Arabella raised her gaze to him. “Miss fforbes-Brown is engaged to Sir Humphrey Holbrook.”
His face stiffened. “Yes.”
“Such a shame,” she observed. “Miss fforbes-Brown would have made you an excellent wife.”
The warmth vanished from St. Just’s eyes. His expression became disapproving.
“Have you considered Hetty Wootton? The field is relatively clear at the moment—and she does have such a tempting fortune.”
St. Just looked down his nose at her.
Arabella began to relax—and to enjoy herself. “She’s very pretty, too. Don’t you think, Mr. St. Just?”
“My opinion of Miss Wootton is none of your business, Miss Knightley.” Disdain was cold in his voice.
I know. Arabella almost grinned.
St. Just’s eyes narrowed. She had the impression he nearly missed a step.
Arabella carefully stifled the grin. “Miss Wootton’s friendship with your sister must make her an attractive candidate. The approval of one’s family is so important in a marriage, don’t you think?”
St. Just made no reply. His jaw tightened, as did his grip on her hand.
Her tone became low and confiding: “May I suggest, Mr. St. Just, that as a sign of affection for your new wife, you redecorate in the style of the Prince Regent? There is something so elegant about crimson and gold.”
St. Just’s lips thinned.
“Oh! And you should have a stream flowing down the center of your dining table, with goldfish in it, as the Prince Regent once did. Such a charming idea, don’t you think?” Arabella widened her eyes. “Or were you one of those who thought it vulgar?”
She thought St. Just gritted his teeth. After a moment he said stiffly, “As I did not attend that dinner, I have no opinion on that particular style of decoration.”
Arabella almost grinned again. Of course he thought it vulgar; anyone with a modicum of taste must.
“I didn’t attend it either,” she said. The regret in her voice was unfeigned: she would have loved to have seen such an outlandish centerpiece. “But I urge you to emulate the Prince. Perhaps at your wedding breakfast? Your bride would find it charming, I’m sure!”
St. Just looked as if he’d swallowed something unpleasant.
“To have a stream running down one’s table is indicative of true elegance of mind.” Her voice quivered on the last few words and she bit her lip.
Adam St. Just’s eyes narrowed again in suspicion. Fortunately the waltz ended at that moment.
Arabella stepped back and made a pretty curtsy. “Thank you, Mr. St. Just,” she said. “That was extremely pleasant. We must do it again.”
St. Just gave a thin, pained smile. There was nothing appreciative in his gaze as he made his bow to her; the expression in his eyes was one of dislike.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ARTEMIS WAS ASLEEP in his bed. Her hair lay in dark coils across the pillowcase. Adam gazed at her, letting his eyes dwell on the elegant bones of her face, the fullness of her lips, the delicately indented chin.
A pulse beat in the hollow of her throat, and one hand lay on the sheet, palm up, the fingers curled loosely. The fragility of those slender fingers, the vulnerability of that beating pulse, made his heart ache.
Adam reached out to lightly stroke her arm. At his touch her eyes opened, dark and mysterious.
For long seconds they stared at each other, and then her lips curved in a slow smile. She stretched, cat-like, and pushed aside the sheet. In the darkened bedroom her body was silken and shadowy. He saw the soft roundness of breasts, the slender flare of hips, the dark and enticing triangle of hair at the junction of her thighs.
The muscles in his throat, in his groin, tightened. Heat flooded him.
Artemis laughed softly.
Adam’s heart began to beat faster. He reached out and touched the tantalizing dent in her chin. Above his finger, her lips curved up in a smile.
Adam swallowed. He removed his finger and bent his head and kissed lightly where it had been. Her skin smelled of orange blossom.
He kissed her chin, and then her mouth. The soft lips parted with a murmur of pleasure.
Time blurred into a tangle of sensation: his fingers sliding through silken coils of hair, the taste of her mouth, the intoxicating fragrance of her skin. She was moonlight and shadows, she was fierce yet tender, her skin was as cool as his was hot. Pleasure spiraled tightly inside him. The touch of her mouth was searing—
“Good morning, sir.”
Adam jerked abruptly awake.
For a moment he stared at his valet, seeing darkly mysterious eyes, tousled black hair, a bewitching mouth. He blinked, and the man’s face came into focus: narrow jaw and hazel eyes and neatly brushed brown hair. He had a cleft in his chin, like the dream-Artemis.
“Goliath is ordered around from the stables in an hour,” Perkins said. He turned away from the bed and began to lay out the shaving accoutrements.
Adam blew out a shaky breath. His heart was still beating far too fast. He raised himself on one elbow. Perkins had drawn back the curtains. Sunlight streamed in through the windowpanes, so bright it made him squint.
The dream dispersed—wisps of moonlight, of dark silken hair, of intense pleasure. In its place came dismay, swift and sharp.
There was nothing unusual in dreaming about sex, Adam told himself as he threw back the covers. It happened frequently.
He strode across to the washstand and cupped his hands in the steaming water. Nor was it strange that his dream lover had been Artemis. He had, after all, been to a Grecian-themed ball last night.
He washed and dried his face, avoiding his eyes in the mirror. If he didn’t look at himself, then perhaps he wouldn’t have to acknowledge the truth.
But the truth was there, as real as the rasp of the towel across his cheeks, as real as the sound of Perkins briskly sharpening a razor on the leather strop.
It wasn’t Artemis he’d been making love to. It was Arabella Knightley.
“God damn it,” Adam said.
THAT AFTERNOON ADAM took Grace to Hatchard’s bookshop on Piccadilly, so she could buy a birthday gift
