A tear spilled down her wrinkled cheek. She wiped it with the handkerchief, not looking at him. “And Arabella said . . . ‘My mother is dead.’ Just like that. Politely. There was nothing in her face, but when she looked at William—I could see in her eyes how much she hated him.” Lady Westwick screwed the handkerchief up in her hand. “William didn’t notice. He only ever saw what he wanted to see.” Her voice was bitter, contemptuous.
Lady Westwick smoothed the creased handkerchief with trembling fingers. “I embraced her. I told her she was my darling. I told her she had a home with us and we’d look after her always—and I held her so tightly—and . . . and Arabella just stood there, and when I looked at her I could see in her eyes that she hated me, too.” Her face crumpled.
“I’m very sorry, madam.”
Lady Westwick sniffed into the handkerchief. On her bosom an eye stared balefully at him from a jet-and-pearl mourning brooch. Adam averted his gaze from it. “Madam . . . forgive me for asking, but . . . if you care so deeply for your granddaughter, why don’t you chaperone her more closely at balls? Why do you seek the card rooms?”
“She’s happier without my presence,” Lady Westwick said, wiping her eyes.
“She needs your protection,” Adam said, unable to keep censure from his voice. “From men like Emsley—”
Lady Westwick looked at him sharply. “Lord Emsley has been constant in his affection for Arabella.”
“Constant, perhaps—but he doesn’t respect her.”
Her mouth tightened. He saw that she didn’t believe him.
“Lady Westwick . . . we both want the same thing: for your granddaughter to be happy.” Adam held her gaze. “For her to have a home, a family, a husband who . . .” Who loves her. “Who cares deeply for her.”
Her gaze dropped. She pleated the handkerchief between her fingers. “You think you can make her happy?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all I want for her.” Lady Westwick’s mouth tightened. She looked at him. Hostility glittered in her eyes. “My husband wanted a man of consequence and wealth—which is precisely what you are, Mr. St. Just—but let me tell you that he would never have allowed Arabella to marry you!”
“Madam—”
“William never forgave you for what you said,” Lady Westwick said fiercely, the handkerchief clenched in her hand. “And neither have I.”
Adam sat silently for a long moment, looking at her, then he stood and bowed. “Good day, madam.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AFTER DINNER, ARABELLA played one of her favorite sonatas by Beethoven. Adam St. Just came to stand beside her afterwards. “An excellent performance, Miss Knightley,” he said in a loud voice, and then, more quietly, so that she scarcely heard him: “May I visit you tonight?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. She busied herself tidying the sheets of music. “Yes.”
The longcase clock in the hall struck ten as Arabella climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. She glanced back from the half-landing. St. Just stood in the hallway, watching her.
Arabella blushed, and almost tripped over a step.
In her bedroom, a fire burned in the grate and the coverlet had carefully been turned back. Polly chattered cheerfully as she helped her prepare for the night. Arabella scarcely heard a word; her attention was on the little ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, on the movement of the hands around the engraved dial. She couldn’t decide whether time was moving too fast or too slowly.
She heard the longcase clock strike the quarter hour downstairs, and then the half hour. She washed her face and brushed her teeth and braided her hair, aware of the minutes ticking inexorably past.
Polly left when the hour was three quarters gone.
Arabella stood for a moment in the middle of the bedchamber, staring at the ormolu clock. The minute hand seemed hardly to be moving. Should she sit in the armchair and read or . . . or . . .
No, not the bed.
Arabella resolutely averted her gaze from the four-poster with its turned-back coverlet. She walked across to the armchair and sat with her feet tucked under her, trying to pretend to herself that everything was normal. She opened the second volume of Northanger Abbey and turned to the page she’d marked, but her thoughts were too disordered to make sense of the words. Anticipation and apprehension churned inside her in equal measure, making the words jerk about on the page. Finally she laid the book aside and hugged her knees, staring at the fire, wanting St. Just to come, shrinking from it. If only he’d chosen last night, when she’d been so eager for his touch—
A faint sound drew her attention. She turned her head. The door was open. Adam St. Just stood on the threshold.
Arabella’s heart began to beat faster.
St. Just closed the door. He walked over to the fireplace, bare-footed, silent, and stood looking down at her, his eyes dark, a faint smile on his lips. “Not reading?”
Arabella shook her head mutely.
St. Just extended his hand to her. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it. His fingers closed over hers. He drew her to her feet.
Arabella moistened her lips. She was aware of the four-poster behind them. Not the bed. Not yet. “Adam?”
He smiled at her. “Sit here on the rug, beside me.”
She felt a surge of relief.
St. Just released her hand. He settled himself on the rug. Arabella sat alongside him. She hugged her knees and glanced at his face.
St. Just caught the glance and smiled at her, firelight and shadows flickering in his eyes. He reached out and lightly touched her face. She shivered as his fingers trailed down her cheek and along her jaw. He traced the cleft in her chin with a fingertip, so lightly that it drew another shiver from her, and then he tilted her face up and kissed
