The girl looked up as Arabella approached. She was fairer than her half-brother, her hair golden instead of brown, her eyes a clear shade of blue. She was breathtakingly lovely—and quite clearly miserable.
‘Miss St Just.’ Arabella smiled and extended her hand. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Arabella Knightley.’
Grace St Just flushed faintly. She hesitated a moment, then held out her hand. Her brother has warned her about me.
Arabella sat, ignoring the St Just aunt who frowned at her, lips pursed in disapproval, from her position alongside Grace. ‘How are you finding your first Season?’
‘Oh,’ said Grace. She sent a darting glance in the direction of the dance floor. ‘It’s very…that is to say—’
‘I hated mine,’ Arabella said frankly. ‘Everyone staring and whispering behind their hands. It’s not pleasant to be gossiped about, is it?’
Grace St Just stopped searching the dance floor for her brother. She stared at Arabella. ‘No. It isn’t.’
‘Someone gave me some advice,’ Arabella said, ‘when I was in a similar position to you. If you don’t think it impertinent of me, I should like to pass it on.’
She had the girl’s full attention now. Those sky-blue eyes were focused on her face with an almost painful intensity. ‘Please,’ Grace St Just said. Even the aunt leaned slightly forwards in her chair.
‘It was given to me by Mr Brummell,’ Arabella said. ‘If he were still in England, I’m certain he’d impart it to you himself.’
‘The Beau?’ Grace breathed. ‘Truly?’
Arabella nodded. ‘He said…’ She paused for a moment, remembering. The Beau’s voice had been cool and suave, and oddly kind. ‘He said I must ignore it, and more than that, I must ignore it well.’
It was the only time Beau Brummell had spoken to her. But he had always nodded to her most politely after that, his manner one of faint approval.
‘And so I did as he suggested,’ Arabella said. ‘I gave the appearance of enjoying myself. I smiled at every opportunity, and when I couldn’t smile, I laughed.’ She smoothed a wrinkle in one of her long gloves, remembering. A slight smile tugged at her lips. ‘I believe some people found it very annoying.’
She looked up and held Grace St Just’s eyes. ‘So that’s my advice. However difficult it may seem, you must ignore what people are saying, the way they look at you. And you must ignore it well.’
‘Ignore it?’ Tears filled the girl’s eyes. ‘How can I?’
‘It isn’t easy,’ Arabella said firmly. ‘But it can be done.’
Grace shook her head. She hunted in her reticule for a handkerchief. ‘I would much rather go home.’ Her voice wobbled on the last word.
‘Certainly you may do that, but if I may be so bold, Miss St Just…the rumours are just rumours. Speculation and conjecture. If you shrug your shoulders, London will find a new target. But if you leave now, the rumours will be confirmed.’
Grace looked stricken. She sat with the handkerchief clutched in her hand and tears trembling on her eyelashes.
‘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 colouring 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 about Arabella Knightley: that he was so strongly attracted to her. The second 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 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