Arabella swallowed the lobster and reached for her glass. It was as unfathomable as his behavior seven years ago. She sipped the pink lemonade, remembering. St. Just had danced with her twice, the warm admiration in his eyes unmistakable. She’d been flustered by his attention, flattered, and at the same time alarmed by her response to him, by the dangerous stirring in her blood. She’d lain awake that night in a turmoil of indecision. Adam St. Just, wealthy and well-born, unnervingly attractive, was interested in her. Should she encourage his attentions—or stand by her decision never to marry and rebuff him?
The choice had been made for her. Adam St. Just departed London, and his words were on everyone’s lips. Marry Arabella Knightley? Certainly, if one wishes to live with the smell of the gutter. The name—Miss Smell o’ Gutters—had been coined a few days later and the Season, already a gauntlet of sidelong glances and whispered comments, had become a nightmare.
Pride had enabled her to smile and pretend to ignore the stifled laughter. She’d smiled—and planned her revenge: something that would humiliate him, that would hurt.
Revenge was very well in theory, but horrifying in practice. She’d learned her lesson from Lord Crowe: she avenged other people, not herself.
Arabella speared another piece of lobster on her fork.
“—three hands in a row!” her grandmother said. “Mrs. Davenport said she’d never seen anything like it.”
Arabella gave a murmur of agreement as her thoughts swung to Lord Crowe, to her moment of triumph—and from there, to his death.
The lobster tasted like dust in her mouth. Arabella took a mouthful of lemonade and forced herself to swallow. She looked at her plate, at the uneaten food, and laid down her fork.
She’d been right to punish Lord Crowe—she still believed that—but she would never revenge herself again. The guilt wasn’t worth it.
She sighed as she looked at the wilted asparagus on her plate, at the congealing butter. She’d hated Adam St. Just for seven years. It seemed churlish to continue hating him after his apology, but if she wasn’t to hate him, what was she to do?
Arabella sipped her lemonade and pondered the question.
She couldn’t possibly like him, could she?
No, that was impossible.
“Lady Endicott tells me that you danced the waltz with St. Just tonight.”
Arabella looked up from her contemplation of her plate. “Er . . . yes, that’s correct.”
“I was very alarmed to hear it,” her grandmother said. She touched the brooch fastened to the stiff purple satin of her bodice in a nervous gesture. “I’m certain your grandfather wouldn’t approve.”
Arabella looked away from the brooch. It was a mourning piece, her grandfather’s eye painted on ivory, surrounded by seed pearls and black jet.
“And I understand that St. Just danced with you several days ago.”
“Yes.”
Her grandmother began to pleat her napkin. “It’s very worrying,” she said. “You will remember what happened last time, won’t you?”
“I’m not likely to forget,” Arabella said dryly.
The hurt, the humiliation, the absurd sense of betrayal, weren’t easily forgotten—although why she’d felt betrayed, she had no idea. It wasn’t as if St. Just had declared an interest in her; all he’d done was dance twice with her. And smile with his eyes.
“Do be careful, won’t you my dear? I should hate to see you hurt again.”
Arabella glanced at her grandmother in surprise. She blinked, taken aback by the concern on Lady Westwick’s face. “I’ll be careful.”
Her grandmother resumed pleating the napkin. “It’s very worrying,” she said again.
No, Arabella thought, it’s not worrying—but it is certainly disconcerting.
What was worrying was St. Just’s declared interest in Tom—and his conviction that Tom was a member of the ton.
HER GRANDMOTHER WAS back in the card room and engrossed in a hand of whist when the second waltz was called. Arabella was aware of an undercurrent of whispers as Adam St. Just escorted her onto the dance floor, aware of eyes watching with bright interest behind the cover of brisé fans.
She tried not to stiffen as St. Just drew her into his hold. The touch of his hand at her waist was light, but it gave her a sense of being trapped.
Even so, it was a thousand times better than waltzing with Lord Emsley. She repressed a shiver. “I should thank you.”
St. Just’s eyebrows rose in silent query.
“Lord Emsley,” Arabella said.
A fleeting expression of distaste crossed his face. “It was my pleasure.”
Liar. Arabella couldn’t help smiling. “You enjoy being stared at, Mr. St. Just?”
He grimaced slightly. “I have to confess . . . no.” There was something in his expression as he looked at her, in his gray eyes . . .
Arabella’s smile faded. She looked away. She concentrated on the music, on the flow of notes and the harmony of the chords. Adam St. Just was a superb dancer. Their progress was an effortless glide over the dance floor. Even so, an uncomfortable awareness of him intruded: his closeness, the warmth of his hand at her waist, the strength of his fingers holding hers. There was a quiet sense of power in his movements.
Arabella repressed another shiver. Being this close to a man, his arm around her—
Waltzing with Lord Emsley was deeply unpleasant. The way his hand strayed across her back, the sly innuendos, the smell of his perspiration—not as rank as the men who’d visited her mother, but reminding her of them all the same—were distasteful.
Dancing with St. Just wasn’t distasteful—but it was disturbing. Discomfort prickled over her skin. She began to feel slightly too warm.
Arabella risked a glance at him. He was watching her. His face was expressionless, but there was something in his eyes . . .
To her horror Arabella felt herself blush. She looked hurriedly away and concentrated on her steps, feeling as flustered and nervous as if she was a débutante. She didn’t want Adam St. Just to look at her like that. The heat she felt, the frisson of awareness, were frightening.
For a long, tortuous minute she followed his lead, her mind blank with panic. Then common sense returned. It was easy to stop St. Just
