by Emily Larkin
St. Just gave a thin, pained smile. There was nothing appreciative in his gaze as he made his bow to her; the expression in his eyes was one of dislike.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ARTEMIS WAS ASLEEP in his bed. Her hair lay in dark coils across the pillowcase. Adam gazed at her, letting his eyes dwell on the elegant bones of her face, the fullness of her lips, the delicately indented chin.
A pulse beat in the hollow of her throat, and one hand lay on the sheet, palm up, the fingers curled loosely. The fragility of those slender fingers, the vulnerability of that beating pulse, made his heart ache.
Adam reached out to lightly stroke her arm. At his touch her eyes opened, dark and mysterious.
For long seconds they stared at each other, and then her lips curved in a slow smile. She stretched, cat-like, and pushed aside the sheet. In the darkened bedroom her body was silken and shadowy. He saw the soft roundness of breasts, the slender flare of hips, the dark and enticing triangle of hair at the junction of her thighs.
The muscles in his throat, in his groin, tightened. Heat flooded him.
Artemis laughed softly.
Adam’s heart began to beat faster. He reached out and touched the tantalizing dent in her chin. Above his finger, her lips curved up in a smile.
Adam swallowed. He removed his finger and bent his head and kissed lightly where it had been. Her skin smelled of orange blossom.
He kissed her chin, and then her mouth. The soft lips parted with a murmur of pleasure.
Time blurred into a tangle of sensation: his fingers sliding through silken coils of hair, the taste of her mouth, the intoxicating fragrance of her skin. She was moonlight and shadows, she was fierce yet tender, her skin was as cool as his was hot. Pleasure spiraled tightly inside him. The touch of her mouth was searing—
“Good morning, sir.”
Adam jerked abruptly awake.
For a moment he stared at his valet, seeing darkly mysterious eyes, tousled black hair, a bewitching mouth. He blinked, and the man’s face came into focus: narrow jaw and hazel eyes and neatly brushed brown hair. He had a cleft in his chin, like the dream-Artemis.
“Goliath is ordered around from the stables in an hour,” Perkins said. He turned away from the bed and began to lay out the shaving accoutrements.
Adam blew out a shaky breath. His heart was still beating far too fast. He raised himself on one elbow. Perkins had drawn back the curtains. Sunlight streamed in through the windowpanes, so bright it made him squint.
The dream dispersed—wisps of moonlight, of dark silken hair, of intense pleasure. In its place came dismay, swift and sharp.
There was nothing unusual in dreaming about sex, Adam told himself as he threw back the covers. It happened frequently.
He strode across to the washstand and cupped his hands in the steaming water. Nor was it strange that his dream lover had been Artemis. He had, after all, been to a Grecian-themed ball last night.
He washed and dried his face, avoiding his eyes in the mirror. If he didn’t look at himself, then perhaps he wouldn’t have to acknowledge the truth.
But the truth was there, as real as the rasp of the towel across his cheeks, as real as the sound of Perkins briskly sharpening a razor on the leather strop.
It wasn’t Artemis he’d been making love to. It was Arabella Knightley.
“God damn it,” Adam said.
* * *
THAT AFTERNOON ADAM took Grace to Hatchard’s bookshop on Piccadilly, so she could buy a birthday gift for Aunt Seraphina. “Do you think she’d like this?” Grace asked, fingering a copy of The Prisoner of Chillon.
Adam grimaced. “How about something more cheerful?” He reached for another work by Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.
“I think she has that.”
“Sir Walter Scott?” Adam suggested. “The Lady of the Lake, perhaps?”
Grace bit her lip. “I think she has that, too.”
Adam looked at the volumes of poetry bound in calfskin of various shades and with gilt lettering on their spines. He had his own favorites, but he suspected Aunt Seraphina’s tastes were more romantic than his own. “It’s your gift,” he said. “I’ll let you decide.” And he beat a prudent retreat to the shelves where the novels were displayed.
Browsing brought him to four volumes bound with blue-gray boards. Northanger Abbey, the title on the spines read. Adam pulled the first book from the shelf and turned to the title page.
“I’ve heard that’s very entertaining,” a cool female voice said beside him.
