He stood looking down at her, at her stockinged foot propped on the cushion. “How are you?”
Arabella blinked back tears. “I’m fine,” she said stoutly.
St. Just frowned. “Your ankle looks swollen. Can you walk?”
Arabella ignored the question. “Please, Adam, sit down. There are some things I must say to you.”
He transferred his gaze from her ankle to her face. “Very well.” He took the same chair Helen had vacated. His posture was nonchalant, but she thought he wasn’t as relaxed as he pretended to be; his expression was watchful, rather than open. “What are these things?”
Arabella swallowed. She twisted her hands together in her lap. “Firstly,” she said. “I wish to apologize for what I said to you yesterday in the park. You were right. I shouldn’t have gone to Lady Bicknell’s. It was very foolish of me, and . . . and very arrogant.” She took a deep breath. “And secondly, I’d like to thank you for your help last night. Without it, I would have been caught—”
“I nearly killed you,” St. Just said.
Arabella shook her head. “No. You saved me, and . . . and you helped me afterwards.” Her throat constricted at the memory of St. Just carrying her. “I’m in your debt.”
“Debt?” His forehead creased. “Nonsense!”
Arabella bit her lip. “Adam . . . why haven’t you said that you told me so?”
St. Just’s frown vanished. He smiled suddenly. “If you want me to, I will. But I’ve always found it a particularly unhelpful thing to hear.”
The warmth in his gray eyes, the wryness in his voice, made her throat constrict even further. I’ve been such a fool. Arabella gripped her hands together.
“Was that what you wished to say to me?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Good,” St. Just said. “Because there are a number of things I would like to say. Like you, I’d like to start with an apology.”
“Apology? For what?”
“For forbidding you to go to Lady Bicknell’s. As you pointed out, you are neither my dog nor my child.” Color rose in his cheeks. “I’m trying very hard not to be my father, but sometimes I find myself behaving exactly as he did. It . . . er, it’s something my wife will have to help me with.”
Arabella lowered her gaze. She stared at her clenched hands. Tears swam in her eyes. Don’t cry, she told herself fiercely.
“Arabella?” His voice was hesitant. “If . . . if I asked you again, would you consider marrying me?”
She bowed her head. A tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it away.
“If you don’t wish to, I perfectly understand,” St. Just said quietly. “But I’d like to assure you that my feelings for you are unchanged.”
Arabella closed her eyes tightly. “Adam, I can’t marry you. Lady Bicknell saw my face. Soon everyone will know I’m Tom.” And although she tried very hard not to, she began to cry.
“Bella . . .” St. Just moved. His arms came around her suddenly. “It’s not as bad as you think.”
“It is,” she sobbed against his shoulder. “She said Tom is a small man with a . . . a cleft chin and black eyes. And she saw I was limping—”
“No one will recognize you from that description,” St. Just said firmly.
“Helen did. And Lady Bicknell will, too, as soon as she sees me. So . . . so you see . . . I can’t marry you.”
St. Just relaxed his grip on her slightly. He handed her a handkerchief. “Here.”
Arabella blew her nose.
“Lady Bicknell isn’t going to see you,” St. Just said. “She’s leaving town tomorrow, never to return.”
Arabella wiped her face. “How can you be certain of that?”
“Because I have her word on it.” St. Just reached into his pocket, pulled out a sheaf of papers, and extracted three pages. He gave them to her.
The handwriting was familiar: Lady Bicknell’s. Arabella read with growing wonder. The confession was more than masterly; it was brilliant. When she’d finished, she stared at him in admiration. “Adam . . .”
He smiled at her. “You don’t need to worry about Lady Bicknell recognizing you.”
She moistened her lips. “No, but . . . people will wonder when they see I’m limping. There’ll be rumors— Oh!” She clutched his arm. “I have an idea! What if London sees me sprain my ankle?”
“If you can contrive it, I’m sure it will serve.” St. Just took hold of her hand. “Does this mean you’ll marry me?”
Arabella nodded.
St. Just’s fingers tightened around her hand. His smile was slightly crooked. “Is there room for me on that chaise longue?”
Arabella blushed. “Yes.”
St. Just picked her up and sat down again with her in his lap, taking care not to knock her injured ankle. Arabella rested her cheek against his shoulder, drinking in his warmth, his solid strength, inhaling the clean, male scent of him. I almost threw this away.
St. Just stroked her hair. “I apologize for yesterday.”
“It was my fault,” Arabella said. “I wanted to end our engagement.”
His hand stilled. “May I ask why?”
“Because I was afraid,” she said in a small voice. “I wanted to stop loving you.” Fresh tears filled her eyes.
“Do you love me?” he asked softly.
“Yes.”
His hand curved around her head, a protective gesture. “I love you, too.” He let out a breath. “I’ve never said that before. To anyone.”
Arabella closed her eyes. A tear slid down her cheek. Joy this time, not grief.
“What were you afraid of?” St. Just asked.
“Everything,” she whispered. “It’s frightening to love someone.”
His arm tightened around her. “Perhaps. But it’s also the most marvelous thing in the world.”
Arabella turned the words over in her mind. Yes, St. Just was right. It was the most marvelous thing in the world.
She lay in his arms, listening to his heart beating, feeling safe. There was deep joy inside her.
St. Just touched her chin, stroking the indentation. He tilted her jaw with a fingertip. His gray eyes smiled at her. “I love you, Arabella Knightley,” he said, and then he kissed her.
AFTERWARDS
ON THE AFTERNOON of June 1st, 1818, Miss Arabella Knightley was observed in Hyde Park, mounted on a black mare. To the
