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      ‘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 matter. I will see Lord Weston alone.’

      She turned back into her room, but not before she had caught a glimpse of the disapproval on the butler’s face. He would no doubt complain to his mistress, but, with her headache rapidly returning, Decima was past caring.

      She smoothed her hair and her gown and made her way downstairs, past the rigid figure of the butler and into the small drawing room. Why she should be feeling quite so ridiculously apprehensive she could not say, but her stomach appeared to be trying to tie itself into a knot and she felt positively queasy.

      ‘Adam…’

      ‘Do you really have a headache?’ He was standing by the cold fireplace, one booted foot on the fender, his brows drawn together as he regarded her.

      ‘A little, it is better than it was.’ Decima returned his unsmiling look with a level one of her own. ‘What exactly is so important that you must outrage Lady Freshford’s butler so?’

      ‘You have had a very busy morning, Decima, have you not?’ Adam drew the leather gloves he had been holding in one hand through the other, making a snapping noise that jolted her stretched nerves painfully.

      ‘I have had a visit from Olivia, that’s all.’ She was becoming angry now, but the apprehension was still there, coiling inside her.

      ‘All? I gather I have you to thank for the transformation of my fiancée from a modest and innocent young lady into one of a highly coming disposition.’

      ‘But…but all I said was…’ Decima lost her voice. What on earth had Olivia been saying—and doing?

      ‘Yes, Decima, do enlighten me. At what stage in your discussion of my lovemaking did you suggest that Olivia throw all precepts of well-bred decorum to the winds and hurl herself into my arms?’

      ‘I did no such thing! And I have not been discussing your lovemaking, as you put it.’ She took a few agitated steps away from him and swung round again, appalled at just how wrong her well-meaning advice had gone. ‘Olivia asked to speak to me. She wanted to confide in me. What was I to do? Spurn her? She has no female friend to talk to.’

      ‘She has her mother.’ Adam’s face was set and hard with anger.

      ‘She is terrified of her mother. Olivia would not say boo to a goose and she certainly could not confide her worries to Mrs Channing, not without receiving such a scolding that the poor child would be prostrated.’

      ‘So, what did she want to talk about?’

      ‘I have no intention of telling you, she spoke to me in confidence.’ Decima was uneasily aware that Adam was getting closer, and began to edge away behind the illusory safety of a pie-crust side table.

      ‘Decima, do you want me to get it out of her—or will you tell me?’ His voice was dangerously quiet.

      ‘Very well, if you are going to bully her otherwise. She told me that she was sometimes somewhat nervous of you. I put it down to her youth and inexperience and her very sheltered upbringing. Now I do not wonder at it, if you treat her to many of these exhibitions of domineering ill-temper!’

      Adam ignored her sweeping insults. ‘So, what did you tell her to do?’

      ‘Talk to you, that is all. Explain that she was nervous, using some matter she felt less shy about mentioning than—than intimate topics. I was sure that once she got into the way of confiding in you, her trust would soon grow.’

      ‘Very sound advice, I am sure.’ Decima was not lulled into relaxing by his sarcastic tone. Adam sounded far from grateful for her assistance. ‘And exactly how might she interpret that as throwing herself into my arms and kissing me passionately? If she had not been so unskilled, I would have taken her for a loose woman.’

      ‘She was also alarmed by your kisses,’ Decima blurted out. ‘I simply suggested that if she made some effort to return any gestures of affection you made, she might find herself growing accustomed.’

      ‘And you are so very experienced that you can offer advice?’ Adam was closer now, almost within arm’s reach. Decima edged further back and came up sharply against the lowered flap of Lady Freshford’s writing desk.

      ‘You know exactly how experienced I am,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t understand why you are so angry. I would have thought you could have trusted me to try and do what is best for you, as a friend. Olivia is very shy and very sheltered—it would be dreadful if her fears led her to do something…’ she hesitated, seeking the right word ‘…something unwise.’

      ‘You think she would be wise to marry me, or that I would be wise to marry her?’ Adam’s eyes were very green, very hard, as he watched her face.

      Decima shook her head, baffled at the question. ‘You asked her to marry you, she accepted. For either of you to cry off would create a scandal. It could ruin Olivia. Why are you speaking like this? You sound almost as though you don’t want to marry her!’

      Adam watched Decima’s face, seeing the confusion chase across her features. She wanted to do the best thing for him, and for Olivia, and he loved her for it. Whether that was coming from her sense of duty, or whether she really did want to see him married to another woman, he could not fathom. He had begun to think he understood Decima Ross—now he was far from sure.

      ‘You think I might have made a mistake?’ he asked slowly, trying to read her thoughts in the expressive, wide eyes. The frustrated anger that had driven him to demand to see her was ebbing in the face of that candid gaze, despite the fact that she had put his progress with Olivia back by days, if not a week.

      ‘If you have, there is nothing you can do about it!’ She was staring at him, horrified. ‘You cannot mean to jilt the poor girl?’

      ‘No, no, of course not,’ Adam said slowly. If his plans did not work, then he would have to accept, and make the best of, a marriage to Olivia Channing. But he had no intention of it coming to that, however Decima might unwittingly try to

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