, she still had nagging doubts about whether Miss Channing truly was the bride for him. Had he simply fallen for a ravishingly pretty face? But that seemed to suffice for many men. Which was a lowering thought—one would have hoped that the object of one’s affection had better judgement.

      The Freshfords returned home to find their guest reclining on the sofa, languidly flicking through a book of poetry and fighting what Decima frankly described as a thundering headache. She took herself off to her room rather than dampen everyone’s spirits over luncheon and was somewhat cheered by Pru’s smiling face.

      ‘I’ll make a cold compress for your forehead, shall I?’ Pru tiptoed about, finding the hartshorn and the lavender water and humming softly under her breath.

      Decima levered herself up against the pillows and regarded her with interest. Pru had been very quiet, and extremely close-lipped, the past few days, and Decima had decided not to pry, but it was such a relief to talk to someone who appeared to be happy that she ventured a question.

      ‘Have you seen Bates lately, Pru?’

      ‘Yes, Miss Decima. Almost every free evening I’ve had, and my half-days. I don’t think we’ve stopped talking, hardly.’

      ‘Really? Bates talkative? Don’t you argue any more?’

      ‘He was just shy, that’s all. Bashful, like.’ That seemed unlikely, but then, Decima decided, she was not regarding Bates with the eye of love and perhaps Pru was more perceptive about his character. ‘We don’t argue at all now, not about anything.’

      ‘That is wonderful, Pru.’ Headache forgotten, Decima sat up properly. ‘Has he said anything about the future?’

      ‘Not yet, but he sort of hinted. He said his lordship might see his way to letting him have a cottage if he ever felt like settling down.’ That was promising. It would mean losing Pru, of course, but Decima couldn’t begrudge that. ‘I think he might say something this evening.’ Pru’s round face was creased by a beaming smile and Decima thought she had never seen her look so pretty.

      ‘What will you be wearing? Would you like to borrow my Norwich shawl?’ Pru’s eyes widened in delight—the fine Paisley-patterned cashmere was a luxury no lady’s maid could hope to aspire to buying.

      ‘Oh, Miss Decima! I’ll be ever so careful of it.’

      Decima felt revived enough to take some soup and fruit in her bedroom, but she refused Lady Freshford’s invitation to accompany them on a shopping expedition. She was still trying to forget Adam, Henry and Olivia by thinking about Pru when there was a tap at the door.

      Decima opened it and found the Freshfords’ butler outside, an expression of rigidly repressed irritation on his face.

      ‘I am sorry to disturb you in your chamber, Miss Ross, but Lord Weston is at the door. I informed him you were not at home, but I regret that Staples, who was passing through the hall at the time, very pertly interrupted me to say that you were in your room with a headache.’

      ‘I am sorry she spoke in such a manner.’ It was outrageous of Pru, and a direct attack on the butler’s authority and dignity. ‘I will speak to her directly.’ But the man did not appear mollified.

      ‘His lordship then said that he was sorry you were indisposed, Miss Ross, but that if you were so unwell that you could not come down, he would come up here himself and speak to you.’

      ‘What? Has his lordship been drinking?’

      ‘No, Miss Ross. I would venture the opinion that his lordship is exercised, to a high degree, with some irritation of the spirit. I tried to insist, but he refuses to leave, and I am reluctant to employ the footmen in ejecting a peer of the realm without Sir Henry’s express orders.’

      ‘No, of course not, Starling, that would never do. You have acted quite correctly. Please show his lordship into the little drawing room and tell him I will be down directly.’

      ‘Certainly, Miss Ross. I will find Staples and have her sent to you.’

      Decima hesitated. Whatever had brought Adam here in such a mood, it was unlikely to be trivial, nor something she would want to share with anyone, not even Pru. ‘No, Starling. I imagine this is a confidential, family

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