“Are you engaged for the waltz?” Adam asked, bowing.
“No, but—”
“Then shall we sit it out together?”
She hesitated a moment. “If you wish.”
Adam offered her his arm. “What do you think of Revelstoke’s waistcoat?” he asked as he led her towards an unoccupied sofa. It was tucked into an alcove, quiet and out-of-the-way.
“Very pretty,” she said. “But Revelstoke is always pretty.”
They sat. Miss Knightley smoothed her gown over her lap in a nervous gesture. She was wearing ivory-white satin stitched with pearls.
Adam glanced at her throat. “You’re not wearing the locket.”
She raised gloved fingertips to touch the strand of pearls. “No.”
A pity. It would have helped his purpose. Adam cleared his throat. “Miss Knightley, your parents had a love match.”
She eyed him warily. “Yes.”
“Would you say that they were happy together?”
“I have no memory of it, but my mother always said they were very happy.”
“Miss Knightley . . . do you think they would have wished you to marry?”
She stiffened. “That is none of your business.”
“I think they would have wished it,” Adam said quietly. “I think they would have wanted you to have a marriage like theirs: happy.”
Her mouth tightened. She looked away from him.
On the dance floor, couples made their bows to each other. The strains of the waltz rose, mingling with the perfume and the candlelight.
Adam lowered his voice. “Miss Knightley, I know your mother found herself in distressing circumstances, that she was forced to do things that were extremely distasteful, but I believe—I know—that when she was with your father she enjoyed the . . . er, the marital act.”
Her head lifted. Her glare was fierce. “You are presumptuous, Mr. St. Just. No one can know that. Least of all you! You never met them.”
“I do know it,” Adam said quietly. “One merely has to look at the portrait your father painted of her. He adored your mother. And when a man adores his wife, Miss Knightley, he takes great care that she enjoys the physical side of marriage.”
She looked at him stonily.
“I know that you’re disgusted by the thought of physical congress with a man—and quite rightly so, given your experiences. But I believe your mother would have wanted you to marry. I believe she would have wanted you to find pleasure in sharing your husband’s bed.”
He saw her shudder, and hurried on: “The act of congress can be many things for a woman. For some, it’s a duty; for others, a pleasure; for still others . . . it’s something terrible.” He held her gaze. “You must believe, Miss Knightley, that I’d ensure you found only pleasure.”
She flushed and looked away from him. “This is an extremely improper conversation, Mr. St. Just.”
“Yes,” Adam said. “Isn’t it?” And it is about to get even more improper. He took a deep breath. “What I propose, Miss Knightley, is that you . . . er, try me out.”
Her head jerked around. The dark eyes were wide with shock. “That I what?”
“You’re afraid of something, disgusted by it—without having any personal experience of it. Let me show you how it should be between a husband and his wife.”
Arabella Knightley shrank back on the sofa. The flush was gone from her cheeks; she was quite pale. She shook her head.
Adam tried to let no hint of desperation enter his voice. “You are correct, of course,” he said, smiling affably. “It is a shockingly improper suggestion. But consider this, Miss Knightley: no one but you and I would ever know. In the eyes of the world your virtue would be intact. And I give you my word of honor you wouldn’t be with child.”
She swallowed. “It’s quite impossible, Mr. St. Just. I couldn’t—”
“You are the most courageous person of my acquaintance,” Adam said softly. “If any woman dares do this, it is you.”
She swallowed again and looked away from him.
“Answer me truly, Miss Knightley: would your mother have wished you to marry?”
Arabella Knightley closed her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. Her hands were clenched around her ivory fan.
“Then, please . . . accept my offer.” Adam lowered his voice until it matched hers, a whisper: “Try it. Try me.”
She sat for a long time with the fan clenched in her hands. Adam watched her, scarcely daring to hope, scarcely daring to breathe. He listened to the waltz, to the soft rustle of fabric, the low hum of voices, the shuffle of feet dancing across the polished floorboards.
At last Arabella Knightley raised her head and looked at him. He saw how afraid she was. She moistened her lips. “Very well.”
His relief was so intense that he felt almost dizzy. Adam took a deep breath and smiled at her.
She didn’t return the smile; instead she seemed to shrink into herself. “How shall we arrange it?” she asked, her voice as pale and colorless as her face.
Adam wanted to lay his hand comfortingly on her arm, but thought it would scare rather than reassure her. “I’ll go down to my estate for a week—on business, you understand. Grace shall accompany me; and as company for her, you’ll be invited.”
“A week?” She looked appalled.
“I’d visit you only twice,” Adam hastened to assure her. “The first time may hurt slightly, but the second . . . should only be pleasurable.”
Arabella Knightley didn’t look reassured; she looked ill.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ARABELLA TRAVELED DOWN to Roseneath Priory four days later, with Grace and her aunt, Mrs. Seraphina Mexted—and Lady Westwick.
Her grandmother had unexpectedly refused to allow her to go alone. “I mistrust Adam St. Just,” she had declared. “And after what he said seven years ago, I wonder that you should care to visit his home!”
In a second carriage, behind them, were their four maids. St. Just had gone down a day ahead, under the guise of attending to business.
Arabella sat and stared out the window, her hands clenched inside the swansdown muff. Memories churned in her mind: the ugly, animal sounds of sex, the rank smell of unwashed male, her mother gulping gin, her mother weeping.
There were nicer memories, too, twisted into the mess: her mother singing, her voice sweet and true, her mother
