Adam glanced at Arabella again. She was staring at her grandmother as if she’d never seen her before.
“Every year I bought your mother a birthday gift,” Lady Westwick said. “I kept hoping Edward would write, that he’d send his address—” Tears glistened in her eyes. “And then he did write, to tell us you were born, and I was so delighted, so overjoyed! But your grandfather burned the letter, and I had no address.” The tears spilled from her eyes. She made no move to wipe them away, just let them fall. “I bought gifts for you, too, and I put them carefully aside because I knew that one day I should meet you—” Grief twisted her face. “And then your mother came and told us that Edward was dead and . . . and William refused to allow her to stay. I ran upstairs, to get my money, but your mother— She was gone, and you with her. I sent my maid— I thought you might be putting up in the village, but they said the carriage had driven straight through—”
Lady Westwick’s hand clenched around the handkerchief. Anguish was fresh on her face, as if the events she was relating had happened yesterday, not twenty years ago. “After that, I had my maid sell all the gifts I’d bought, because I knew your mother would need money, not jewelry. I saved every penny I could spare from my pin money, I sold what trinkets I thought William wouldn’t miss, and I kept hoping and praying that your mother would write, that she’d come back one more time . . .” Lady Westwick’s voice trembled and broke. Her face crumpled.
Adam glanced sideways. Arabella was sitting stiff and motionless beside him on the sofa. Her expression was shocked.
Lady Westwick blew her nose. “By the time your mother died, I had over eight thousand pounds put aside for her.”
“Eight thousand?” Arabella swallowed. “I didn’t know . . .”
Adam reached out and took hold of Arabella’s hand. “What did you do with it, madam?” he asked quietly.
Lady Westwick didn’t look at him. Her eyes were fixed on her granddaughter. “Some of it I spent on music and drawing lessons—although once William saw how gifted you were, he insisted on paying for those himself, so that your talents could then be his.” Her mouth twisted contemptuously. “As for the rest . . . I kept saving, even after William had settled his fortune on you. He had such an uncertain temper. I was always afraid he’d fly into a rage and change his mind. I only stopped putting money aside when he died.”
Arabella said nothing. She didn’t move; she scarcely seemed to be breathing.
“I know you don’t need my money, Arabella, but . . . I should like to give you a . . . a gift that would make you happy.”
Arabella shook her head.
“How much is there, madam?” Adam asked quietly.
“Nearly twenty thousand pounds.”
It was a huge sum, a fortune. Enough for several schools. He glanced at Arabella.
She was very pale. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I know you hate me.” Tears filled Lady Westwick’s eyes. “And I know deserve it. I failed your father, and I failed your mother, and I failed you.” She looked down at the handkerchief, smoothed it with trembling hands, folded it. “I know I can’t buy your love.”
Arabella moistened her lips. “Grandmother . . .”
Adam cleared his throat. He squeezed Arabella’s hand and then released it. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he said, standing.
Arabella looked up at him. He saw tears in her eyes, shock on her face, confusion. “Adam . . .”
He bent and lightly kissed her cheek. “Talk with your grandmother.” Learn to know her. To perhaps love her. And then he bowed to Lady Westwick and left the room.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ARABELLA HOPED THE panic would subside; it didn’t. It sat beneath her breastbone during that last day at the Priory, it kept her awake at night, it accompanied her in the carriage back to London, it climbed the stairs with her to her bedchamber in the house on Mount Street. It stayed with her overnight and was there when she woke.
She hugged herself, shivering beneath the covers, and stared at the light leaking through the drawn curtains. This is all a mistake, a terrible mistake.
A ride in Hyde Park and an hour spent at the piano did nothing to calm her agitation. She played mechanically, not hearing the music. Her attention was focused not on her fingers but on the growing conviction it would be better if she didn’t love Adam St. Just, if she’d said No instead of Yes.
To love someone meant being vulnerable, it meant handing them your heart and soul, trusting them, giving them the power to hurt you.
When her agitation grew too much, Arabella pushed away from the pianoforte. She paced the room. She loved Adam St. Just. It was him, or no one. But—
I should have said No.
Lunch was a welcome distraction. Finding her way through the new, careful relationship with her grandmother gave her something to think about other than St. Just.
Arabella chewed slowly. She’d planned to sever the tie with her grandmother when she came into her inheritance; looking at Lady Westwick’s hopeful, tremulous smile, she knew that she couldn’t. It would break her heart.
A week ago she would have thought it fitting punishment.
Arabella laid down her knife and fork. In the past fortnight her world had turned upside down. Everything was frightening and new.
I’m going to marry Adam.
She felt a surge of panic. Her chest tightened. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.
Arabella reached for her glass. She swallowed a mouthful of water. The tightness in her chest eased slightly. “I need some time alone, Grandmother. May I go to Kensington Gardens?”
Her grandmother’s face fell. “Of course, my dear.”
Arabella felt a pang of guilt. “Thank you.”
SHE WALKED FROM the Long Water to the Round Pond to the sunken Dutch garden, hoping that the fresh air, the sunshine, the exercise would ease her agitation. Polly, in her guise of lady’s maid,
