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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 God,’ Alvanley said, involuntarily.

      Adam uttered a laugh. He put the newspaper down and shaded his eyes with one hand. ‘Go away, Jeremy. You’re blinding me.’

      His friend grinned and paid no attention to the request. He took the third chair in the alcove and sat, crossing his legs. His boots were polished to a mirror-like gleam. The scent of Steek’s lavender water wafted gently from him. His hair was curled in the cherubim style, beneath which his eyes gleamed with mischief.

      Alvanley lifted his quizzing glass and examined the glittering suns on Jeremy’s waistcoat. ‘Is that gold thread?’

      ‘Of course,’ Jeremy said. He produced a snuff box in sky-blue enamel that matched his waistcoat and opened it with the elegant flick of a fingertip. ‘Snuff?’

      ‘Have you heard about the Wootton chit?’ Lord Alvanley asked, taking a pinch.

      ‘Mad as a hatter,’ Jeremy said. ‘About to be committed to Bedlam.’

      Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘Surely you jest!’

      ‘Me?’ Jeremy said, grinning, swinging one leg. ‘When do I jest?’

      Adam, acquainted with Jeremy since their first day at Eton, chose to ignore that question. He picked up the newspaper again.

      ‘Your name’s in the betting book,’ Jeremy said in an extremely innocent voice.

      Adam didn’t look up from the newspaper. ‘No, it’s not.’

      ‘Actually, it is,’ Lord Alvanley said.

      Adam glanced up sharply. Alvanley was grinning widely. Alongside him, Jeremy sat examining his nails, an expression of demure innocence on his face.

      Adam was familiar with that expression. He eyed his friend with misgiving. After a moment he pushed up out of his chair and went in search of the betting book. Jeremy trailed after him.

      ‘The devil,’ Adam said, as he read the latest entry. Adam St Just, to marry Miss Knightley before the end of the year, 500 guineas.

      ‘Well?’ Jeremy said, sly humour in his voice. ‘Am I right?’

      ‘What you are,’ Adam said, closing the book with more violence than was necessary, ‘is a cod’s head!’

      ‘I say,’ Jeremy protested, half-laughing, following Adam as he strode back to the bow window. ‘That’s not very nice.’

      ‘If you think I’m going to marry Miss Knightley, then you are a cod’s head!’ Adam said severely. His claret had arrived. He poured himself a glass and swallowed half of it in one gulp.

      ‘You danced with her last night,’ Jeremy said, sitting.

      ‘If I married every woman I danced with, I’d be a bigamist a hundred times over!’ Adam said, refilling his glass. ‘You may as well pay Charlton that money now, for you’ve lost it!’

      Jeremy swung one leg and smiled, his expression as cherubic as his curls. ‘I believe I’ll wait,’ he said.

      Adam, aware of Alvanley sitting, grinning, alongside them, retreated into a dignified silence. He reached for the newspaper again and opened it with a crackle of pages.

      

      That night, the ton arrived en masse at the Pinkhursts’ dress ball. The first person Adam saw, as he entered the ballroom, was Arabella Knightley in a dress of ivory-white tiffany silk shot through with gold thread and a golden fillet in her dark hair. God, she’s lovely, was his involuntary thought. He hastily averted his gaze.

      The second person he saw was Jeremy Allen, magnificent in a long-tailed coat of peacock blue, a luxuriantly embroidered waistcoat, black satin knee breeches and silk stockings. Jewels glittered in the folds of Jeremy’s neckcloth and on each of his long fingers. His hair was brushed into the careful dishevelment of the Brutus.

      Adam escorted Grace and his Aunt Seraphina to seats, and strolled across to greet his friend. ‘Jeremy,’ he said, ‘you look prettier than any of the ladies here.’

      Jeremy was unoffended. He laughed. He raised his quizzing glass and observed Adam through it. ‘And you look very plain.’

      Adam grinned.

      ‘I see that the delectable Miss Knightley is here,’ Jeremy said in a tone of sly innocence.

      ‘Dance with her yourself, if you like her that much.’ A servant in livery and a powdered wig proffered a tray. Adam took a glass of champagne.

      Jeremy lowered the quizzing glass with a sigh. ‘It’s much more entertaining when you rise to the bait.’

      Adam smiled and sipped the champagne.

      ‘I believe I shall,’ Jeremy declared.

      ‘Shall what?’

      ‘Ask her to dance. Excellent dancer, Miss Knightley.’ He wandered off in the direction of Arabella Knightley.

      Adam thrust Miss Knightley out of his thoughts and concentrated on his task for the night: interviewing potential brides. He danced with each of the young ladies on his shortlist, asked a number of questions and listened carefully to the answers.

      The hour advanced past midnight. The air was heavy with the scents of perfume, pomade and perspiration. Ladies with flushed cheeks waved their fans, starched collar points drooped in the heat, and even the candles in the chandeliers seemed to wilt.

      Adam found an empty alcove and a glass of chilled champagne and mentally reviewed his list of brides. He removed Miss Swindon from it entirely, and placed Miss Fforbes-Brown at the top.

      His gaze strayed to Miss Knightley. She looked very French as she waited for her turn in the quadrille, slender and dark-eyed, dark-haired.

      He felt a stir of attraction and wrenched his gaze from her. He drained the champagne glass. When the quadrille was over, he headed purposefully for Miss Fforbes-Brown

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