turned towards the smooth male voice—and found herself staring at Adam St Just.
‘You?’ Dalrymple said, his disbelief clearly audible.
‘Unless she wishes to change her mind.’ St Just’s voice was cool, almost bored. ‘It is a lady’s prerogative, after all.’
Dislike welled inside her. Arabella quashed it; she knew which was the lesser of two evils. ‘Yes,’ she lied, turning back to Lord Dalrymple with a smile. ‘I’ve already promised this dance to Mr St Just.’
It was the first time in six years that Arabella had walked on to a dance floor with Adam St Just. She was aware of heads turning and sidelong glances of astonishment. She was equally astonished. Why had St Just asked her to dance?
The answer came as she glanced at him. St Just’s jaw was tight, his mouth a thin line. He’s going to tell me off.
Arabella lifted her chin. Let him try!
They made their bows to each other. As always, the opening notes of the waltz filled her with dread. She took a deep breath and forced herself not to tense as St Just took her hand, as his arm came around her.
They began to dance. The feeling of being trapped was strong. A man is holding me. Panic rose sharply in her. All her instincts told her to break free. Arabella concentrated on breathing calmly, on keeping a slight smile on her face.
‘I would appreciate it, Miss Knightley, if you’d refrain from giving my sister advice about matters that are none of your concern.’ St Just spoke the words coldly.
Arabella met his eyes. There was nothing of the lover about him; on the contrary, his animosity was clearly visible.
Her panic began to fade. She raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh? Would you?’
St Just’s jaw clenched.
Arabella observed this—and began to feel quite cheerful. ‘I was only trying to help,’ she said, widening her eyes.
His grip tightened. ‘It is none of your business who my sister does—or doesn’t—marry.’
Arabella ignored this remark. ‘Why do you wish Grace to marry so young?’
‘That’s none of your business!’
‘Grace is little more than a child. She has no idea what she wants in a marriage—’
‘I shall decide what she wants!’ St Just snapped.
Arabella laughed, as much from amusement as to annoy him. The sense of being trapped had evaporated. For the first time in her life, she was finding pleasure in a waltz. Each sign of St Just’s irritation—the narrowing of his eyes and tightening of his jaw, the gritting of his teeth—was something to be noted and enjoyed.
‘You find that amusing?’
‘Yes. Grace is still learning who she is. Until she knows that, how can she—or you—have any idea what will suit her in a husband?’
‘A man of good breeding.’ He swung her into an abrupt turn. ‘A man of respectable fortune and—’
‘No,’ Arabella said. ‘I’m talking about a man’s character.’
St Just looked down his nose at her. ‘If you imagine that I’d allow Grace to marry a man of unsavoury character—’
‘You misunderstand me again, Mr St Just. I’m talking about those qualities that are more particular to a person. Qualities that have nothing to do with one’s bloodline or fortune, or even with one’s public character.’ Her smile was edged. ‘Let us take, as an example, your search for a wife.’
St Just stiffened. He almost missed a step. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said in a frigid tone.
‘Look around you, Mr St Just. This room is filled with young women of excellent birth and breeding. The question is, which one should you choose?’
Chapter Four
‘The subject of my marriage is none of your concern,’ Adam said, biting the words off with his teeth.
Arabella Knightley showed her ill breeding by ignoring him. ‘If bloodline is your sole criterion, then Miss Swindon would suit you perfectly. Her fortune is respectable and—like yourself—she claims a duke as her grandfather. Her manners are impeccable and her appearance pleasing.’
Adam wasn’t fooled by the artless, innocent manner. Miss Knightley was deliberately trying to annoy him.
‘What more could you want?’ she asked, looking up at him.
Adam felt his pulse give a kick and then speed up. Such dark eyes.
He looked away and cleared his throat.
‘However,’ Miss Knightley continued, ‘if you wish for a wife who’ll be a good mother, then you should direct your attention towards Miss Fforbes-Brown.’
His attention jerked back to her. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘What kind of mother do you want for your children, Mr St Just?’
The question was more than impertinent; it was insolent. Adam retreated into hauteur. ‘I must repeat myself, Miss Knightley: that is none of your concern!’
She ignored him again. ‘But then, that also depends on what kind of father you want to be, doesn’t it? Do you wish to see your children’s first steps and hear their first words—or are such things not important to you?’ There was censure in her eyes, in her voice. ‘Do you intend for your children to be brought up by a succession of nursemaids, Mr St Just, or—?’
‘No,’ Adam said, blurting out the word. ‘I don’t.’ I want what I didn’t have. I want my children to know their parents. I want them to know they’re loved.
Arabella Knightley regarded him for a long moment, as if doubting the truth of his words. ‘In that case, may I suggest you make Miss Fforbes-Brown your choice of bride? She’s very fond of children.’
Adam glanced around the ballroom. It was better than looking at Miss Knightley, at her eyes, at that indentation in her chin, at that soft mouth. His gaze came to rest on Miss Eustacia Swindon. She was tall and fair-haired, with aristocratic features and a proud manner—and high on his list of potential brides.
Sophia Fforbes-Brown was also on the dance floor. Adam observed her for several seconds. Miss Fforbes-Brown’s breeding was genteel, her fortune small, her manners undeniably warmer and more open than Miss Swindon’s. True, her figure was plumper than was fashionable, but she had a pretty, laughing face.
He concentrated on pondering Arabella Knightley’s suggestion—anything rather than let his attention stray to the slenderness and warmth of gloved fingers, to her—
Adam wrenched his mind back to her question. What kind of mother do you want for your children?
The
