She eyed him with resentment. St. Just’s manner was as aloof, as proud, as if it was he who held the dukedom, not his cousin. How could I have been such a fool as to believe he liked me? She should be grateful to St. Just; he’d taught her never to trust a member of the ton—a valuable lesson. But it was impossible to be grateful while she still had memory of the beaumonde’s gleeful delight in her humiliation.
Arabella watched him dance, hoping he’d misstep or trample on his partner’s toes. It was a futile hope; St. Just had the natural grace of a sportsman. His partner, a young débutante, lacked that grace. The girl danced stiffly, her manner awkward and admiring.
Arabella’s lips tightened. No doubt St. Just accepted the admiration as his due; for years he’d been one of the biggest prizes on the marriage market, courted for his wealth, his bloodline, his handsome face.
She looked again at Grace St. Just. The girl bore little resemblance to her half-brother. Adam St. Just’s arrogance was stamped on him—the way he carried himself, the tilt of his chin, the set of his mouth. Everything about him said I am better than you. Grace had none of that. She sat looking down at her hands, her shoulders slightly hunched as if she wished to hide.
I really should help her.
Arabella looked at St. Just again. As she watched, he cast a swift, frowning glance in the direction of his sister.
He’s worried about her.
It was disconcerting to find herself in agreement with him.
Arabella swallowed the last of her lemonade, not tasting it, and handed her empty glass to a passing servant. No one snubbed her as she made her way through the crush of guests, her smiles were politely returned, and yet everyone in the ballroom—herself included—knew that she didn’t belong. The satin gown, the fan of pierced ivory, the jeweled combs in her hair, couldn’t disguise what she was: an outsider.
Music swirled around her, and beneath that was the rustle of silk and satin and gauze, the hum of voices. Her ears caught snippets of conversation. Much of tonight’s gossip seemed to be about Lady Bicknell. Opinion was divided: some sympathized with Lady Bicknell; others thought it served her right.
There was no doubt why Tom had paid her a visit last night.
“That tongue of hers,” stated a florid gentleman in a waistcoat that was too tight for him.
“Most likely,” his wife said, glancing up and meeting Arabella’s eyes. For a brief second the woman’s smile stiffened, then she inclined her head in a polite nod.
Seven years ago that momentary hesitation would have hurt; now she no longer cared. Arabella smiled cheerfully back at the woman. Only four more weeks of this. Four more weeks of ball gowns and false smiles, of pretending to belong, and then she could turn her back on Society. But first, I must help Grace St. Just.
The girl looked up as Arabella approached. She was fairer than her half-brother, her hair golden instead of brown, her eyes a clear shade of blue. She was breathtakingly lovely—and quite clearly miserable.
“Miss St. Just.” Arabella smiled and extended her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Arabella Knightley.”
Grace St. Just flushed faintly. She hesitated a moment, then held out her hand. Her brother has warned her about me.
Arabella sat, ignoring the St. Just aunt who frowned at her, lips pursed in disapproval, from her position alongside Grace. “How are you finding your first Season?”
“Oh,” said Grace. She sent a darting glance in the direction of the dance floor. “It’s very . . . that is to say—”
“I hated mine,” Arabella said frankly. “Everyone staring and whispering behind their hands. It’s not pleasant to be gossiped about, is it?”
Grace St. Just stopped searching the dance floor for her brother. She stared at Arabella. “No. It isn’t.”
“Someone gave me some advice,” Arabella said. “When I was in a similar position to you. If you don’t think it impertinent of me, I should like to pass it on.”
She had the girl’s full attention now. Those sky-blue eyes were focused on her face with an almost painful intensity. “Please,” Grace St. Just said. Even the aunt leaned slightly forward in her chair.
“It was given to me by Mr. Brummell,” Arabella said. “If he were still in England, I’m certain he’d impart it to you himself.”
“The Beau?” Grace breathed. “Truly?”
Arabella nodded. “He said . . .” She paused for a moment, remembering. The Beau’s voice had been cool and suave, and oddly kind. “He said I must ignore it, and more than that, I must ignore it well.”
It was the only time Beau Brummell had spoken to her. But he had always nodded to her most politely after that, his manner one of faint approval.
“And so I did as he suggested,” Arabella said. “I gave the appearance of enjoying myself. I smiled at every opportunity, and when I couldn’t smile, I laughed.” She smoothed a wrinkle in one of her long gloves, remembering. A slight smile tugged at her lips. “I believe some people found it very annoying.”
She looked up and held Grace St. Just’s eyes. “So that’s my advice. However difficult it may seem, you must ignore what people are saying, the way they look at you. And you must ignore it well.”
“Ignore it?” Tears filled the girl’s eyes. “How can I?”
“It isn’t easy,” Arabella said firmly. “But it can be done.”
Grace shook her head. She hunted in her reticule for a handkerchief. “I would much rather go home.” Her voice wobbled on the last word.
“Certainly you may do that, but if I may be so bold, Miss St. Just . . . the rumors are just rumors. Speculation and conjecture. If you shrug your shoulders, London will find a new target. But if you leave now, the rumors will be confirmed.”
Grace looked stricken. She sat with
