“Viscount Mayroyd?” Arabella smiled. “He reminds me of a puppy. Gangly and friendly and eager to please.” She paused. “He seems very kind.”
“He is.” Grace’s eyes focused on someone to Arabella’s right. Viscount Mayroyd, she guessed as the girl blushed shyly.
The young viscount made his bow. His likable manner and engaging smile only reinforced Arabella’s opinion of him: an appealing young pup, awkward and eager and practically wagging his tail in an effort to please Grace.
Arabella watched with amusement as the young pair took their places on the dance floor, but when the music started her thoughts turned to Adam St. Just. Her amusement faded. Had she and St. Just almost laughed with each other?
She chewed on her lower lip, slightly disturbed. Whatever animal she resembled, right now, she knew it had ruffled fur.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ARABELLA DANCED AN energetic contredanse with the Marquis of Revelstoke, enjoying his banter and his resplendent appearance equally. Afterwards he went off to procure a drink for her—and returned with a glass, and Adam St. Just.
“You know each other, don’t you?” he said innocently, as he handed Arabella her lemonade.
“Coyness doesn’t suit you, Jeremy,” St. Just told him.
Revelstoke laid a hand on his breast. His eyes opened wide, blue and guileless. “Coy? Me?”
St. Just snorted.
The marquis looked extremely wounded. Arabella bit her lip to hide a smile, and sipped her lemonade.
“Are you engaged for the next dance, Adam?” the marquis asked.
St. Just hesitated for a second, and then shook his head.
Revelstoke turned to her. His eyes were very blue, and very limpid. He radiated innocence. “And you, Miss Knightley?”
“No,” Arabella said, torn between wanting to laugh at the marquis and irritation.
“Then you must dance with each other!” Revelstoke exclaimed. “What could be more perfect?”
“Jeremy . . .” St. Just’s voice held a note of warning.
The marquis pretended not to hear it. “Oh!” he said brightly. “The musicians are about to start. Give me your drinks.”
Arabella bit her lip again and handed back the glass of lemonade. She avoided looking at St. Just; she thought his expression might make her laugh.
St. Just held out his arm to her. “Miss Knightley?”
Arabella laid her hand on his sleeve. She glanced back as St. Just led her onto the dance floor. Revelstoke’s expression was smug.
The smugness made no sense. She puzzled over it for a moment, and then asked St. Just, “Why did Revelstoke want us to dance together?”
“Because he has a bet in the book at White’s that we shall marry,” St. Just said, exasperation clearly audible in his voice.
“A bet!” Her gaze flew to his face.
“Yes.” St. Just met her eyes. To her amusement he flushed slightly.
The amusement evaporated abruptly as the musicians began to play the opening notes to a waltz. She almost balked—a hesitation St. Just noticed. He glanced at her. “Miss Knightley?”
Arabella bit her lip again—with chagrin this time, not amusement. A waltz! With Adam St. Just. The very thing she’d been hoping to avoid.
“Miss Knightley?” he asked again. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “It’s nothing.” What could she talk about while they danced? Hastily she cast about for a subject.
“Don’t be offended by Jeremy,” St. Just said, as his arm came around her. “His sense of humor sometimes gets the better of him.”
“Yes,” Arabella said, not paying attention to his words. St. Just was holding her, one hand at her waist, the other clasping her right hand. It felt far too intimate, far too dangerous.
“Are you interested in hearing about the welfare of Gorrie’s housemaid?” St. Just asked. “I understand, of course, if you don’t wish to discuss so indelicate a subject . . .”
Her thoughts steadied. “Jenny? Oh, yes. I wanted to talk with you about her.” She found herself able to look up and meet his eyes. “My maid tells me you paid the landlady for a week’s lodging.”
“Your maid?” His eyebrows rose. “How does she know?”
“I sent her to the boarding house to make sure that Jenny was all right.”
She felt him stiffen. “You thought I might have turned her out of the hackney and abandoned her?”
“No,” Arabella said. “But I wasn’t certain you’d think of everything she required.”
St. Just looked at her for several seconds without speaking. Clearly he was unused to being doubted. “And what did your maid report?” he said finally. “Was there something I overlooked?”
“No.” Not only had St. Just paid for Jenny’s bed and board, he’d sent for a doctor to examine her and had—through a mixture of polite bullying and bribery—persuaded the landlady to provide Jenny with a steaming bath and fresh clothes to change into.
“I’m glad my actions met with your approval,” St. Just said, his tone somewhat dry.
His actions had met with her approval—and that was astonishing. As astonishing as their moment of shared amusement earlier this evening. After seven years of hating Adam St. Just, she now found herself almost in charity with him. It made her feel off balance, as if the world had shifted slightly on its axis. She didn’t want to like him.
With that thought came an uncomfortable awareness of his proximity. The way he held her was almost an embrace. Heat shivered through her—and with the heat, fear. She wanted to turn and run, to flee this almost-embrace, this frightening awareness of him.
“Why were you so kind to Jenny?” she blurted.
St. Just blinked. “Kind?” It was clear from his voice that he hadn’t seen himself in that light.
His reaction steadied her. Not a philanthropist, then. “If it wasn’t kindness, why did you help her?”
His expression became grim. “A man of honor doesn’t behave as Gorrie did.”
Arabella’s lip curled slightly. Did he think she was that naive? “It’s a fairly common practice among gentlemen to take advantage of their female servants.”
“Perhaps,” St. Just said stiffly. “But an honorable man takes responsibility for his . . . er, his—”
“For his by-blows,” Arabella said. Here was the perfect opportunity to needle