Adam glanced sharply to his right. He saw dark eyes, elegant cheekbones, and a softly indented chin.
He looked swiftly away and thrust the volume back into place on the shelf. Memory of the dream was vivid in his mind: he could smell the fragrance of her skin, feel the silken strands of hair tangling around his fingers. To his horror he felt a stir of arousal.
“Bella! What are you doing here?”
“Buying a book,” Miss Knightley said, turning to greet Grace.
“Oh! May I see?”
Miss Knightley handed her the book she was holding.
“Orlando Furioso,” Grace read aloud. “By Ludovico Ariosto. You read Italian?” Her tone was slightly awed.
“My mother taught me,” Miss Knightley said, with a smile. “What are you buying?”
Grace proffered a single volume bound in tan calf. Adam read the spine. The Lay of the Last Minstrel. “Scott?”
Grace glanced at him and nodded.
“I’m sure Aunt Seraphina will enjoy it,” Adam said. He stepped away from Miss Knightley and cupped his hand under Grace’s elbow. “If you’ll excuse us, we must go.”
His haste seemed to amuse Miss Knightley. A smile lit her eyes. “Of course.”
But despite his best efforts, they ended up departing Hatchard’s at the same time as Miss Knightley and her maid. Grace paused on the flagway. “Shall I see you at the Mallorys’ tonight?”
“Yes,” Miss Knightley said. Her bonnet was trimmed with clusters of small pink silk flowers. Matching flowers were embroidered along the hem of her muslin walking dress. Beneath the scalloped flounces, Adam caught a glimpse of shapely ankles. He looked hurriedly away. Above the bustle of Piccadilly, the sky was a pale, clear blue.
“Excuse me.”
He glanced around and stepped aside for Sir Arnold Gorrie to exit Hatchard’s.
“St. Just,” the man said as he passed, with an inclination of his head.
Adam favored him with the slightest of nods.
Sir Arnold began to saunter along Piccadilly. It was obvious the man hadn’t been born to his title; he made the mistake, common among those bred in the middle classes, of confusing elegance with opulence. Adam’s lip curled in disdain. He turned back to Grace. “Shall we be going? We don’t wish to detain Miss—”
“Sir Arnold!”
Adam stopped in mid-sentence and watched as a young woman in a ragged, dirty dress hurried across the street and reached out to take Sir Arnold Gorrie’s arm. She was quite obviously pregnant.
Sir Arnold pushed the woman away from him. “Get away!” he said, raising his cane.
“But it’s yours,” the woman said, reaching towards him again.
The gesture was clearly imploring, not threatening, but Sir Arnold struck her hand away with his cane.
“Please, Sir Arnold . . .” The woman’s voice was high and desperate. “It’s yours. You know it’s yours!”
Sir Arnold raised his cane again.
“Gorrie!” Adam said sharply.
Sir Arnold glanced at him. His expression was livid. He lowered the cane, took a step towards the woman, and spoke in a low, fierce voice: “Stay away from me, you stupid slut!” And then he shoved her aside, so hard that she stumbled and fell into the gutter.
Behind him, Adam heard Grace gasp.
Sir Arnold hurried down Piccadilly without a backwards glance, almost scurrying. The woman stayed on her knees where she’d fallen, weeping.
Adam glanced at his sister. Her face was white with horror. “Stay here,” he said, and strode to the woman’s side. “Madam?” He crouched. “Allow me to assist you.”
The woman turned her face to him. “The baby’s his.” Her hands cradled her swollen belly. “He knows it is!”
He’d been mistaken: she wasn’t a woman, but a girl. No older than Grace, and most likely younger. Her face was thin and dirty, her eyes swollen from crying.
Adam held out his hand to her. After a moment’s hesitation, the girl put her hand in his. Her fingers were as thin and dirty as her face. They trembled slightly.
Adam helped her stand and step up onto the pavement again. “I’ll hail a hackney for you,” he said, giving her his handkerchief. “To take you home.”
“I don’t have nowhere to go,” the girl said, beginning to weep again. “Sir Arnold turned me off.”
