The hour advanced past midnight. The air was heavy with the scents of perfume, pomade, and perspiration. Ladies with flushed cheeks waved their fans, starched collar-points drooped in the heat, and even the candles in the chandeliers seemed to wilt.
Adam found an empty alcove and a glass of chilled champagne and mentally reviewed his list of brides. He removed Miss Swindon from it entirely, and placed Miss fforbes-Brown at the top.
His gaze strayed to Miss Knightley. She looked very French as she waited for her turn in the quadrille, slender and dark-eyed, dark-haired.
He felt a stir of attraction and wrenched his gaze from her. He drained the champagne glass. When the quadrille was over, he headed purposefully for Miss fforbes-Brown and solicited her hand for the next waltz. It was a most agreeable dance; there was none of the discomfort of waltzing with Arabella Knightley, the barbed comments, the frisson of desire. He was so pleased with Miss fforbes-Brown’s plump prettiness, her common sense and cheerfulness, her enthusiasm for children, that he resolved to seek an interview with her father.
He relinquished Miss fforbes-Brown to her next partner, a Sir Humphrey Holbrook, and retreated to the alcove again. Grace was sitting out the cotillion. Adam watched her from across the ballroom, conscious of a sharp pang of regret. Grace’s début should have been a triumph; instead it was close to being a disaster.
He glanced at Miss Wootton. Like Grace, she wasn’t dancing. No crowd of young men clustered around the heiress tonight, competing for her attention. She sat out the cotillion, wearing an expression of miserable bewilderment. Her mother, seated beside her, had a tight-lipped smile on her face.
ADAM STOOD UP for a quadrille next. He was waiting for his turn in the figure when he noticed that Sir Humphrey Holbrook was dancing with Miss fforbes-Brown for a second time. This discovery so disconcerted him that he almost missed his cue for the glissade. He concentrated carefully on his steps and then watched the baronet escort Miss fforbes-Brown from the dance floor. Had Sir Humphrey also realized that she’d make a good wife?
Adam frowned, and resolved to keep a closer eye on Humphrey Holbrook. He went in search of a glass of champagne and then strolled across to where his Aunt Seraphina sat. His footsteps faltered when he saw his aunt’s companion. The familiar sensations swept through him—shame and guilt, the stir of attraction—and he almost turned and headed in the opposite direction.
Craven, he chided himself, and stepped forward. “Good evening, Miss Knightley.” He bowed, and turned to his aunt. “Where’s Grace?”
“Talking to Miss Wootton.”
Adam swung on his heel and looked across the ballroom. His sister sat alongside Miss Wootton. Grace was talking, her expression animated; Miss Wootton listened intently.
Adam turned to Miss Knightley. “Your doing?”
She shook her head. The golden ribbon threaded through her dark hair glinted in the candlelight. “Grace felt sorry for her. She’s a very kind-hearted girl.”
“In this instance her kindness is misplaced. If Miss Wootton has some . . . instability, then I’d prefer that Grace didn’t become friends with—”
“Miss Wootton is no more unstable than you or I!” Miss Knightley said tartly. “It’s a rumor set about to discredit her.”
Adam frowned. “Rumor? Are you certain?”
“Yes.” Her nod was emphatic. “I overheard it being started yesterday.”
“You did?” Adam put up his brows. “By whom?”
“By a mother with a daughter to marry off.”
Adam sipped his champagne thoughtfully, digesting this fact. “Does this mother have any connection with the seminary Grace attended in Bath?”
Miss Knightley glanced at him. Her eyes were almost black in the candlelight. “Yes.”
“Do you think she’s responsible for the rumors about Grace?”
“I think it very likely.” Arabella Knightley lifted her shoulders in an expressive, Gallic shrug. “But since I wasn’t present when those particular rumors started, I have no way of knowing.”
Adam’s fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. “Who is this woman?”
Miss Knightley’s eyebrows arched. “Mr. St. Just, surely you don’t expect me to tell you that?”
“The devil I don’t—”
“Adam,” his aunt reproved.
Adam clenched his jaw and glared at Miss Knightley. She seemed unoffended by his language. A dimple appeared in her cheek, as if she was trying not to laugh, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.
“You refuse to tell me?”
“Of course,” she said. “There’s absolutely no proof that this woman spread any rumors about Grace—”
“But you think she did—”
“Precisely, Mr. St. Just. I think; I don’t know. They’re two very different things.”
Adam gripped his glass tightly. “I should like to speak with this woman.”
“I’m certain you would,” Miss Knightley said. “But in all conscience, I can’t name her. Think how remiss it would be of me if you upbraided her for something she didn’t do!”
“I shouldn’t upbraid her,” he said with stiff dignity.
Her eyebrows rose again. Disbelief was eloquent on her face.
Adam flushed.
“Mr. St. Just, if I were to pass on information that I don’t know to be true, I should be as worthy of blame as any scandalmonger.”
Aunt Seraphina nodded. “Miss Knightley is correct.”
He knew she was, but being told that didn’t improve his temper. Adam glared at his aunt.
She smiled placidly and patted the chair alongside her. “Do sit down, dear. It’s very fatiguing to have you towering over one.”
He swung his glare back to Miss Knightley. Laughter glimmered in her dark eyes. “Mr. St. Just, I fear you’re about to break that glass.”
Adam hurriedly unclenched his hand.
Miss Knightley looked past him. Her smile became warmer.
Adam turned his head. “Grace.”
Grace sat beside Aunt Seraphina in a soft flurry of satin and gauze. “I told Hetty what Mr. Brummell said to Bella. And she’s going to do it, too!”
Aunt Seraphina gave an approving nod.
Grace smoothed her skirt and turned to Miss Knightley. “And I told her what you said, Bella, about it being useful experience, and how she has the opportunity to see people for who they
