“The ill-bred buffoon.”
Arabella Knightley smiled faintly. “Yes. That one.” She looked back at the pleated folds of cambric. “Frederick and his wife are like Sir Arnold Gorrie: vulgar and puffed-up and full of consequence. They’re quite stout, too.” She glanced at him. “My grandfather disliked stout people. He said it was a sign of weak character.”
“Spoken like a thin man,” Adam said, dryly, and won another fleeting smile.
“Mrs. Knightley went around the Hall fingering the curtains and asking how much the furnishings cost, and Mr. Knightley was full of the changes he would make. Everything was going to be newer, bigger, finer. My grandfather got crosser and crosser. It was very amusing to watch.”
“I imagine it was.”
Her attention returned to the cambric. She unpleated the fold of fabric. “And then one afternoon, while we were taking tea in the parlor, Mr. Knightley began talking about my mother. He called her a French whore and said it was well she was dead . . . and . . . and I was sitting right there in the parlor.” Her hand clenched around a fistful of cambric. “I was so angry I wanted to hit him. Except that my mother had made me promise—” She inhaled a jerky breath. “So I asked to be excused, and I went to the drawing room and played Beethoven.”
She smoothed the crumpled cambric. “I played Beethoven all afternoon, and when I finally stopped I found that my grandfather was listening.” Her mouth twisted into a smile. “He said that . . .” Her voice changed, she was quoting verbatim: “. . . that whatever my mother had been, my behavior was impeccable and that he was settling the bulk of his fortune and his properties on me, that his . . . his fat ill-bred buffoon of a cousin would get nothing except the title and the Hall—and much use either would be to him without any money!”
Adam grunted a laugh.
“And so you see, Beethoven has been my friend.”
“I do see.” He smiled at her. “Your mother would have been proud of you. Of your behavior.”
She raised a hand and touched the high-necked collar of her nightgown. “I hope so.”
Adam’s gaze sharpened. Was her mother’s portrait hidden beneath that fine, white cambric? “Are you wearing the locket?”
She nodded.
“May I see it again?”
Miss Knightley hesitated for a second, and then unfastened the buttons at her throat. She drew out the locket, opened the clasp on the gold chain, and held it out to him.
Their fingers brushed as he took the locket. The metal was as warm and smooth as he remembered. Adam opened the catch with his thumbnail and studied the portraits again. The faces smiled at him, so alive he almost expected to see them breathe. “You’re very lucky to have this,” he said, closing the locket. He looked across at her, seeing the dark eyes, the dark braid of hair, the pale skin exposed at her throat. “Come down here,” he said softly. “Let me put this back on you.”
She became very still, staring at him, and then did as he bid, uncurling her legs, climbing down from the armchair. She sat gingerly beside him on the rug and bent her head forward.
Adam placed the chain around her neck. “It’s the only thing I have from my parents,” Miss Knightley said, as he fastened the catch, his fingers lightly brushing over the nape of her neck. Her voice was faint and slightly breathless. He thought she shivered as his fingers touched her skin. Arousal, or fear? “That, and my mother’s books and music.”
He released the necklace, letting the locket fall back into its place. “Books?”
She raised her head and nodded, looking at the fireplace and not at him.
Adam examined her nightgown. It concealed her from throat to toe, yards of fabric trimmed with ruffles and twists of ribbon. Long, full sleeves were fastened at each wrist. Adam reached out and touched the ruffled cuff of one sleeve. “May I unbutton this?”
He saw her swallow. She glanced at him, and then swiftly away again. “If . . . if you wish to.”
“Tell me about your mother’s books,” Adam said, taking light hold of her wrist and unfastening the first button.
Arabella Knightley moistened her lips. “My mother taught me to read from them. English and French and Italian.”
The second button slipped free of its buttonhole, the third. The cuff was fully undone.
“The Italian was Novelle by Matteo Bandello . . .” Her voice faltered as he began to roll the sleeve up her arm. “And the French one was . . . was Fables de La Fontaine.”
Adam rolled the sleeve up as far as it would go. “And the English one?” Her forearm was bare, the firelight burnishing her pale skin.
“The English was . . . was—” She shivered as he lifted her hand to his mouth and laid a light kiss on it. “The English was Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe.”
“Defoe?” Adam turned her hand over and pressed a kiss into her palm.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He stroked his fingertips up her arm, from wrist to the hollow of her elbow. So slender, so smooth. “How does this feel?”
“It feels . . . dangerous,” she whispered, not looking at him.
“Dangerous?” He trailed his fingertips up her arm again, and then bent his head to follow that same path with his mouth. He thought she caught her breath when his lips touched her skin. He felt her tremble.
Adam kissed his way from her wrist to the sensitive inner hollow of her elbow. He tasted her skin with his tongue, and felt her tremble again.
Adam raised his head. Miss Knightley’s face was averted, her head slightly bowed. He saw the curve of her cheek and line of her jaw above the ruffled collar of her nightgown. As he watched she moistened her lips. “Mr. St. Just—”
“Adam,” he said, still lightly holding her wrist. Her pulse was tumultuous beneath his fingers. “And if you have no objection, I’m going to call you Bella.”
She swallowed. “No . . . no,
