Jeremy took a sip of pink champagne. “I like ’em,” he said.
“They’re the size of dinner plates.”
Jeremy smiled, unruffled by the criticism. He raised his quizzing glass and examined one of the dancers more closely.
Adam followed his gaze. He saw dark ringlets and a softly indented chin. The familiar emotions flooded through him: guilt and shame, and a silent surge of desire. He looked away and gulped a mouthful of wine.
Jeremy lowered his quizzing glass. “I hear you were riding in Hyde Park this morning.”
Adam’s fingers tightened on the wine glass. “I ride there every morning,” he said shortly.
Jeremy didn’t appear to hear the warning. He swung the quizzing glass and smiled. “With Miss Smell o’ Gutters?”
Adam stiffened. “Don’t call her that.”
Laughter gleamed in Jeremy’s eyes. “Touchy, touchy.”
With difficulty, Adam restrained himself from snarling at his friend. He turned his attention to the dance floor again.
“Riding in the park with Miss Knightley,” Jeremy said musingly. “One wonders what you were talking about . . . ?”
Adam didn’t reply. He preserved a stiff and dignified silence.
Unfortunately Jeremy was unsnubbed. “Marriage settlements, perhaps?”
Adam swung around. “Damn it, Jeremy—!”
Jeremy laughed.
Adam glared at him, exasperated. “Heaven only knows why I put up with you!”
“Because I don’t bore you.” Jeremy swung the quizzing glass again. “Think how tedious London would be without me.”
The marquis waited for a moment, with an air of hopeful expectancy. When Adam made no rejoinder he released the quizzing glass with a sigh. “You’re very dull tonight,” he said, plaintively. “I’ll have to find someone else to amuse me.”
Adam watched him stroll off, and then returned his attention to the dance floor. He followed Miss Knightley’s progress with his eyes. Her gown of ivory-white silk was unadorned by rouleaux, festoons of flowers, or lavish trimmings of lace. Its simplicity suited the elegance of her face.
Miss Smell o’ Gutters.
The name was so ugly, so vulgar and offensive. And she had it because of him.
Adam grimaced and looked away. I wish I’d never uttered those words.
In fact, he wished he could consign that whole day to oblivion. It had begun with the interview with his father, the old man’s icy fury. You’ve been in town less than a day, and what do you do? Two dances with the daughter of a French whore! How dare you shame our name like that?
It had been useless to protest that he hadn’t known who Miss Knightley was, that he’d danced with her because of her face, not her name. His father hadn’t bothered to listen. I’ve promised you to my brother, the duke. You leave for Lisbon tomorrow. The old man had looked at him contemptuously. Dismissed.
Adam’s mouth tightened. Packed off to the continent like an errant child. He felt a surge of remembered bitterness, of impotent rage.
He’d spent the rest of the day getting drunk. He should have curbed his spleen; instead he’d vented it. Marry Arabella Knightley? he’d said through a haze of alcohol at his club. Certainly, if one wishes to live with the smell of the gutter. The target had been his father—how dared the old man think him capable of forgetting what he owed the St. Just name!—but the victim had been Miss Knightley.
It wasn’t until his return to England, months later, that he’d realized the ton had taken up his words with glee, that a name had been coined for her: Miss Smell o’ Gutters.
He grimaced again and looked for Miss Knightley. The dance had come to its conclusion; it took him some time to find her among the crush of guests. She was in conversation with Lord Emsley.
Adam’s eyes narrowed as Emsley leaned towards her. Miss Knightley showed no sign of discomfort. She looked as she always did—perfectly composed, slightly amused—and yet something in her smile, in the way she held her glass like a barrier in front of her, told him she was uncomfortable.
Adam glanced around the ballroom. Where was Miss Knightley’s grandmother? This was precisely the type of encounter a chaperone was supposed to prevent.
Lord Emsley sidled closer to Arabella Knightley. Adam hesitated a moment, and then set off across the dance floor.
“Emsley,” he said, as he approached. “Miss Knightley.”
Lord Emsley stepped back. “St. Just.”
Adam favored him with the slightest of nods. He turned and bowed to Miss Knightley. “I trust you haven’t forgotten our engagement?”
She surveyed him coolly. “Which engagement is that, Mr. St. Just?”
“The waltz,” Adam said, and watched as her eyes widened.
“I asked Miss Knightley first!” Lord Emsley protested.
Adam turned to him with an insincere smile. “My request was made this morning, when we were riding in the park.”
“Then I shall have the second waltz,” Emsley said, a flush of annoyance rising in his heavy cheeks.
“Our engagement was for both waltzes,” Adam said blandly. “Perhaps Miss Knightley can give you one of the country dances?”
Emsley’s face grew even more florid.
“I’m not engaged for this dance,” Arabella Knightley said, as the orchestra struck up another tune. “Unless you prefer a quadrille, Lord Emsley?”
Emsley accepted the offer with bad grace. His manner, as he proffered Miss Knightley his arm, was disgruntled.
“My glass,” she said, glancing around. “Let me find a table—”
“I’ll take it,” Adam said, holding out his hand.
After a moment’s hesitation Miss Knightley gave him the glass. Lord Emsley escorted her onto the dance floor.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you play the knight errant before,” an amused voice said in his ear.
Adam stiffened. “Hardly the knight errant.”
“Rescuing a damsel in distress?” Jeremy said. “I believe that qualifies as a chivalrous deed.”
Adam glanced at him. “I wouldn’t call Emsley a dragon.”
“Merely an old goat,” Jeremy said, and grinned.
Adam didn’t grin; he frowned. “If you thought Miss Knightley needed rescuing, why didn’t you do it yourself?”
“Because it’s much more amusing to watch you do it.”
Adam grunted. He returned his gaze to the dance floor, where Miss Knightley and Lord Emsley had found their places in a set.
“Lovely, ain’t she?” Jeremy said in his ear. “Quite the most graceful
