Adam St. Just eyed her with dislike. After a moment he said, with extreme politeness, “Shall we change the subject, Miss Knightley?”
“By all means,” Arabella said. She cast about for another way to annoy him. “Are you a gambling man, Mr. St. Just?”
Surprise crossed his face, followed by wariness, as if he suspected her intentions. “I like to roll the dice,” he said.
“And do you win often?”
St. Just shrugged, still eying her warily. “Often enough.”
“And when you don’t win, you lose,” Arabella said cordially.
“That’s what tends to happen,” he said in a dry voice.
“How much would you lose in a night?” she asked. “Five hundred guineas? A thousand?”
St. Just looked down his nose at her. “How much I win or lose is no one’s business but my own, Miss Knightley.”
“No, it’s not, is it?” she agreed. “But money is such an interesting subject! Do you know, Mr. St. Just, that for the price of a pair of boots from Hoby, a poor family could eat for a year?”
“And for the price of that gown you’re wearing, two families could eat for a year,” St. Just retorted.
“Yes,” said Arabella affably, as he swung her into a turn that was too abrupt to be graceful. “Silk is an expensive fabric.” She smiled at him, a challenge in her voice. “I know precisely how much my clothing costs, Mr. St. Just, and I give an equivalent sum to charity. Can you say the same?”
Judging from his glare, he couldn’t. “What I choose to do with my own money is no one’s concern but mine,” he said haughtily.
“Of course it isn’t,” Arabella agreed. “But do tell me, Mr. St. Just, how did you earn your money?”
“Earn it?” He looked as outraged as if she’d accused him of treason.
“Oh,” Arabella said in a tone of enlightenment, widening her eyes at him again. “You did nothing to earn your wealth, you were born to it.”
St. Just said nothing; he merely looked down his nose at her, his mouth tight with dislike. His grip on her hand was equally tight, pinching her fingers.
“Tell me, Mr. St. Just, do you believe that you’re better than a man who earns his own money, or merely luckier?”
He made no reply. Arabella answered for him: “Better, of course. Your blood should always mark you as a gentleman, even if you’d been switched at birth with a crossing-sweeper’s son—”
His fingers flexed on her hand, tightening until the grip was almost painful. Arabella ignored it, warming to her topic: “Suppose you’d grown up without the benefit of an education or the tender nurture of a wealthy family? Suppose you were half-starved and illiterate and dressed in rags and sweeping a street crossing?” She raised her eyebrows at him, enjoying herself. His attention was grimly fixed on her face. “Despite all these disadvantages, something in your bearing, in your nobility of character, should instantly mark you as superior to those around you. It would be obvious to all who saw you that you were a gentleman. Whereas a crossing-sweeper’s son, growing up in your place, receiving all the advantages of wealth and education, should always be vulgar.”
She smiled at him. “Don’t you agree, Mr. St. Just?”
He made no answer. His jaw was clenched.
Arabella raised her eyebrows at him. “Oh, you disagree?” she said, enjoying herself hugely. “You think that having grown up as a crossing-sweeper’s son you would be nothing more than a crossing-sweeper yourself, a vulgar creature with no thought beyond where your next ha’penny is coming from? How delightful! We’re of the same opinion!”
“There’s no need to be offensive, Miss Knightley,” St. Just said stiffly.
“Offensive?” She tried to look as wounded as Revelstoke had. “I thought I was making a point. Look around you, Mr. St. Just. This ballroom is full of people—like yourself—who’ve done nothing to earn their wealth. Are they better than the crossing-sweepers and coal haulers of this world, or merely luckier?”
She waited for his reply as they made a final circuit of the ballroom. St. Just’s grip on her hand was iron-hard, as was the set of his jaw. He was clearly deeply insulted. That moment of shared amusement was lost.
Arabella felt a pang of regret. She pushed it ruthlessly aside. It was better this way—the jerky steps, the painful grip of his hand. There was nothing in this waltz to disturb her, no dangerous frisson of awareness. She was conscious of his dislike of her, not his maleness.
The waltz ground to its halt. St. Just released her hand. His bow was stiff.
Arabella flexed her fingers surreptitiously. They ached from his hard grip. “Thank you,” she said, with a bright smile. “That was delightful.”
St. Just made no reply. It seemed impossible that she’d seen friendliness in his eyes only a short time ago; they were cold, totally devoid of warmth. He held his arm stiffly out to her. It was clear he wasn’t going to answer the question she’d posed him. He bristled with silent outrage as he escorted her from the dance floor.
“Good evening, Miss Knightley.” St. Just bowed again, a wooden movement.
The urge to tease him further was overwhelming. “My grandmother and I are going to supper soon,” she said. “Would you care to join us?”
She watched as the muscles in his jaw clenched. “Thank you,” he said after a brief moment. “But no. I must take my leave of our hostess.”
“Oh? You’re leaving?” It didn’t surprise her; his anger was palpable.
“I’m going to my club,” he said, a hint of challenge in his voice.
“Do enjoy your evening, Mr. St. Just,” Arabella said warmly. “I hope your losses aren’t too heavy.”
She had the impression that St. Just almost snarled at her. He turned on his heel and strode away as if he wanted to put as much distance between them as
