The Unmasking of a Lady. Emily May

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      Adam grinned at her. Their affair was over—Mary no longer a widow, but once again a wife—but the fondness remained. ‘Would you care to dance?’

      ‘Far too fatiguing!’ Mary hid a yawn behind her fan.

      Adam laughed and took his leave of her. He retreated to an embrasure, where he leaned against the wall and sipped champagne and thought about what precisely he would say to Arabella Knightley. How dared she have the effrontery to discuss marriage with Grace—

      There she was.

      He experienced a moment of déjà vu, brief and dizzying. He’d stood like this once before: leaning against a wall, a glass dangling from his fingers, and watched as a young lady with sable-dark hair and an elegant face and eyes that looked almost black entered a ballroom. He’d been six years younger, half-foxed—and he’d stared at her and thought I want her.

      Adam straightened away from the wall. This time it wasn’t with appreciation that he watched Arabella Knightley across the ballroom. No one could deny she had style; it was in the way she moved, the way she held her head. Her beauty—the lustre of her hair, the darkness of her eyes, the pale glow of her skin—was merely fuel to his anger. He lifted his glass again, swallowed the last of the champagne, and set the glass down on a mahogany side table with a sharp clunk. He began to walk around the perimeter of the ballroom, pushing his way through the other guests.

      He had a bone to pick with Miss Arabella Knightley.

      

      Arabella escorted her grandmother to the card room. Playing cards—a pastime the fifth Earl of Westcote had thought unseemly for a lady—was his relict’s favourite activity in her widowhood.

      ‘Supper at midnight,’ Lady Westcote said, reaching for a pack of cards. Her hair gleamed like silver in the light falling from the chandeliers.

      ‘Yes, Grandmother.’

      Arabella turned her back on the card room and its elderly inhabitants. On the threshold of the ballroom she paused, squaring her shoulders and lifting 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. СКАЧАТЬ