bit her lip. After a moment she said, ‘That’s easier said than done.’
‘What is?’
Arabella glanced up. Adam St Just, looking his most supercilious, stood before them.
‘Ignoring people’s opinions,’ Grace said, accepting the glass of orgeat he handed her. ‘Bella says that’s what she does.’
‘Does she?’ There was censure in St Just’s voice. The glance he cast Arabella was chilly with disapproval. ‘Everyone’s opinion?’
‘Oh, no,’ Grace said, sipping from the glass. ‘Only those people one doesn’t respect.’
‘And who might they be?’ St Just asked, still frowning.
‘People who gossip and spread rumours,’ Grace said. ‘Or who say nasty things about people they don’t know.’
Adam St Just stopped frowning. He flushed faintly and raised a hand to straighten the folds of his neck cloth.
‘Do you agree?’ Grace asked.
‘Er…yes,’ he said.
Arabella’s lip curled slightly.
Grace nodded, and sipped her orgeat. Her expression was less miserable than it had been.
St Just glanced at the dance floor, where a contredanse was drawing towards its conclusion. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m engaged for the next dance.’
Arabella watched him move off through the crowd. Despite his wealth, St Just eschewed such adornments as fobs and seals and quizzing glasses. In his dress, he was very like Beau Brummell had been—elegant and understated, each garment cut perfectly to fit him. His build was athletic; neither his shoulders nor his calves required padding.
An attractive man—until one noticed the way he had of looking down his nose at the world.
Arabella turned to Grace. ‘Do you know Miss Harpenden?’
‘Elizabeth Harpenden? Her sister Charlotte was at school with me in Bath.’
‘Charlotte isn’t in London?’
Grace shook her head. ‘She’s still in Bath. Her parents won’t let her come out until Elizabeth has married.’
Arabella tapped her fan against her knee and considered this information. ‘And Miss Wootton?’ she asked. ‘Do you know her?’
‘No. She’s from Yorkshire, I believe.’ Grace glanced to where Miss Wootton stood, attended by a number of admiring young gentlemen. ‘She looks like she’s enjoying herself.’ Her voice was wistful and slightly envious.
‘Yes.’ Arabella scanned the ballroom, looking for Elizabeth Harpenden. The girl was being escorted from the dance floor by a heavy-set young man with pretensions to dandyism.
Arabella felt a moment’s sympathy for Miss Harpenden. Her face was almost pretty, her figure almost graceful. In a smaller and more restricted setting she might have had a chance to shine; in London she was practically invisible.
Of course, if this Season’s beauties were discredited, Elizabeth Harpenden would be more visible.
Arabella tapped her fan against her knee and watched as Mrs Harpenden received her daughter. The woman’s manner was slightly bullying. A mother who scolds, rather than praises.
‘Are you engaged for the next d-d-dance, Miss St Just?’
Arabella looked up to see Viscount Mayroyd make his bow to Grace.
‘No,’ Grace said, blushing prettily. ‘I’m not.’
‘Then may I have the p-p-pleasure?’ The young man’s eyes were as blue as Grace’s. He had a very engaging smile.
Grace nodded. She gave her glass to her aunt and stood.
‘I like him,’ Mrs Mexted said, with a nod in the young viscount’s direction, once he was out of earshot.
‘So do I.’ Perhaps because of his stutter, young Mayroyd had a kind-heartedness that many of his peers lacked.
Arabella returned to her observation of Miss Wootton. The girl was clearly enjoying herself. But not for long, if Mrs Harpenden has her way.
Did the woman deserve a visit from Tom?
She tapped the fan against her knee and resolved to wait a day or so before deciding.
Adam woke reluctantly. He heard his valet, Perkins, draw back the curtains and closed his eyes more tightly, trying to burrow back into the dream, to recapture the pleasures of a soft mouth and fragrant skin, of dark ringlets gleaming in candlelight—
Dark ringlets?
Adam’s eyes snapped open. It was Mary, he told himself. But Mary had always been leisurely in bed; the woman in his dream had been eager and passionate—and as slender as Mary was voluptuous.
The last, sensual wisps of the dream vanished abruptly. Adam uttered a curse and pushed back his bedclothes.
A ride in the park on Goliath, under a sky heavy with clouds, did little to improve his mood. An hour spent sparring in Jackson’s Saloon was much more successful. Adam walked around to St James’s Street whistling under his breath and took the steps up to White’s two at a time.
The ground-floor parlour was pleasantly empty. Lord Alvanley sat at the bow window, where Brummell had liked to sit. He looked up from a newspaper. ‘Afternoon, St Just.’
‘Alvanley.’ Adam strolled across to the bow window. ‘What’s new?’
His lordship folded the newspaper and put it aside. ‘Have you heard about the Wootton chit?’
Adam shook his head. He sat and reached for the newspaper. ‘A bottle of claret,’ he said to the waiter.
‘Madness in the family,’ Alvanley declared, stretching out his legs.
Adam glanced at him. ‘What? The Wootton heiress?’
His lordship nodded. ‘It’s the latest on dit.’
Adam grunted, and removed Miss Wootton from his list of possible brides.
Another newcomer entered the room, his step jaunty. ‘Afternoon, Alvanley,’ he said cheerfully. ‘St Just.’
Adam looked around. Jeremy Allen, Marquis of Revel-stoke, trod towards the bow window, resplendent in a dark blue coat with extravagantly long tails, cream-coloured pantaloons and gold-tasselled hessians. The folds of his neckcloth were so intricate, the points of his collar so high, that he had no hope of turning his head. The most arresting aspect of his appearance was his waistcoat, an exotic garment featuring dazzling golden suns against a celestial blue background.
‘Good
