LITMIR.BIZ

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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 answer was easy: Someone who’d delight in her children. Mentally he shifted Miss Swindon to the bottom of his list, and placed Miss Fforbes-Brown near the top.

      The 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.

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