“You were in his employ?” Adam felt a flash of rage. This, if anything, showed Gorrie’s ill-breeding. The man had bedded a servant—and then turned her into the streets to starve.
“Housemaid,” she said, sobbing into the handkerchief.
What should he do with her? For a fleeting instant he wished he could hurry down the street like Sir Arnold, turn the corner and ignore the girl’s distress. “Your family—?”
The girl’s face twisted. “They won’t ’ave me back. Not like this.”
His rage increased. How dare Gorrie—
Arabella Knightley was suddenly at his side. “See to your sister,” she said in an undertone. “She’s feeling faint.”
Adam glanced around. Grace was looking very pale. “But—”
“My maid knows somewhere you can stay,” Miss Knightley said, speaking to the girl. “We’ll take you there now.”
“I ’aven’t any money—”
“Don’t worry about that,” Miss Knightley said, with a reassuring smile. She laid her hand lightly on the girl’s arm. “Come now, my maid has a hackney waiting.”
“Where will you take her?” Adam asked, annoyed by her calm assumption of authority.
“A boarding house in Camden Town,” Miss Knightley said, not looking at him. “What’s your name, my dear?”
“Jenny,” the girl said, sniffing into the handkerchief. She yielded to the pressure of Miss Knightley’s hand and began to walk towards the waiting hackney cab.
“I shall take her there,” Adam said, firmly. “There’s no need for you to be involved, Miss Knightley.”
Arabella Knightley turned back to him. “I’m perfectly capable—”
“I doubt your grandmother would be pleased if you involve yourself in this,” he said, with a glance at the pregnant housemaid. The girl was climbing clumsily into the hackney, helped by Miss Knightley’s maid.
“And I’m certain that you would rather not be involved either,” she said tartly.
“Better me than you,” Adam said. “This is not something for a lady to be involved in.”
Miss Knightley’s expression became annoyed. She opened her mouth.
“No,” Adam said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “I must insist, Miss Knightley.”
She closed her mouth and observed him for a moment. “Very well.” Her voice told him she wasn’t pleased.
Adam ignored it. He glanced at his sister. “May I leave Grace in your care?”
“Of course.”
He walked across to where Grace stood. “Are you all right?”
“That poor girl!”
“Yes,” Adam said, wishing she hadn’t witnessed such an ugly scene. “Miss Knightley will see you safely home.” He glanced at Arabella Knightley. She stood with her maid, having a hurried, low-voiced conversation. “Take a hackney.”
“I’d rather walk,” Grace said.
Adam looked at her closely. Her face was still pale. “Are you certain you’re up to it?”
Grace nodded.
Miss Knightley joined them. “Jenny needs food.” She opened her reticule and took out some banknotes. “And perhaps she should see a doctor—”
Adam looked down his nose at her, offended she could even think he needed her money. “I’ll take care of it.”
“But—”
“I do not need your money, Miss Knightley,” he said stiffly.
Miss Knightley looked as if she’d like to argue. She exchanged a glance with her maid beneath the broad brim of her bonnet, and then nodded. “If you insist.”
“I do.” He looked at the maid. “Have you given the jarvey the address of the boarding establishment?”
“Yes, sir.” She looked a competent female, sturdy, with a plain face and a scattering of freckles across her nose.
“Good.” Adam nodded farewell to Miss Knightley and his sister, climbed into the hackney, and pulled the door closed behind him.
He settled back on the seat. Jenny watched him from the opposite corner. Her eyes were wary, her face smeared with tears. His handkerchief was clutched in one hand; with the other she cradled her belly. A livid mark on her thin arm showed where Gorrie had struck her.
Adam flexed his hands and wished he had the pleasure of beating Sir Arnold with his own cane. And then he turned his mind to the problem of what on earth to do with a pregnant, unwed housemaid.
* * *
WHEN ARABELLA ENTERED the Mallorys’ ballroom that evening, the first person she looked for was Sir Arnold Gorrie. He was strolling around the perimeter of the room. His appearance was as eye-catching as the Marquis of Revelstoke’s—the long-tailed coat in a shade of brown that was almost orange, the large golden buttons, the excess of jewelry adorning his person—but whereas the marquis always managed to look elegant, Sir Arnold was merely vulgar. He didn’t have Revelstoke’s careless charm, nor his height and elegant figure. Sir Arnold was a short, top-heavy man. His calves in their white stockings were clearly padded, and not even a corset could conceal the girth of his waist.
