He stared at her, his expression taken aback. After a moment he said stiffly, “My relationship with Lady Mary is over.”
“I’m aware of that. But it is your habit to have a mistress, and I couldn’t tolerate that in a husband.”
“Good,” he said dryly. “Because I couldn’t tolerate it in a wife!”
“The situations aren’t the same. It’s quite accepted for a man—”
“I give you my word of honor, Miss Knightley,” St. Just said, holding her gaze, “that if we marry I’ll be faithful to you. And I would expect the same undertaking from you!”
Arabella looked at him doubtfully. He radiated sincerity, but . . . “It’s hard to break the habit of a lifetime, Mr. St. Just.”
“Hardly a lifetime,” he said, a hint of humor coming into his voice. “When I was in my boyhood, I don’t believe I had a mistress. Although there was a serving maid at Eton with whom I was quite besotted . . .” His voice became musing. “I wonder what became of her?”
He was teasing her. Arabella flushed. “The habit of your adult years—”
“Miss Knightley,” St. Just said, all humor falling away from him. “My habit as an unmarried man has been to have a mistress; my habit as a married man will be quite different. That, you may be quite certain of.”
“Oh,” Arabella said, taken aback by the vehemence of his voice, his expression.
Adam St. Just held her eyes for a long moment, and then nodded, as if satisfied she’d understood him. “Do you have any more reasons?”
The last item on the Against list had been: I find him attractive. Arabella found herself unable to articulate this. “Er . . . you had some things you wished to discuss?” she said politely.
“That was the last of your reasons?”
“Er . . . no. But I should like to discuss yours first.”
Adam St. Just looked at her thoughtfully for several seconds, and then said, “Very well. The first thing is a condition I must place upon our marriage.”
A condition? That sounded ominous.
“If you accept my offer, then you must cease to be Tom. As of today.”
Arabella blinked. “Oh.”
“Much as I . . . er, admire your career as Tom, I’m appalled by the risks you’ve taken. As my wife, I couldn’t allow you to take such risks.”
“I intend to retire Tom upon my twenty-fifth birthday—”
St. Just shook his head. “You’d have to retire him now.”
“But— It’s little more than two weeks away! What if I see something—”
“It must be now, Miss Knightley.” His expression was stern. “Two weeks is ample time for disaster to happen.”
Arabella set her chin stubbornly.
“Miss Knightley, if anything should happen—” Adam St. Just swallowed and looked away. “By your own admission, you intend to retire Tom. What is two weeks?”
Two weeks was nothing. But even so, the principle of the matter was—
St. Just turned his head and looked at her. “Please,” he said simply.
The expression in his eyes, the quiet plea in his voice, were things she had no defenses against. Arabella felt a sudden rush of emotion, a tightening in her throat. She dropped her gaze. “Very well.” Her voice was a little gruff.
“Thank you.”
Arabella concentrated on the path, on the tiny chips of stone, the fringe of grass, the dappling of light and shade. She cleared her throat. “You had a second condition?”
“Not a condition; more . . . a question.”
She glanced at him.
“When I waltz with you, why do you . . . uh, sharpen your claws on me?” His smile was wry. “You see, I’d like to be able to waltz with my wife in harmony.”
Heat rose in Arabella’s cheeks. She looked hastily away.
St. Just strolled alongside her, apparently at ease. “I know you must have a reason, but I confess that I’m unable to decipher it.”
Arabella studied the mother-of-pearl buttons on her glove again.
“Do you sharpen your claws on Revelstoke?”
“No,” she said, as heat mounted higher in her cheeks.
“On Emsley, perhaps?”
“No.”
“Then why me?” St. Just’s tone was good-humored, plaintive, curious.
Arabella twisted a button between her fingers. “To . . . to distract me.”
St. Just halted. “To distract you? From what?”
Arabella stared down at the button. “I find it uncomfortable,” she said. “Waltzing with you.”
St. Just appeared to digest this statement for a few seconds. “But waltzing with Revelstoke isn’t uncomfortable.”
Arabella twisted the button back and forth between her fingers. “Not as much, no.”
“Or Emsley?”
She grimaced. “I dislike waltzing with him, but . . .”
“Not as much as with me.” St. Just’s voice was wooden.
I’ve offended him. Arabella nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
“Forgive me, Miss Knightley,” he said stiffly. “I must assure you that it’s never been my intention to make you uncomfortable.”
“I know,” Arabella said. “It’s my fault, not yours.” She clutched the little button tightly. “I don’t . . . I don’t like it when men touch me.”
St. Just took a step closer to her. His voice was harsh, “Miss Knightley, has anything happened to you that I should know about? Has any man other than Lord Crowe tried to harm you?”
“Oh, no!” she hastened to assure him, glancing up at his face. He wore a fierce frown. “I mean, once in the slums . . . But my mother hit him over the head with a skillet and he bled everywhere and—”
His eyebrows had risen, although his expression was still fierce. “You intrigue me, Miss Knightley. I should like to hear more about the skillet.”
“Oh . . . well . . .” She fiddled with the little mother-of-pearl button. “It’s rather a long story.”
St. Just bowed slightly. He held out his arm to her. “I have ample time.”
Arabella bit her lip. She released the button and laid her hand on his arm. They began to stroll again.
“The skillet . . .” St. Just prompted.
Where to start? He’d be appalled if she told him the truth about her life in the slums.
Appalled enough to withdraw his offer?
Arabella took a deep breath. “We had a room in one of the rookeries. Mother . . . at first she used to work on the streets, but something bad happened to her . . . she never told me what, but after that she brought her . . . her clients back to our room.” Arabella glanced at St.
