“It doesn’t matter whether you committed whatever indiscretion London thinks you did,” Arabella said matter-of-factly. “What matters is whether London believes it or not.”
Grace St. Just bit her lip. She looked down at the handkerchief and twisted it between her fingers.
“Be bold,” Arabella said softly.
“Bold?” The girl’s laugh was shaky. “I’m not a bold person, Miss Knightley.”
“I think you can be anything you want.”
Arabella’s voice was quiet, but it made the girl look up. For a moment they matched gazes, and then Grace St. Just gave a little nod. She blew her nose and put the handkerchief away. “Tell me . . . how you did it, Miss Knightley. If you please?”
Arabella was conscious of a sense of relief. She sat back in her chair and glanced at the dance floor. Adam St. Just was watching them. She could see his outrage, even though half a ballroom separated them.
It was tempting to smile at him and give a mocking little wave. Arabella did neither. She turned her attention back to Grace St. Just.
ADAM RELINQUISHED MISS HORNBY to the care of her mother. He turned and grimly surveyed the far corner of the ballroom. His sister sat alongside Arabella Knightley, as she had for the past fifteen minutes.
They made a pleasing tableau, dark and fair, their heads bent together as they talked, Miss Knightley’s gown of deep rose-pink perfectly complementing his sister’s white satin.
Adam gritted his teeth. He strode around the ballroom, watching as Grace said something and Miss Knightley replied—and his aunt, Seraphina Mexted, sat placidly alongside, nodding and smiling and making no attempt to shoo Miss Knightley away.
Grace lifted her head and laughed.
Adam’s stride faltered. Arabella Knightley had made Grace laugh. In fact, now that he observed more closely, his sister’s face was bright with amusement.
She looks happy.
Arabella Knightley had accomplished, in fifteen minutes, what he had been trying—and failing—to do for months. How in Hades had she done it? And far more importantly, why?
Miss Knightley looked up as he approached. Her coloring showed her French blood—hair and eyes so dark they were almost black—but the soft dent in her chin, as if someone had laid a fingertip there at her birth, proclaimed her as coming from a long line of Knightleys.
His eyes catalogued her features—the elegant cheekbones, the dark eyes, the soft mouth—and his pulse gave a kick. It was one of the things that annoyed him most about Arabella Knightley: that he was so strongly attracted to her. The second most annoying thing was the stab of guilt—as familiar as the attraction—that always accompanied sight of her.
Adam bowed. “Miss Knightley, what a pleasure to see you here this evening.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Truly?” Her voice was light and amused, disbelieving.
Adam clenched his jaw. This was the third thing that annoyed him most about Miss Knightley: her manner.
Arabella Knightley turned to Grace and smiled. “I must go. My grandmother will be wanting supper soon.”
Adam stepped back as she took leave of his sister and aunt. The rose-pink gown made her skin appear creamier and the dark ringlets more glossily black. A striking young woman, Miss Knightley, with her high cheekbones and dark eyes. And an extremely wealthy one, too. But no man of birth and breeding would choose to marry her—unless his need for a fortune outweighed everything else.
She turned to him. “Good evening, Mr. St. Just.” Cool amusement still glimmered in her eyes.
Adam gritted his teeth and bowed again. His gaze followed her. Miss Knightley’s figure was slender and her height scarcely more than five foot—and yet she had presence. It was in her carriage, in the way she held her head. She was perfectly at home in the crowded ballroom, utterly confident, unconcerned by the glances she drew.
Adam turned to his aunt. “Aunt Seraphina, how could you allow—”
“I like her,” Aunt Seraphina said placidly. “Seems a very intelligent girl.”
Adam blinked, slightly taken aback.
“I like her, too,” Grace said. “Adam, may I invite her—”
“No. Being seen in her company will harm your reputation. Miss Knightley is not good ton.”
“I know,” said Grace. “She spent part of her childhood in the slums. Her mother was a . . . a . . .” She groped for a euphemism, and then gave up. “But I like her. I want to be friends with her.”
Over my dead body.
“Shall we leave?” Adam said, changing the subject. “It’s almost midnight and we’ve a long journey tomorrow.” To Sussex, where there’d be no Arabella Knightley.
He began to feel more cheerful.
“I’ve decided to stay in London,” Grace said.
Adam raised his eyebrows. “You have?”
“Yes,” Grace said. “This is my first Season, and I’m going to enjoy it.”
CHAPTER TWO
ADAM RODE OUT the next morning under a gray sky. London’s roads were damp from a night’s rain. He passed through the gate into Hyde Park, inhaling the scents of wet grass and wet earth and the rich, fresh smell of horse manure. The Row was relatively empty. Adam urged Goliath into a canter. He liked mornings like this, when the ton stayed abed and he could almost pretend he was at home, exercising Goliath on the Downs, not surrounded by the sprawl and clamor of London.
His thoughts turned to Grace as he rode up and down the strip of tan. Last night she’d smiled, danced, even laughed. The Season, which had begun to look like a disaster, could be saved. He’d find a husband for Grace, a man of good birth and character, a man who’d take care of her.
Adam was conscious of a feeling of lightness, as if a weight that had been sitting on his shoulders had suddenly lifted. He began to whistle beneath his breath.
Another rider entered the Row. The black mare and the claret-red riding habit were familiar, as were the rider’s elegant seat and her jaunty, plumed hat.
Adam’s good mood evaporated abruptly. This was one of the irritations of London: that Arabella Knightley should choose to exercise her horse at the same time as him. He pretended not to
