St. Just brushed a fingertip over the drawings. “Very clever,” he said.
Arabella blushed. She became aware of their closeness, the way their arms almost touched, and drew back.
“No,” St. Just said, putting down the sketchbook. He reached for her wrist, lightly clasped it. “Stay here, beside me.”
Her cheeks became hotter.
St. Just smiled at her, with his eyes, with his mouth. “Please?”
Arabella hesitated, and then allowed him to draw her back to where she’d been sitting. She looked at him shyly from beneath the brim of her bonnet. This was different from the rug and the firelight. She could see him clearly: the gray of his eyes, the glints of gold in his brown hair.
One of his fingers stroked her wrist, drawing a shiver of pleasure from her. “Do you mind if I do this?” he asked softly, leaning towards her, touching his lips to the corner of her mouth, drawing back to look at her.
Her cheeks became even hotter. “No,” she whispered.
St. Just smiled. He leaned forward and kissed her again, lightly, softly.
Arabella trembled and closed her eyes.
“The brim of your bonnet is in the way,” St. Just whispered against her cheek.
She opened her eyes. “It . . . it is?”
St. Just untied the ribbons of her bonnet and laid it aside. “That’s better.” He smiled at her and touched his fingertips to her cheek, her jaw. She shivered. Such a dangerous way he had of touching her, causing pleasure to prickle over her skin.
His head dipped again, his lips touched hers.
This time St. Just didn’t stop. His mouth was gentle, coaxing, teasing. Arabella closed her eyes. Her awareness of their surroundings faded. The lemonade and the macaroons, the horse, the hillside, no longer existed. The world narrowed to St. Just’s hand lightly at the nape of her neck, to his mouth, to the heat rising inside her—
His tongue touched her lower lip, his teeth gently nipped: a question.
Arabella answered by shyly opening her mouth to him.
St. Just kissed her slowly, gently. He tasted of sugar and coconut, of lemon. Delicious. Heady. Heat flooded her body. She leaned towards him and clutched the lapel of his coat.
Seconds, minutes, hours . . . she had no idea how long the kiss lasted before St. Just finally broke it.
Arabella opened her eyes. His hand was gone from the nape of her neck; her skin felt cold where it had been, bereft. Come back. She blinked and stared at him. Her breathing was ragged, her pulse tumultuous.
St. Just stared back at her. His eyes were more black than gray, the pupils dilated. Beneath her hand, his heart beat rapidly. “I think we’d better stop,” he said, in an unsteady voice.
Arabella swallowed and nodded, unable to speak. Her awareness of their surroundings returned abruptly: the blanket, the picnic, the horse. She lowered her hand and drew back.
St. Just cleared his throat. He refilled her glass. The flask clunked against the little goblet, as if his hand shook.
Arabella sipped the lemonade. Her fingers trembled.
Slowly the heat faded, her pulse slowed, her breathing steadied. Kissing, she realized belatedly, was a very dangerous pastime.
THAT EVENING THEY attended a dinner hosted by a neighbor of Adam St. Just’s. Arabella wore her ivory-white silk, with a golden fillet threaded through her hair. She touched her fingers lightly to the silk as the carriage drew up at their destination. Armor.
But she had no need of armor that evening; the other guests were pleasant and friendly and eager to make a new acquaintance. Some thirty people sat down to dinner at the long table. She encountered no snubs from the gentlemen seated on either side of her, no disapproving stares from the ladies opposite. I’m not Miss Smell o’ Gutters here.
Afterwards, the carpet was rolled back in the drawing room and an impromptu ball announced for the younger members of the party.
There were more young ladies than men, but nobody seemed to mind. Lines were formed for a country dance, and the next two hours passed with gaiety and none of the aloofness that characterized town manners. Sometimes Arabella’s partner was a gentleman, sometimes a young lady—but male or female, all were disposed to enjoy themselves. The last dance was called after midnight. “A waltz!” someone cried, and was eagerly seconded. From across the room, she saw Adam St. Just look at her.
Arabella held her breath as he walked towards her. “Would you like to dance?” he asked quietly. “Or would you prefer to sit it out?”
She blushed. “Dance.”
The pianist played the opening chords. St. Just smiled at her and held out his hand.
They began to waltz. The way St. Just held her was almost an embrace—his hand at her waist, their bodies so close—but for the first time in her life, Arabella didn’t feel uncomfortable being held by a man; instead she was aware of a frisson of pleasure. She shivered slightly.
St. Just’s eyes seemed to darken.
Arabella felt heat mount in her cheeks. She looked hastily away, fastening her gaze on his neckcloth, on the crisp folds of muslin, on the pearl tiepin. It didn’t help. The movement of their bodies reminded her of that dream-like hour on the rug—the firelight, the candlelight, the low murmur of St. Just’s voice. It made her think of this afternoon’s kiss: the lemon and coconut taste of his mouth.
Tendrils of desire began to unfurl inside her. She wanted him to hold her closer.
This was why the more straitlaced members of Society disapproved of waltzing: the intimacy, the proximity. It made her think of things she shouldn’t. It made her want them.
She glanced up at St. Just’s face. Would he come to her tonight?
I hope so.
St. Just’s gaze sharpened. “What is it?”
Arabella swallowed. “Nothing.”
They danced another circuit of the drawing room. She was intensely aware of St. Just’s hand at her
