“How old were you?”
“Eight.”
“Your mother couldn’t have blamed you,” St. Just said softly.
Arabella opened her eyes. She looked down at the handkerchief. “No, but . . . Her beauty was the only thing my mother had to sell. Without it . . .”
“She could no longer be a rich man’s mistress.”
Arabella nodded. Only a poor man’s prostitute.
“I understand why you ruined Crowe.” St. Just’s hands clenched. “It’s well he’s dead, for I’d have to kill him myself.”
She looked at him. “No, you wouldn’t. It’s a terrible thing to have a death on your conscience.”
His hands unclenched. The fierceness of his brow, the hardness of his mouth, softened. For several long seconds he studied her face. “Do you regret it?” he asked finally, quietly.
Arabella looked away from that compassion. She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“Then I wish you had let me kill him.” St. Just reached a hand towards her, and checked the motion as a governess shepherding two girls entered the room. He stepped back a pace. “I think we need to talk further,” he said, picking up the sketchbook. “Shall we go to Kensington Gardens?”
“What?” she said, startled. “Now?”
“We can talk here, if you wish. Personally, I’d prefer a little more privacy.”
Talk? Arabella bit her lip. But what if he proposes again?
If he did, she’d have to refuse him. She’d have to tell him, to his face, that she didn’t want to marry him—however much she shrank from doing it.
Arabella took a deep breath. “Very well,” she said, clutching the handkerchief tightly. “Kensington Gardens.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THEY WALKED ALONG one of the more thickly wooded paths. Polly was several paces behind—within sight, but not within hearing. Arabella hoped her nervousness wasn’t apparent. There were a hundred places she would rather be right now.
Coward, she castigated herself.
“Miss Knightley, I should like to know why you told me about Lord Crowe this morning—and why you chose to portray yourself in such a villainous light.” St. Just’s pace was strolling, yet she thought he wasn’t quite as at ease as he pretended.
Was he nervous, too?
Arabella had a sudden flash of insight. Of course he’s nervous. If St. Just still wanted to marry her, he’d be dreading a refusal; and if he’d changed his mind, if he wanted not to marry her, he’d be dreading an acceptance.
“Why did you tell me, Miss Knightley?”
She took a deep breath and blurted out the truth: “Because I thought it would make you withdraw your offer.”
St. Just glanced at her. “I thought that must be your reason. But I confess, I don’t understand why. If you don’t wish to marry me, then you may tell me. I promise you I shan’t enact a Cheltenham tragedy.”
“I was hoping to spare you from . . . from any hurt,” Arabella said, and felt a blush rise in her cheeks.
She had the impression that St. Just relaxed slightly, as if an underlying tension eased. “So you chose to make me angry with you instead?”
“Yes.” She looked away from those keen gray eyes. Her gloves were fastened at the wrist with tiny buttons. She studied them. Mother-of-pearl, glinting in the sunlight.
“May I ask why you wish me to withdraw my offer?”
“Because . . . because I think we’re not compatible,” Arabella said, studying the buttons intently.
“You do?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “For a number of reasons.”
“Very well,” St. Just said in an agreeable tone. “Let’s discuss these reasons.”
“Discuss them?” She glanced at him.
“I realize, Miss Knightley, that this is a conversation you had hoped to avoid.” Amusement glinted briefly in his eyes, and then vanished. “But I would be grateful if you could bring yourself to discuss the reasons you believe make us incompatible.”
Arabella bit her lip.
“For my own part, there are a couple of . . . er, things, that I would like to discuss with you myself.”
“There are?”
He nodded, and then opened his hand to her. “Please, you first, Miss Knightley.”
ARABELLA TOOK FIRM grip of her reticule. She transferred her gaze from St. Just to the path on which they walked, the border of grass, the overshading trees. “By your own confession you’re a gambler, Mr. St. Just, and I’m very sorry, but I couldn’t bring myself to marry a gambler.”
St. Just was silent.
“The money, you see,” she explained, glancing at him. “I know you can afford it, but when I think of the waste, when I think of what a difference it could make to people’s lives—”
He grimaced wryly. “You need have no fears on that score, Miss Knightley. You’ve successfully destroyed any pleasure I had in gambling.”
Arabella stared at him. “I have?”
“Yes.” St. Just looked at her, his expression one of exasperation tinged with humor. “I used to enjoy gambling, you know.”
Arabella bit her lip again.
“Thanks to your . . . er, remarks, at the Mallorys’ ball, I no longer do. In fact, I still have three hundred and sixty-four guineas to give away.” His brow creased slightly, as if he’d had a sudden thought. “Have you ever considered a school for boys from the slums?”
“No,” Arabella said. “I’m more concerned with the plight of girls. But perhaps you’d like to start one?”
St. Just looked at her for a long moment, his expression startled, and then gave a sudden smile. “Perhaps I shall.”
Adam St. Just was a very handsome man when he smiled like that, his eyes creasing at the corners. Arabella returned her attention to the path. She cleared her throat.
“You had another reason to believe us incompatible, Miss Knightley?”
“Er . . . yes.” She could see the Against list in her mind’s eye. She hesitated, unsure of what words to use. Bluntness seemed best. “Your habit of keeping a mistress.”
St. Just’s stride seemed to falter. “My what?”
Arabella looked at him. “Your habit of keeping a mistress,” she said firmly.
“How did you . . . ? I thought I was very discreet!”
“You are.”
“Then how . . .” His eyebrows drew together. “Did someone tell you?”
Arabella shook her head. “I’m by nature an observer. I see
