lilting strains of the waltz crept into his consciousness, and with that, a traitorous awareness of the pleasure of dancing with Miss Knightley. She was a superb dancer, light on her feet, following his lead with apparent effortlessness.
Adam glanced at her face. She was watching him.
God, she’s beautiful. The rich shine of her hair, the eyes as dark as midnight. He looked at her smooth, milk-white skin, the delicate indentation in her chin, the soft curve of her mouth—and desire clenched in his chest. I want her.
‘Mr St Just, why do you wish Grace to marry this year?’
So that someone else may have the responsibility of her—and perhaps not fail as miserably as I have.
‘Because…I thought it would be best for her.’
Miss Knightley’s eyebrows rose fractionally. ‘You thought?’
Adam opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Had he changed his mind?
‘May I suggest that you allow Grace to find her feet this Season, and not think of marriage?’
He tried to be offended by the impertinence of Miss Knightley’s suggestion, but all he could think of was how incredibly tempting her mouth was. Ripe, yet demure. If he bent his head and kissed her, what would she taste of?
To his relief he heard the orchestra play the final notes of the waltz. Adam hurriedly released her hand. He stepped back a pace and bowed. And then he escorted her from the dance floor as fast as could be considered polite.
After a supper of white soup and lobster patties in the company of her grandmother, Arabella returned to the ballroom. A cotillion was playing. She watched the dancers and sipped lemonade, wishing the drink wasn’t quite so sweet.
‘—Miss Wootton.’
‘Madness in the family?’
Arabella glanced sideways, identifying the speakers: Mrs Harpenden and Lady Clouston, their heads bent close together. Miss Harpenden, a diffident young woman in her second Season, hovered alongside her mother.
‘I have it on good authority,’ Mrs Harpenden said in a carrying whisper. ‘They say the girl is showing signs of it already.’
‘Mother,’ Miss Harpenden said hesitantly, ‘you can’t be certain—’
‘Of course they’ll deny it. Who wouldn’t!’ Mrs Harpenden nodded sagely. ‘But it must be said, they’re in a rush to marry her off.’
‘Mother—’
‘Someone should warn the poor girl’s suitors,’ Mrs Harpenden said, her expression pious.
‘But, Mother—’ Miss Harpenden said, a note of desperation in her voice. ‘You don’t know that—’
‘Hush,’ her mother rebuked her. ‘I’m talking to Lady Clouston.’
Miss Harpenden bit her lip and was obediently silent.
Arabella bit her lip too. She turned her attention to the dance floor, searching for Miss Wootton. She found her in a set near the orchestra, a pretty, vivacious girl with brown curls and rosy cheeks.
Arabella sipped her lemonade and watched Miss Wootton dance. Beside her, Mrs Harpenden’s voice sank to a low whisper, audible but unintelligible.
The cotillion came to its conclusion, the dancers made their bows to each other and the dance floor emptied. Mrs Harpenden and Lady Clouston bid each other farewell. Mrs Harpenden’s smile was smug as she watched Lady Clouston push her way through the throng of guests. ‘Come along,’ she said, turning to her daughter. ‘We must find you a partner for the next dance.’ She set off across the ballroom.
Miss Harpenden followed, her expression miserable.
Arabella stayed where she was. She looked again for Miss Wootton.
The girl stood on the far side of the ballroom. She was undeniably the most sought-after of this Season’s débutantes, a young woman in happy possession of wealth, beauty, and a good bloodline. Young men clustered about her like bees around a honey pot.
It was the kind of popularity Grace would be enjoying if rumours weren’t circulating about her.
Arabella waited until the next dance began, then made her way around the perimeter of the ballroom.
‘That’s Miss Knightley,’ she heard a young debutante whisper as she approached. ‘Have you heard what they call her? Miss Smell O’Gutters.’
The girl was hastily shushed by her companion.
Arabella’s step didn’t falter. In her imagination the words scrabbled to find purchase on her satin gown, failed and slid harmlessly to the floor.
She smiled cordially at the girl, who turned deep pink.
Grace St Just was seated alongside her aunt, Mrs Seraphina Mexted. Her smile was bright and fixed. Mrs Mexted caught Arabella’s enquiring glance and said, ‘Heard someone whispering about her.’
‘Never a pleasant experience.’ Arabella sat next to Grace. ‘Who was it?’
‘Miss Brook,’ Grace said.
‘Oh, yes. I know who she is. Looks like a pug dog.’
The aunt snorted, and turned the sound into a cough.
‘A pug dog?’ Grace said, her brow creasing.
‘Yes. Poor girl, she has a very unfortunate nose.’
Grace turned her attention to the dance floor. After a moment she said, ‘Oh, so she does.’ Her expression became more cheerful.
Arabella smoothed the dark blue folds of her gown over her lap. ‘Your aunt may disagree with me, but I believe that if a person says something about you, and they’re not someone you hold in respect, then you should feel free to ignore their opinion.’
Mrs Mexted thought for a moment, and then nodded.
Grace looked doubtful. ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t respect Miss Brook because of her nose?’
Arabella couldn’t help laughing. ‘No,’ she said. ‘This has nothing to do with Miss Brook’s nose. What I’m saying is that if someone behaves in a manner that makes it impossible for you to respect them—such as gossiping, or passing on slander—then you should give no weight to their opinion of you.’ She paused for a few seconds, holding Grace’s gaze. ‘So my question is, do you respect Miss Brook’s opinion?’
‘But I don’t know her,’ Grace protested.
‘Precisely. You don’t know each other—and yet she’s talking about you.’
Grace flushed. She looked down at her lap and began to pleat folds of satin between her fingers.
‘Do you hold Miss Brook in respect?’ Arabella asked quietly.
‘Not
