Emily May - The Unmasking of a Lady

An attractive man—until one noticed the way he had of looking down his nose at the world.

Arabella turned to Grace. ‘Do you know Miss Harpenden?’

‘Elizabeth Harpenden? Her sister Charlotte was at school with me in Bath.’

‘Charlotte isn’t in London?’

Grace shook her head. ‘She’s still in Bath. Her parents won’t let her come out until Elizabeth has married.’

Arabella tapped her fan against her knee and considered this information. ‘And Miss Wootton?’ she asked. ‘Do you know her?’

‘No. She’s from Yorkshire, I believe.’ Grace glanced to where Miss Wootton stood, attended by a number of admiring young gentlemen. ‘She looks like she’s enjoying herself.’ Her voice was wistful and slightly envious.

‘Yes.’ Arabella scanned the ballroom, looking for Elizabeth Harpenden. The girl was being escorted from the dance floor by a heavy-set young man with pretensions to dandyism.

Arabella felt a moment’s sympathy for Miss Harpenden. Her face was almost pretty, her figure almost graceful. In a smaller and more restricted setting she might have had a chance to shine; in London she was practically invisible.

Of course, if this Season’s beauties were discredited, Elizabeth Harpenden would be more visible.

Arabella tapped her fan against her knee and watched as Mrs Harpenden received her daughter. The woman’s manner was slightly bullying. A mother who scolds, rather than praises.

‘Are you engaged for the next d-d-dance, Miss St Just?’

Arabella looked up to see Viscount Mayroyd make his bow to Grace.

‘No,’ Grace said, blushing prettily. ‘I’m not.’

‘Then may I have the p-p-pleasure?’ The young man’s eyes were as blue as Grace’s. He had a very engaging smile.

Grace nodded. She gave her glass to her aunt and stood.

‘I like him,’ Mrs Mexted said, with a nod in the young viscount’s direction, once he was out of earshot.

‘So do I.’ Perhaps because of his stutter, young Mayroyd had a kind-heartedness that many of his peers lacked.

Arabella returned to her observation of Miss Wootton. The girl was clearly enjoying herself. But not for long, if Mrs Harpenden has her way.

Did the woman deserve a visit from Tom?

She tapped the fan against her knee and resolved to wait a day or so before deciding.

Adam woke reluctantly. He heard his valet, Perkins, draw back the curtains and closed his eyes more tightly, trying to burrow back into the dream, to recapture the pleasures of a soft mouth and fragrant skin, of dark ringlets gleaming in candlelight—

Dark ringlets?

Adam’s eyes snapped open. It was Mary, he told himself. But Mary had always been leisurely in bed; the woman in his dream had been eager 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.