by Emily Larkin
ADAM SAT IN the hackney with Miss Knightley—now dressed in a figured muslin gown and pretty chip bonnet—and her maid opposite. His hair itched and his skin felt as if tiny creatures crawled over it. The odor of the used clothes he’d worn lingered around him. He wanted—most urgently—to bathe.
The emotion rising in him as the hackney rattled through the more genteel parts of London was one he’d never experienced before. Adam let his gaze rest on Arabella Knightley. What he felt for her was more than mere desire, more than respect and admiration—although all three of those things were present. It wasn’t a tendre, but something much more full-bodied. Richer. Deeper.
He’d been searching for a bride; he’d found her. The woman he wanted to marry—was going to marry—was seated across from him in this shabby hackney. She was beautiful, but more than that she was strong and determined, clever, resourceful, compassionate, intelligent. In all respects, an exceptional person.
He heard his own voice of seven years ago—Marry Arabella Knightley? Certainly, if one wishes to live with the smell of the gutter—and grimaced. What a fool he’d been, then and a thousand times since: every time he’d looked down his nose at her, every time he’d disdained her upbringing.
He glanced at the signet ring on his right hand. Nobilis Superbia. Noble pride.
Blind foolishness, more like.
Adam returned his gaze to Arabella Knightley. Those dark eyes were looking at him. He thought he saw a faint question in them, as if he puzzled her.
Adam cleared his throat. “Miss Knightley, I . . .”
He became aware that Polly Highsmith was also observing him. The words dried on his tongue.
“Yes?”
He abandoned his declaration of love and embarked on a different subject. “Er . . . you’ll stop being Tom, won’t you?”
“Stop?”
“Yes.” He might admire Tom’s choice of victims and the punishment he meted out—but the risks Miss Knightley took were appalling. “If you’re caught—”
“I’ll be leaving London when I come into my inheritance. And when I leave, so does Tom.”
“Leave?” It was an ominous word. Adam felt a twinge of alarm. “Leave forever?”
“That’s my intention.”
“But . . . why?”
“Because I like the ton as much as the ton likes me,” she said dryly.
In other words, not at all.
“But . . . Mr. Higgs and the school—”
“I shall of course return to Whitechapel if the need arises.”
He heard her unspoken words: But not Belgravia. Not Mayfair.
Adam was aware of a sudden sense of urgency. When did she come into her inheritance? In just over two weeks. “Miss Knightley—”
The hackney came to a halt. He looked out the window. To his astonishment, they were already at Kensington Gardens. It seemed impossible that they’d traveled from a filthy slum to the well-kept gardens of a palace in so short a time.
He handed Miss Knightley down from the hackney. “You wished to ask me something further, Mr. St. Just?” she said, once they were standing beside the driveway.
Will you marry me?
Adam felt a surge of recklessness. “Yes.” He glanced at Polly. “In private, if I may?”
Arabella Knightley’s eyebrows arched in faint surprise. “Certainly.” She turned to her friend. “Polly, can you give us a moment, please?”
Polly stepped several paces away and turned so that she faced away from them; a maid, now, protecting her mistress’s reputation. Out of earshot, but only just.
Adam’s mouth was dry, his pulse suddenly beating twice as fast as normal. He was a St. Just, grandson of a duke, related to half the noble houses in England, wealthy beyond most people’s dreams—but he was aware that to Arabella Knightley his wealth and his heritage meant nothing.
She might very well refuse me.
Adam swallowed, gripped his cane tightly, and took the plunge. “Miss Knightley, I wonder whether you would do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Arabella Knightley blinked. He saw her shock: the widening of her eyes, the paling of her cheeks. “If this is a jest, Mr. St. Just—”
“No jest,” he said. “I’ve never been more serious.”
She shook her head, her eyes still wide, her lips slightly parted.
“I realize that this comes as a surprise to you, given my . . . er, comment on this subject seven years ago.” Adam flushed. “But I’d like to assure you of my admiration and respect for you, and . . . er, my affection.”
Arabella Knightley blinked again. “You want to marry me?”
“Yes,” Adam said, with complete and utter certainty.
She stared at him. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking; her face was expressionless, her dark eyes inscrutable. Finally she moistened her lips. “Mr. St. Just, thank you for your . . . most kind offer, but I—”
A town coach drew up alongside them. The bay horses, the sparkling equipage, the coachman and liveried footman, were familiar; Adam didn’t need to look at the coat of arms on the door.
“Mr. St. Just,” Arabella Knightley said, glancing at the carriage. “I can’t—”
She’s going to refuse.