She took note of Sir Arnold’s jewelry: the showy rings, the tiepins nestling in the folds of his cravat, the glittering buckles on his shoes. A very generous man, Sir Arnold Gorrie, although he didn’t yet know it. Very generous indeed.
Arabella escorted her grandmother to the card room, saw her seated at a table with Mrs. Davenport, and returned to the ballroom. A contredanse was playing. Grace St. Just was on the dance floor, in the same set as her friend Hetty Wootton. Arabella watched for a moment. The smile on Grace’s face, her unselfconscious enjoyment in the dance, were perfect. No one would guess, looking at the girl, that the Season was more an ordeal for her than a delight.
Good girl. She gave a nod of approval.
Arabella walked around the dance floor, exchanging smiles and polite, insincere greetings with the other guests. Only three more weeks, she told herself. And then freedom.
She chose a seat alongside Grace’s aunt, Seraphina Mexted, whose smile of welcome seemed genuine. Grace joined them when the contredanse was over. She leaned close. “Bella,” she whispered. “Guess who’s here! Sir Arnold Gorrie.”
Arabella wrinkled her nose. “I saw.” The color of the man’s tailcoat—neither brown nor orange but a shade unattractively between the two—made him easy to spot. “He looks like a cockerel, don’t you think?”
“A cockerel?”
“Yes. Strutting around a hen yard with his chest puffed out.”
“Oh . . .” Grace said, and then, after a moment, “I see what you mean!”
“And have you noticed the way his hair stands up like a cockscomb?”
Grace bit her lip. “It’s not a good hairstyle for him.”
“His tailor should have talked him out of that coat,” Arabella grimaced. “A very cockerel shade of brown, don’t you think?”
Grace uttered a little crow of laughter, and immediately clapped her hand over her mouth. “Bella!”
Arabella grinned at her, unrepentant.
Grace lowered her hand. The laughter faded from her face. “What’s going to happen to that poor girl?”
Arabella looked across the ballroom at Gorrie. “Sir Arnold must be persuaded to support her.”
Grace looked doubtful. “Do you think that’s possible?”
“Yes.” Tom is very persuasive. She watched as Sir Arnold, in his perambulation of the ballroom, neared the refreshment room. How many of those sparkling jewels would Gorrie donate to Tom?
Adam St. Just exited the refreshment room, a glass of champagne held negligently in his hand. The two men came face to face.
Sir Arnold hesitated, and then inclined his head politely.
St. Just didn’t return the greeting. He stood and looked down his nose at the man, his expression one of utter contempt. Deliberately, disdainfully, he turned his back on the man.
“Oh!” Grace exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “A direct cut!”
Arabella nodded, reluctantly impressed.
The encounter hadn’t gone unnoticed. She saw a stir of interest among those close enough to have witnessed it.
Sir Arnold Gorrie’s face was scarlet, a color that didn’t go well with the orange-brown hue of his coat.
“He looks even more like a cockerel now,” Arabella observed, with quiet satisfaction.
Grace gave a choke of laughter. “Doesn’t he just!”
Arabella watched as St. Just walked towards them. His behavior this afternoon had been surprising. She’d expected him to turn tail and flee like Sir Arnold Gorrie. Instead, he’d done the opposite.
She chewed on her lower lip and observed him obliquely as he greeted his aunt.
St. Just turned to her. “Miss Knightley,” he said politely. “How do you do?”
“Adam!” Grace leaned forward, her face alight with adoration. “That was marvelous!”
“Er . . . what was?”
“A direct cut!”
To Arabella’s amusement, his sister’s admiration seemed to embarrass St. Just. He flushed slightly. “Oh. You saw that?”
“Yes,” Grace said. “It was magnificent! Wasn’t it, Arabella?”
Thus appealed to, Arabella nodded. “Worthy of Beau Brummell himself.”
