He heard her unspoken words: But not Belgravia. Not Mayfair.
Adam was aware of a sudden sense of urgency. When did she come into her inheritance? In just over two weeks. “Miss Knightley—”
The hackney came to a halt. He looked out the window. To his astonishment, they were already at Kensington Gardens. It seemed impossible that they’d traveled from a filthy slum to the well-kept gardens of a palace in so short a time.
He handed Miss Knightley down from the hackney. “You wished to ask me something further, Mr. St. Just?” she said, once they were standing beside the driveway.
Will you marry me?
Adam felt a surge of recklessness. “Yes.” He glanced at Polly. “In private, if I may?”
Arabella Knightley’s eyebrows arched in faint surprise. “Certainly.” She turned to her friend. “Polly, can you give us a moment, please?”
Polly stepped several paces away and turned so that she faced away from them; a maid, now, protecting her mistress’s reputation. Out of earshot, but only just.
Adam’s mouth was dry, his pulse suddenly beating twice as fast as normal. He was a St. Just, grandson of a duke, related to half the noble houses in England, wealthy beyond most people’s dreams—but he was aware that to Arabella Knightley his wealth and his heritage meant nothing.
She might very well refuse me.
Adam swallowed, gripped his cane tightly, and took the plunge. “Miss Knightley, I wonder whether you would do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Arabella Knightley blinked. He saw her shock: the widening of her eyes, the paling of her cheeks. “If this is a jest, Mr. St. Just—”
“No jest,” he said. “I’ve never been more serious.”
She shook her head, her eyes still wide, her lips slightly parted.
“I realize that this comes as a surprise to you, given my . . . er, comment on this subject seven years ago.” Adam flushed. “But I’d like to assure you of my admiration and respect for you, and . . . er, my affection.”
Arabella Knightley blinked again. “You want to marry me?”
“Yes,” Adam said, with complete and utter certainty.
She stared at him. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking; her face was expressionless, her dark eyes inscrutable. Finally she moistened her lips. “Mr. St. Just, thank you for your . . . most kind offer, but I—”
A town coach drew up alongside them. The bay horses, the sparkling equipage, the coachman and liveried footman, were familiar; Adam didn’t need to look at the coat of arms on the door.
“Mr. St. Just,” Arabella Knightley said, glancing at the carriage. “I can’t—”
She’s going to refuse.
“You needn’t give me an answer now,” Adam said hurriedly. “But please . . . think about it.”
She looked at him for a long moment, a puzzled crease on her brow. “Thank you, Mr. St. Just. I shall.”
Adam stepped back a pace and bowed. He watched as the footman handed Arabella Knightley into the coach. Polly climbed in after her.
The door closed. The carriage drove away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE FIRST THING Arabella did when she got home was bathe. She sat in a bath of steaming water scented with orange blossom and scrubbed the smell of the slums off her skin.
Usually a bath relaxed her; today it didn’t. She stepped out of the water as agitated as she’d been when she stepped in.
Her thoughts were in turmoil as she dried herself. St. Just was the last man—absolutely the last—she’d ever thought would offer for her.
Arabella twisted the towel in her hands. What do I do?
His offer was astonishingly flattering. Adam St. Just, of all people. One of the great prizes on the Marriage Mart, a man who’d had caps past counting set at him . . . And he chooses me?
Why?
He’d said that he admired her, that he respected her, that he had affection for her. She knew what he meant by that last word: affection. St. Just didn’t leer at her like Lord Emsley did, but she recognized the warmth in his eyes. He wanted her, as a man wants a woman.
Arabella shuddered.
“Cold?” Polly asked. “Here, stand in front of the fire.”
Arabella obeyed. She hugged the towel around her and stared into the flames. Her instinctive response to St. Just’s offer had been No—it still was. Because if she married him, she’d have to share his bed.
Arabella shuddered again.
She dressed automatically in clothes Polly had chosen for her: chemise, stays, petticoat, stockings, gown. Polly arranged her hair. “What do you think?” she asked when she’d finished.
Arabella stared at herself in the mirror without seeing anything. She had no idea what color her gown was or what style her hair was dressed in. “Lovely,” she said, while at the same time asking herself, What should I do?
HER GRANDMOTHER WAS hosting a card party, as she did twice a month. Arabella sat through an excruciatingly long dinner without hearing a word that was spoken around the table.
She stared at the grease glistening on the roasted partridges, at the sugar crystals scattering the pastries, at the violets wilting on the syllabub, and asked herself the same question, over and over: What should I do?
She chewed, not tasting the food, and laid down her fork at the end of the meal without the faintest idea what she’d eaten.
THEY SAT DOWN to tables of silver-loo, whist, and rouge-et-noir in the drawing room. Arabella partnered her grandmother at one of the whist tables, but was too distracted to concentrate fully on the cards.
“I must say, Arabella,” her grandmother after they’d been soundly beaten, “that you’re playing remarkably ill tonight.”
Arabella bit her lip. “Forgive me, Grandmother. I . . . I have a headache.”
Lady Westwick’s expression softened slightly. “A headache?”
Arabella nodded. “With your permission, may I retire?”
“Of course, my dear.”
Arabella curtsied, dutifully kissed her grandmother’s cheek, and left the drawing room.
AS SHE CLIMBED the stairs, she decided to approach her decision in a rational manner. Accordingly, once she’d gained the peace and quiet of her bedchamber, she sat at her writing desk. Dipping her quill in ink, she wrote at the top of a blank piece
