LITMIR.BIZ

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her chin. Armour, she told herself, touching a light fingertip to her gown. Then she took a deep breath and stepped into the ballroom again.

      Someone spoke her name quietly, ‘Arabella.’

      ‘Helen!’ Arabella turned, smiling. ‘How lovely to see you. Are you well?’

      ‘Very well, thank you,’ Helen Dysart said.

      As always, Arabella had to stop herself from hugging Helen. That silent misery could so well have been her own.

      ‘Ah, the lovely Miss Knightley,’ drawled a voice.

      Arabella’s smile stiffened. ‘George.’

      George Dysart pushed a glass of champagne into his wife’s hand, not caring that it slopped over her gloved fingers. He raised a second glass in Arabella’s direction, as if toasting her, and swallowed a large mouthful. His face was flushed and he swayed slightly as he stood. Nine-tenths drunk.

      Little was left of the man who’d courted her six years ago. George’s hair still fell in golden waves over his brow, but the blue eyes were now bloodshot. His figure had lost its slenderness and his face—which she’d once thought angelic—was almost unrecognisable beneath a layer of fat. He looked precisely what he was: a man given to dissipation.

      George raised his glass again, this time towards his wife. ‘Helen,’ he said. ‘Named after the most beautiful woman in the world.’ He hooted with laughter, making heads turn, ended on a hiccup, and swayed slightly. ‘Her parents made a mistake there, didn’t they? Should have called her Medu—’

      ‘George, would you mind getting me something to drink?’ Arabella said. ‘Lemonade, please.’

      George Dysart shut his mouth. His hand clenched. Arabella saw Helen tense, as if expecting a blow.

      George’s gaze lifted, catching on the faces still turned in their direction. He seemed to swallow his rage. ‘A drink? Certainly.’ He brushed past Arabella, buffeting her deliberately with his shoulder.

      ‘I apologise,’ Helen said quietly. ‘George has had a little too much to drink.’

      ‘Would you like to go home?’

      Helen’s eyes followed her husband’s progress. She shook her head. ‘It’s best if I stay.’

      Arabella reached out and touched the back of her friend’s hand lightly. ‘Helen, if I can help in any way…’

      Helen shook her head again.

      Arabella bit her lip, wishing she could pay George a visit as Tom. It wasn’t possible; everything George Dysart owned came from his wife. ‘Come riding with me tomorrow.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Helen’s smile reached her eyes. ‘That would be lovely.’

      Arabella surveyed her. Helen wasn’t beautiful—her nose was too aquiline for that—but her face had character. There was quiet strength in her eyes, courage in the way she held her chin. George Dysart was a fool not to realise the value of his wife. The sooner he drinks himself into the grave, the better.

      The quadrille came to its end. There was a surge of movement off the dance floor. ‘I’d best leave before George returns,’ Arabella said.

      ‘I apologise for my husband’s behaviour—’

      ‘Don’t,’ Arabella said, swiftly clasping her friend’s hand. She turned from Helen, halting as a man stepped into her path and bowed.

      ‘Miss Knightley.’

      Arabella gritted her teeth and smiled. ‘Lord Dalrymple.’

      During her first Season, her admirers—what few there’d been—had fallen into two categories: men who were prepared to ignore her mother’s reputation for the sake of the Westcote fortune, and men who courted her because of her mother’s reputation.

      Lord Dalrymple fell into the latter category. She’d recognised it the first time they’d met, and she recognised it now: the look in his eyes, the slow, speculative smile, as if he were undressing her in his mind. She willed herself not to stiffen and said politely, ‘How do you do?’

      ‘Very well, Miss Knightley. Very well indeed.’ Lord Dalrymple was a large man with a fleshy face, greying ginger hair, and a receding hairline. ‘Are you engaged for the next dance?’

      It was a familiar question, one she hated. Lord Dalrymple’s touch—always slightly too familiar, too lingering—made her skin crawl.

      The musicians picked up their bows again. The first strains of music were audible above the hum of conversation.

      A waltz. For a moment she felt sick. No contredanse, where the steps would part them from each other; instead, her hand in his for the entire dance, his arm around her.

      Arabella touched her gown lightly. Armour. ‘Engaged?’

      Lord Dalrymple’s smile widened. His teeth glinted, large and horse-like. ‘May I have this dance?’

      ‘Miss Knightley has promised the waltz to me.’

      Arabella 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

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