“Trying to marry her off?” Adam asked, his voice sarcastic.
“Only to you.” Jeremy met his sharp glance with a bland smile. “I have an investment to protect, after all.”
“Much you care about five hundred guineas.”
“Oh, but I do,” Jeremy protested, his eyes wide and his tone earnest.
Adam snorted. “You’re as rich as Croesus.”
“No,” Jeremy said, sighing. “That would be you. I’m but a pauper in comparison.”
Adam’s snort was louder this time. “Laying it on much too thick, Jeremy.”
The marquis looked wounded.
“You know, Jeremy, it’s a dashed shame you were born a nobleman. You should be on the stage.”
Jeremy sighed again. “I know,” he said, in a melancholy voice. “It’s the great sorrow of my life.” He drifted away, looking as frail as possible for a man possessed of robust good health.
Adam uttered a half laugh under his breath and returned his attention to the dance floor. Miss Knightley and Lord Emsley were going down the set. He watched for a moment. Jeremy was right: Arabella Knightley was a superb dancer. There was elegance and grace in each step she took.
In this Grecian-themed ballroom, the simile was easy to find: she was the goddess Artemis, the huntress, lithe and graceful, lissome.
And I have two waltzes with her tonight.
Heat flared in his belly. His throat tightened.
Adam tore his gaze from Arabella Knightley. He looked down at the glass she’d given him. Pink lemonade. Eugh.
He went in search of a table to place it on.
CHAPTER SIX
HALF AN HOUR later Adam escorted Miss Knightley onto the dance floor. He’d spent the intervening time regretting his decision to rescue her from Emsley. He regretted it even more as they took their places, aware of the number of glances being cast in their direction.
Adam gritted his teeth. The staring would be even more marked when he danced a second waltz with her tonight. I was a fool to do this.
One good thing—the only good thing—was that his cousin, the new Duke of Frew, wasn’t in town to witness this. Frew’s strictures were even harder to stomach than his father’s had been.
Adam took hold of her hand. Heat stirred inside him, increasing his discomfort.
Arabella Knightley showed no signs of discomfort. As far as he could tell, her manner was the same as when she’d danced with Lord Emsley: distant, slightly amused, and utterly composed. She seemed unaware of the interest they were attracting.
But then, Miss Knightley was used to stares and whispers. For her, it was always like this.
Miss Smell o’ Gutters. For a moment he heard the nickname in his ears as clearly as if someone had uttered it aloud. It caused a sense of discordance inside him, as if the musicians played out of tune.
He’d been wrong to speak his opinion of her aloud—that went without saying—but now, for the first time, Adam found himself wondering if his opinion itself had been wrong. Miss Knightley had spent part of her childhood in the slums, but no one ignorant of her past would guess the truth; he certainly hadn’t seven years ago. She brought nothing of the gutters into the ballroom with her—nothing except a name he’d inadvertently given her.
Arabella Knightley’s poise, her graceful performance on the dance floor, were those of a lady of quality. There was no vulgarity in her appearance, none of the ostentatious display of jewelry seen in the nouveau riche. The shining cleanness of her hair, the faint scent of orange blossom that accompanied her, spoke of privilege and wealth, not London’s slums.
Adam was intensely aware of her gloved hand in his, of the closeness of their bodies. There was nothing sensual about dancing in a crowded ballroom under the glare of hundreds of candles—and yet it was sensual. Abruptly, he wondered what it would be like to make love to Arabella Knightley. Heat flooded his body. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.
Adam cleared his throat. He concentrated on the waltz—but it only made him more aware of her responsiveness to each step he took, the natural grace of her body as she followed his lead.
Did Emsley think about sex when he danced with Miss Knightley?
It was disgusting to think of the man imagining Arabella Knightley in his bed—and yet Adam knew instinctively and with utmost certainty that Emsley did precisely that.
Revulsion and rage rose inside him. He glanced at Miss Knightley’s face. Did she know, too? Was that why she’d chosen him over Emsley?
His gaze rested for a moment on skin as smooth and pale as alabaster, on the dark sweep of her eyelashes, on soft lips the color of rose petals. She glanced at him. For a breathless second he stared into eyes that were almost black—and then he wrenched his gaze away from her.
Adam concentrated on breathing, on placing his feet in time with the music. It was surprisingly difficult; the sound of his heartbeat almost drowned out the strains of the waltz.
A familiar face caught his attention: Grace, dancing with Viscount Mayroyd.
Adam focused on her. Grace didn’t have Arabella Knightley’s grace as a dancer, nor her composure, but she acquitted herself well.
The sound of his heartbeat faded; he heard the music more clearly. He watched as the viscount said something to Grace, as his sister blushed and answered with a shy smile. He changed direction, leading Miss Knightley into a sweeping curve, so as to see Mayroyd’s face. The young viscount’s expression was appreciative.
Adam began to feel more cheerful. Unless he was mistaken, Grace had an admirer who wasn’t a fortune hunter.
Of course, Grace wouldn’t be on the dance floor, waltzing and smiling, capturing the interest of young viscounts, if not for Arabella Knightley. Her shrewd advice had been invaluable.
We owe her.
He risked a glance at Miss Knightley. She was watching him.
His cheerfulness evaporated—along with his awareness of the other dancers. The music was inaudible again. The only two people in the ballroom were himself and Arabella Knightley. Familiar emotions flooded through him—shame and guilt, desire—and with them was a new one: gratitude.
His steps faltered.