“You needn’t give me an answer now,” Adam said hurriedly. “But please . . . think about it.”
She looked at him for a long moment, a puzzled crease on her brow. “Thank you, Mr. St. Just. I shall.”
Adam stepped back a pace and bowed. He watched as the footman handed Arabella Knightley into the coach. Polly climbed in after her.
The door closed. The carriage drove away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE FIRST THING Arabella did when she got home was bathe. She sat in a bath of steaming water scented with orange blossom and scrubbed the smell of the slums off her skin.
Usually a bath relaxed her; today it didn’t. She stepped out of the water as agitated as she’d been when she stepped in.
Her thoughts were in turmoil as she dried herself. St. Just was the last man—absolutely the last—she’d ever thought would offer for her.
Arabella twisted the towel in her hands. What do I do?
His offer was astonishingly flattering. Adam St. Just, of all people. One of the great prizes on the Marriage Mart, a man who’d had caps past counting set at him . . . And he chooses me?
Why?
He’d said that he admired her, that he respected her, that he had affection for her. She knew what he meant by that last word: affection. St. Just didn’t leer at her like Lord Emsley did, but she recognized the warmth in his eyes. He wanted her, as a man wants a woman.
Arabella shuddered.
“Cold?” Polly asked. “Here, stand in front of the fire.”
Arabella obeyed. She hugged the towel around her and stared into the flames. Her instinctive response to St. Just’s offer had been No—it still was. Because if she married him, she’d have to share his bed.
Arabella shuddered again.
She dressed automatically in clothes Polly had chosen for her: chemise, stays, petticoat, stockings, gown. Polly arranged her hair. “What do you think?” she asked when she’d finished.
Arabella stared at herself in the mirror without seeing anything. She had no idea what color her gown was or what style her hair was dressed in. “Lovely,” she said, while at the same time asking herself, What should I do?
* * *
HER GRANDMOTHER WAS hosting a card party, as she did twice a month. Arabella sat through an excruciatingly long dinner without hearing a word that was spoken around the table.
She stared at the grease glistening on the roasted partridges, at the sugar crystals scattering the pastries, at the violets wilting on the syllabub, and asked herself the same question, over and over: What should I do?
She chewed, not tasting the food, and laid down her fork at the end of the meal without the faintest idea what she’d eaten.
* * *
THEY SAT DOWN to tables
of silver-loo, whist, and rouge-et-noir in the drawing room. Arabella partnered her grandmother at one of the whist tables, but was too distracted to concentrate fully on the cards.
“I must say, Arabella,” her grandmother after they’d been soundly beaten, “that you’re playing remarkably ill tonight.”
Arabella bit her lip. “Forgive me, Grandmother. I . . . I have a headache.”
Lady Westwick’s expression softened slightly. “A headache?”
Arabella nodded. “With your permission, may I retire?”
“Of course, my dear.”
Arabella curtsied, dutifully kissed her grandmother’s cheek, and left the drawing room.
* * *
AS SHE CLIMBED the stairs, she decided to approach her decision in a rational manner. Accordingly, once she’d gained the peace and quiet of her bedchamber, she sat at her writing desk. Dipping her quill in ink, she wrote at the top of a blank piece of paper: For. And at the top of a second sheet: Against.
She tackled Against first.
The first item was easy: Arrogant, Arabella wrote neatly. Then she stared at the word. Was Adam St. Just really arrogant?
She chewed her lower lip. There’d been no arrogance in him today when he’d spoken with Harry and Tess, no arrogance when he’d made his astonishing offer of marriage.
Adam St. Just had a way of looking down at people, but was that due to arrogance, or a combination of height and a patrician nose?
Finally, after staring at the word Arrogant for several minutes, Arabella dipped her quill in the inkpot again and crossed it out.
She stared irresolutely at the Against list. What else could she put down? His statement all those years ago about the smell of gutters? It seemed churlish to, after he’d apologized.
She gnawed on her lower lip. Adam St. Just had only articulated what everyone else in the ton had been thinking—and still thought.
What a fool he’d look if she accepted his offer. How people would laugh at him!
That decided it; she wouldn’t put it on the list.
But that left the Against list with nothing on it.
Arabella frowned and rubbed her forehead, and turned to the sheet headed For. She would go back to Against later.
This list was slightly easier. Her quill scratched lightly across the paper.
He did apologize. Even though it had taken him seven years to do so.
Next on the list was: He rescued me from Emsley.
And then: He helped Jenny.
And: He wants to help with the school.
