Her spirits should have lightened as they left London and the ton behind; instead, with each mile they traveled, dread grew inside her until she wanted to vomit from it.
The only reason she was in the carriage, the only reason she held her tongue between her teeth instead of crying out Stop! I can’t do this! I have to go back to London! was another memory.
It had been near the end, when her mother was ill, hollow-eyed and coughing up blood. You are my princess, ma belle princesse, her mother had said, and then she’d smiled, a trembling, beautiful smile. One day you’ll find your prince.
The words turned over in her head with each revolution of the wheels. Arabella stared blindly out the window, seeing her mother’s smile, hearing her words: One day you’ll find your prince.
Her mother had wanted her to marry—and that was the only reason she was sitting in this carriage.
ST. JUST’S HOME was near Haslemere in Sussex, a distance of some fifty miles from London. It was nearing four o’clock when the coach slowed and turned, passing from the lane into private parkland. Arabella began to pay attention to her surroundings.
A vista opened between the stands of trees. “That’s Blackdown,” Grace said, pointing.
Arabella blinked, surprised to see a hill of such height and wild beauty.
“The ridge overlooks the Weald,” Grace said. “The view is magnificent. I’ll take you up there, if you like.”
Arabella nodded. “Please.”
Woodland closed around them again, the trees almost meeting overhead—and then came another vista: rolling parkland, wooded slopes, and—nestled in a sun-drenched hollow—Roseneath Priory.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Grace said proudly.
The Priory was a low, rambling building that looked a cross between a small castle and an abbey. It was very gothic, with gracefully arched windows and a tower, but there was nothing dark or forbidding about it; rather, it looked friendly and welcoming. In the warm, late-afternoon light, the honey-colored stone glowed, as if Roseneath Priory was smiling at them.
The coach swept to a halt in front of the Priory. The two footmen leapt down from the rumble seat at the back, their feet crunching on the gravel. They opened the carriage door, let down the steps, and stood to attention, magnificent despite their dusty livery.
Arabella stayed where she was on the velvet-upholstered seat, her hands clenched inside the muff. I can’t.
The great brass-studded door opened, revealing a butler and a phalanx of servants.
Arabella swallowed. I think I’m going to be ill. And then she took a deep breath and stepped down from the carriage.
ADAM DIDN’T MEET his guests until dinner. They gathered in the round drawing room. He observed Miss Knightley as she examined the tall windows. Did she like the traceried stonework? The pointed arches? The quatrefoils of colored glass?
He discovered he was holding his breath. He turned away. He wanted her to like it. She had to like it.
Adam gave Lady Westwick his arm into the dining room. Dinner was an informal affair, with conversation across the table. Miss Knightley spoke little and ate even less.
The first course was removed and the second laid on the table. Adam took advantage of the quiet bustle of the servants to lean over to her. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.
She glanced at him. He saw the strain in her pale face, in her dark eyes. Her smile was fleeting and perfunctory. It didn’t reach her eyes.
She looked more than afraid; she looked terrified.
THE LADIES RETIRED to the drawing room after dinner. Adam lingered over a glass of port.
He was feeling distinctly nervous. Everything rested on his ability to prove to Arabella Knightley that there could be pleasure in sex.
He fiddled with his glass, turning the stem between his fingers. What if he hurt her? What if he couldn’t make it pleasurable for her?
That’s why you asked her for a week, he reminded himself as he poured another glass of port. Tonight he’d take her virginity as painlessly as he could—and then, at the end of the week, he’d show her pleasure.
There should be a hum of anticipation inside him; instead there was apprehension. How did one arouse passion in a woman who was afraid of sex?
He picked up his glass and sipped the port slowly, thinking. Arabella Knightley feared sex because of what she’d witnessed in Whitechapel—therefore he had to give her an experience that was as far removed from those scenes as possible. Which meant . . . what?
He had to come to her clean.
He had to be gentle.
He had to be sober.
Adam put down the half-empty glass and pushed it away. Sober. Clean. Gentle. She mustn’t feel threatened. She mustn’t feel dirty. She mustn’t feel that he could harm her in any way.
But it is going to hurt her; she’s a virgin.
He rubbed his face, blew out a breath, and pushed back his chair.
PIANO MUSIC WAS coming from the drawing room. Adam opened the door quietly so as not to disturb the performance. He hadn’t realized Grace could play so well.
But it wasn’t Grace who was playing, it was Arabella Knightley.
He stood in the doorway, not wanting to move, not wanting to miss one note, one chord, while seconds stretched into minutes. Miss Knightley wasn’t just good; she was superb. The music that came from beneath her fingertips wasn’t flat and emotionless, it was alive, it lived and breathed, it sang.
He realized that his lips were parted, as if he was trying to inhale the music.
Adam shut his mouth. He stepped into the room and closed the door silently and stood with his back to it, watching Miss Knightley’s face as she played. She seemed lost in the music, her expression almost serene.
She was so lovely, so untouchably beautiful, that his throat tightened and he had to look away. Adam swallowed. He focused his gaze on the room’s other occupants.
Grace and Aunt Seraphina were listening with rapt expressions, Lady Westwick was—
Adam
