LITMIR.BIZ

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tears were rolling fatly down the maid’s cheeks now. Oh, Lord! Now what am I to do? Charlton would say she should instantly dismiss Pru, but then Charlton could be the most unblushing hypocrite. ‘Pru, if you still feel the same way about him in a month or two, then I promise we will go and find some way to be close to Lord Weston so you can see Bates again.’ And what if Pru was with child and Bates was not prepared to do the right thing? That was a bridge to be crossed if they came to it.

      Pru gripped her hands convulsively, too upset to speak her thanks. Decima smiled at her, as comfortingly as she could. But inside she quaked; there was no way she could bring Bates and Pru together again without Adam’s help. And that meant seeing him again.

       Chapter Eleven

      Augusta was, predictably, delighted to see her back, completely incurious about her journey and hardly interested to learn how Hermione and Charlton were. But she did blink vaguely at Decima as they stood in her new glasshouse and observe, ‘You are looking different, dear. Have you changed your hair?’

      That was typical of Augusta and Decima took no notice. But she was shaken by her dear friend Henry. Sir Henry Freshford rode over from his neighbouring estate the next day, alerted by the infallible country grapevine that she was back.

      ‘Henry!’ Decima stooped to receive his brotherly kiss on her cheek, so much more welcome than any salutation of Charlton’s. ‘Did you have a good Christmas?’

      ‘Yes, fine,’ he replied, looking at her oddly. ‘Dessy, what have you been up to?’

      ‘Me? Why, nothing. Do come and see Augusta’s latest extravagance.’ She tugged his arm until he followed her through to the glasshouse, built out at an angle from the house so that it formed a conservatory extension to one of the sitting rooms. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? She is planning to put ferns and palms and even orchids in here.’

      She expected Henry to be immediately interested, to look at the heating pipes and ask about the water supply. Instead he stood regarding her, his head on one side and a smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

      Henry Freshford, baronet, was the best-looking man Decima had ever met. Although his height was below the average, his features were classically perfect, his colouring blonde, his eyes a periwinkle blue and his figure elegant. His looks in themselves were enough to draw many female admirers, but his breeding and wealth attracted the young ladies’ mamas even more.

      The short man who had to fight off lures and the tall woman who no one would consider marrying had formed an unlikely, but deep, friendship. For Decima he was the brother she would have chosen; for him, she seemed to be the perfect feminine confidante.

      ‘Why are you staring?’ she demanded, sinking down onto one of the new sofas that had been bought for the glasshouse. ‘I thought you would be interested in what Augusta has been doing.’

      ‘I’m much more interested in what you’ve been doing, Dessy.’ He sat opposite her and crossed his legs, leaning back to study her face.

      ‘What do you mean? And, please, do not call me Dessy. I’ve just realised how much I hate it.’

      ‘Of course, Decima.’ Normally he would have been distracted enough by this to demand to know all about her sudden decision. Not today. ‘Now, stop changing the subject and tell me who he is.’

      ‘Who?’ It came out as a startled squeak and she knew she had blushed. ‘What can you mean, Henry?’

      Now Henry seemed embarrassed. ‘I’m not sure how to put this delicately. I mean you have a sort of…glow about you. A new sort of awareness of yourself. As you know—’ colour touched his cheekbones too ‘—I regard you with absolutely brotherly feelings, but even I am aware of a certain…frisson about you.’ He coughed and tugged at his cuffs. ‘I assumed there was a man who had, um, stirred up some inner, er, emotions.’ He ground to a halt.

      ‘It shows?’ Decima was horrified. ‘I mean, I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about. Anyone would think I had taken a lover.’

      ‘And you have not?’ Henry seemed to have recovered from his embarrassment.

      ‘No!’ Decima looked at his sceptical, trustworthy face and gave up. ‘No, I haven’t, but I nearly did. If you promise not to tell anyone, it would be so good to confide.’

      When she had poured out the tale of everything that had happened since that last breakfast with Charlton and Hermione—shorn of a considerable amount of completely unmentionable detail—Henry was positively rubbing his hands together with delight.

      ‘You see? I have been telling you that there is absolutely nothing wrong with your appearance as far as anyone but your idiotic relatives and a handful of equally idiotic snobs are concerned. And this man proves it.’

      ‘But nobody else has ever seemed to find me remotely attractive,’ Decima wailed, wanting to be convinced and fearing it was only Henry’s partisanship speaking.

      ‘I expect this time you had too much else to think about to be working yourself up into being an unattractive spinster,’ he retorted brutally. ‘He saw you as you really are, not round-shouldered and self-effacing and with all your charm and character hidden.’

      ‘He is very tall. He doesn’t realise what a gawky beanpole I am.’

      ‘Society is full of men at least as tall as you, and taller. That won’t wash.’

      ‘And he is very odd—he likes my freckles. And he doesn’t seem to think my mouth is too big. In fact, he said I should not pout because he wanted to—’ She stopped, blushing furiously.

      ‘What?’ Henry enquired, interested. ‘Bite it?’

      ‘Yes! Now you cannot tell me that’s normal.’

      ‘It’s perfectly normal. This is an extremely improper conversation, Dess…Decima, but as we’ve gone so far, it is a entirely predictable thing for him to want to do. And liking your freckles does not make him odd. I like your freckles. He sounds a completely typical man with his due measure of healthy masculine desires, to me.’

      ‘Goodness.’ How did that make her feel? Decima tried to sort out her emotions. Adam wasn’t some oddity who found her attractive for weird reasons of his own or because he was stranded with her and anything was better than nothing. He had kissed her because, according to Henry—who was the most reassuringly down-to-earth male of her acquaintance—any normal man would want to. Her friend was speaking again. ‘I beg your pardon. I missed what you said.’

      ‘I asked you what is going to happen next.’

      ‘Why, nothing. Obviously I do not think it would be a good idea to see him again.’ Henry didn’t have to say anything, one raised eyebrow was enough. ‘I told you, he was perfectly horrible about me when he was talking to his friends. He admits he ran away rather than meet me.’

      ‘But he hadn’t met you then, before he ran, so in what way was he being horrible?’ Henry enquired. ‘You were just as horrible—you ran away rather than meet him and I’ll wager that if you had got here without misadventure you would have indignantly told me all about how your family tried to match you up with some ghastly man you would be sure to take an instant dislike to.’

      ‘That is not fair!’ Decima stopped, thought, regarded Henry’s face. ‘Oh dear, it is fair, isn’t it? I would never have thought of it like that.’

      ‘Are you in love with him?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ Decima stared at him, a frown wrinkling her brow. Something inside her became hollow. ‘How do I tell?’

      ‘Damned if I know either,’ Henry retorted cheerfully. ‘It hasn’t happened to me, more’s the pity. I imagine when it does, you just think “I’m in love”. Or you go off your food, or dream about the other person all day. Anyways, what are you going

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