ST. JUST SAT alongside her in the intimate darkness of the carriage. After several minutes his hand found hers. Their fingers interlaced.
Arabella sat bolt upright on the swaying seat while conversations drifted around her: Grace discussing the dancing, her grandmother discussing the cards. It would be easy to lean against Adam St. Just, easy to nestle into his warmth. Heat built inside her. She wanted more than this hidden handclasp. She wanted his mouth, his bare hands, she wanted his skin against hers.
It was shocking to want such things. Am I so wanton?
If they were married, she could have those things without being thought wanton: St. Just’s mouth, his hands, his skin against hers. If they were married, he could put his arm around her while they sat in the carriage, he could dip his head and kiss her, and when they reached the Priory they could do more than that—and she could be rid of all this heat, all this wanting.
They entered the Priory in a flurry of noise and movement: the clatter of heels on the flagstones, the swirl of petticoats and long dresses and cloaks, Grace’s laughter, her aunt’s amused response. Shadows and candlelight chased each other across the walls, and the high ceiling resonated with the sound of voices and footsteps.
On the oak table in the entrance hall were five candles in silver-gilt holders and a lamp.
Arabella watched while St. Just lit the candles one by one. Anticipation built inside her as each small flame flared to life. She was trembling by the time he turned to her. Say you’ll come to me tonight.
St. Just handed her a candle. “Good night, Miss Knightley.”
“Good night, Mr. St. Just.” Say it.
But St. Just didn’t. He merely smiled and said, “Sleep well.”
ADAM WHISTLED BENEATH his breath as he strolled into the library the next afternoon. Tonight he’d visit Arabella Knightley again. And after he’d made love to her, he’d ask her to marry him.
A love match? How very bourgeois. The voice was his father’s, cold with scorn.
His cousin, the new duke, would echo the sentiment. To hell with Frew, Adam thought. There was such a thing as carrying familial pride too far.
He walked across to one of the tall, arched windows and stood for a moment, staring out. He could see the hillside where he’d kissed Arabella yesterday. Memory intruded: her flushed cheeks, her soft mouth.
Muscles clenched in his belly. Adam turned away from the window. Tonight he’d finish what he’d started that first night. There’d be no pain for her, only pleasure.
He flicked through the newspapers lying on the table. Arabella Knightley wasn’t the bold lover who’d invaded his dreams; she was shy and inexperienced—which made her kisses infinitely more precious. Her London face, the bravado and the amused contempt, was a mask. Beneath it was the real person: lonely, brave, vulnerable—
A slight movement made him turn his head. A lady was seated on the sofa, diminutive, bird-like, white-haired. “Lady Westwick. I beg your pardon.” Adam bowed. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
Lady Westwick lowered the book she was reading and inclined her head.
Adam retreated a pace. “Don’t let me disturb you.”
Lady Westwick put the book aside. “You’re not disturbing me, Mr. St. Just. In fact, I had hoped to have the opportunity to speak with you.”
“Oh?” he said, politely.
“Yes.” She nodded at the sofa, an imperious gesture. “Please, sit.”
Adam walked across to the sofa and sat, amused.
Lady Westwick surveyed him for a moment, a scrutiny that made him feel like a slightly grubby schoolboy. He resisted the urge to check that his neckcloth was still perfectly creased.
“What are your intentions towards my granddaughter?”
Adam blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Lady Westwick leaned closer. Her blue eyes were fierce, her voice sharp. “Your intentions, Mr. St. Just.”
“I intend to marry her,” Adam replied mildly.
Lady Westwick’s lips tightened. “Why?”
Because I love her. “Because I hold your granddaughter in great esteem.”
“You?” Her voice was contemptuous.
Adam flushed. “Madam, I deeply regret any distress I may have caused your granddaughter seven years ago—”
“Smell of gutters.” Lady Westwick’s mouth twisted.
Adam shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “An error on my part. I have apologized to her—”
“Do you have any idea how much you hurt Arabella? Do you?” There were tears in those blue eyes now, fierce, angry tears. “The Season was difficult enough for her before you said that. Afterwards, it was terrible!”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I know. I’m very sorry for what happened.”
“You weren’t there,” she said bitterly. “You didn’t have to face the laughter, the whispers—”
Adam looked down at his hands.
“You’re the last person I should choose for her. The last!”
Adam looked up. “Madam, believe me when I say that I truly esteem your granddaughter. If she agrees to marry me, I’ll do everything in my power to make her happy.”
“Easily said, Mr. St. Just.”
He felt a stir of anger, and suppressed it. I’d be suspicious, too, if I were her. “Madam, your granddaughter is an extraordinary young lady, unlike anyone I know. She’s beautiful, clever, talented, and courageous.”
Lady Westwick stared at him, her eyes narrow, her expression hostile.
“She is also very lonely.”
Lady Westwick looked away abruptly. Adam watched as she blinked back tears.
“Believe me, madam, when I say that I want her to be happy.”
Lady Westwick groped in her reticule. “So do I.”
Adam handed her his handkerchief. “Madam,” he said. “Forgive me, but your relationship with your granddaughter—”
“She hates me,” Lady Westwick said, and wiped her eyes. “She always has.”
“Why?” he asked quietly.
Lady Westwick was silent for a long moment, then she blew her nose. “The day she arrived . . . she was standing in the entrance
