“Thank you.” Helen’s smile reached her eyes. “That would be lovely.”
Arabella surveyed her. Helen wasn’t beautiful—her nose was too aquiline for that—but her face had character. There was quiet strength in her eyes, courage in the way she held her chin. George Dysart was a fool not to realize the value of his wife. The sooner he drinks himself into the grave, the better.
The quadrille came to its end. There was a surge of movement off the dance floor. “I’d best leave before George returns,” Arabella said.
“I apologize for my husband’s behavior—”
“Don’t,” Arabella said, swiftly clasping her friend’s hand. She turned from Helen, halting as a man stepped into her path and bowed.
“Miss Knightley.”
Arabella gritted her teeth and smiled. “Lord Emsley.”
During her first Season, her admirers—what few there’d been—had fallen into two categories: men who were prepared to ignore her mother’s reputation for the sake of the Westwick fortune, and men who courted her because of her mother’s reputation.
Lord Emsley fell into the latter category. She’d recognized it the first time they’d met, and she recognized it now: the gleam in his eyes, the slow, speculative smile, as if he undressed her in his mind. She willed herself not to stiffen and said politely, “How do you do?”
“Very well, Miss Knightley. Very well indeed.” Lord Emsley was a large man with a fleshy face, graying ginger hair, and a receding hairline. “Are you engaged for the next dance?”
It was a familiar question, one she hated. Lord Emsley’s touch—always slightly too familiar, too lingering—made her skin crawl.
The musicians picked up their bows again. The first strains of music were audible above the hum of conversation.
A waltz. For a moment she felt sick. No contredanse, where the steps would part them from each other; instead, her hand in his for the entire dance, his arm around her.
Arabella touched her gown lightly. Armor. “Engaged?”
Lord Emsley’s smile widened. His teeth glinted, large and horse-like. “May I have this dance?”
“Miss Knightley has promised the waltz to me.”
Arabella turned towards the smooth male voice—and found herself staring at Adam St. Just.
“You?” Emsley said, his disbelief clearly audible.
“Unless she wishes to change her mind.” St. Just’s voice was cool, almost bored. “It is a lady’s prerogative, after all.”
Dislike welled up inside her. Arabella quashed it; she knew which was the lesser of two evils. “Yes,” she lied, turning back to Lord Emsley with a smile. “I’ve already promised this dance to Mr. St. Just.”
IT WAS THE first time in seven years that Arabella had walked onto a dance floor with Adam St. Just. She was aware of heads turning and sidelong glances of astonishment. She was equally astonished. Why had St. Just asked her to dance?
The answer came as she glanced at him. St. Just’s jaw was tight, his mouth a thin line. He’s going to tell me off.
Arabella lifted her chin. Let him try!
They made their bows to each other. As always, the opening notes of the waltz filled her with dread. She took a deep breath and forced herself not to tense as St. Just took her hand, as his arm came around her.
They began to dance. The feeling of being trapped was strong. A man is holding me. Panic rose sharply in her. All her instincts told her to break free. Arabella concentrated on breathing calmly, on keeping a slight smile on her face.
“I would appreciate it, Miss Knightley, if you’d refrain from giving my sister advice about matters that are none of your concern.” St. Just spoke the words coldly.
Arabella met his eyes. There was nothing of the lover about him; on the contrary, his animosity was clearly visible.
Her panic began to fade. She raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Would you?”
St. Just’s jaw clenched.
Arabella observed this—and began to feel rather more cheerful. “I was only trying to help,” she said, widening her eyes.
His grip tightened. “It is none of your business who my sister does—or doesn’t—marry.”
Arabella ignored this remark. “Why do you wish Grace to marry so young?”
“That’s none of your business!”
“Grace is little more than a child. She has no idea what she wants in a marriage—”
“I shall decide what she wants!” St. Just snapped.
Arabella laughed, as much from amusement as to annoy him. The sense of being trapped had evaporated. For the first time in her life, she was finding pleasure in a waltz. Each sign of St. Just’s irritation—the narrowing of his eyes and tightening of his jaw, the gritting of his teeth—was something to be noted and enjoyed.
“You find that amusing?”
“Yes. Grace is still learning who she is. Until she knows that, how can she—or you—have any idea what will suit her in a husband?”
“A man of good breeding.” He swung her into an abrupt turn. “A man of respectable fortune and—”
“No,” Arabella said. “I’m talking about a man’s character.”
St. Just looked down his nose at her. “If you imagine that I’d allow Grace to marry a man of unsavory character—”
“You misunderstand me again, Mr. St. Just. I’m talking about those qualities that are more particular to a person. Qualities that have nothing to do with one’s bloodline or fortune, or even with one’s public character.” Her smile was edged. “Let us take, as an example, your search for a wife.”
St. Just stiffened. He almost missed a step. “I beg your pardon?” he said in a frigid tone.
“Look around you, Mr. St. Just. This room is filled with young women of excellent birth and breeding. The question is, which one should you choose as your wife?”
CHAPTER FOUR
“THE SUBJECT OF my marriage is none of your concern,” Adam said, biting the words off with his teeth.
Arabella Knightley showed her ill-breeding by ignoring him. “If bloodline is your sole criterion, then Miss Swindon would suit you perfectly. Her fortune is respectable and—like yourself—she claims a duke as her grandfather. Her manners are