Philanthropy was a new venture for Adam St. Just, surely? Although his ex-mistress, Lady Mary Vane, ran a charity for indigent soldiers’ widows. Presumably he contributed to that?
Ah, that was something for the Against list. In the habit of keeping a mistress, Arabella wrote. That was a serious entry against him.
She tapped the quill against her chin. St. Just chose his mistresses from the ton, not the demimonde. Did such fastidiousness make his liaisons better or worse?
It was an unanswerable question.
Arabella chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. What else had St. Just done that could go on the For list, or the Against?
Memory came: at the Mallorys’ ball, after he’d cut Sir Arnold Gorrie, they had almost laughed together.
Sense of humor, she wrote on the For list.
And later that evening she’d learned of his propensity to gamble—another item for the Against list. A gambler, she wrote firmly.
Turning back to the For list, she tapped the quill against her chin again, before writing: Clever. Adam St. Just had figured out Tom’s identity, something she hadn’t thought anyone could do. He was more intelligent than she’d given him credit for.
What else? There were a number of other things that could go on the For list—his splendid physique, his skill on horseback, the lack of ostentation in his dress, his handsome face—but they could all be summarized in one short phrase.
Arabella bit her lip. At the bottom of both lists she wrote: I find him attractive.
She laid down her quill and stared at the lists. That last reason was the most important one of all. Being attracted to him was dangerous; it could tempt her into making a terrible mistake.
She might like Adam St. Just’s smile, might feel flushed and breathless when he waltzed with her, but the thought of being touched intimately by him, of sharing his bed, was—
Arabella shuddered. She couldn’t marry him, simply could not.
Therefore, she had to refuse his offer.
She screwed up the pieces of paper and crossed to the fireplace. The lists burned quickly. She watched as they crumbled into ashes. Gone.
Arabella bit her lip, feeling ridiculously close to tears. She turned away from the hearth.
Only one question now remained: How to refuse St. Just’s offer without hurting him?
* * *
HER CHANCE CAME the following morning, when she was riding in Hyde Park. On her third circuit, she saw Adam St. Just ahead of her, astride his gray gelding.
St. Just was easily as handsome as his mount: the ease with which he controlled the horse, the strong shoulders, the muscled length of his thighs—
Arabella averted her eyes. “Well, Merrylegs . . . shall we do this?”
The mare tossed her head and snorted. Arabella took that as a Yes. She blew out an unsteady breath. “Very well. Let’s give him his answer.”
In less than a minute she was alongside St. Just. He slowed once he saw her; the great gelding dropped back to a trot, and then a walk.
“Mr. St. Just.” Arabella inclined her head at him. “I’d hoped to meet you here.” She took a deep breath and launched into the speech she’d prepared: “I would like to thank you for your extremely flattering offer, but I must tell you that . . . that I’m not a suitable wife for you.”
His eyebrows rose. “Surely I must be the judge of that?” he said, with a slight smile.
The smile was disconcerting. Arabella clutched the reins more tightly. “Six years ago I put loaded dice in Lord Crowe’s pocket. Two of them. Uphills.”
The smile froze on St. Just’s face.
“When he pulled out his handkerchief, they fell on the floor. I believe you were witness to the event. It happened at White’s.”
St. Just made no reply. The smile had vanished.
“Lord Crowe was ruined. Society turned its back on him. Two months later he killed himself.” Guilt—and its accompanying nausea—rose in her throat. She swallowed. “I ruined Lord Crowe, Mr. St. Just. One might even say I killed him. I think we both agree that I’m not a fitting bride for you.”
Adam St. Just made no reply. He stared at her, his face utterly blank. There was no smile in those gray eyes; instead she saw condemnation.
Arabella bit her lip. She inclined her head. “Good day, Mr. St. Just.”
* * *
ARABELLA WAS SHAKING as she changed from her riding habit into a cambric dress. Absurdly, she found herself wanting to cry.
The shaking and tearfulness were symptoms of relief, she told herself as she went downstairs to eat luncheon with her grandmother. That she was also feeling a pang of regret was natural; St. Just’s proposal had been extremely flattering. Any lady must regret refusing such an offer.
Her spirits were low as she picked at her plate of cold meats.
“Do you still have the headache, my dear?” her grandmother asked.
Arabella looked up blankly. For a moment she had no idea what her grandmother was talking about; then she remembered. “No.”
“Did you use Hungary water? Very beneficial, I find. A dab at the temples, or perhaps a handkerchief soaked . . .”
Arabella stopped listening. She pushed her food around the plate. She had refused St. Just’s offer in a manner calculated to cause him the least hurt—but his opinion of her must now be abysmal. Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them fiercely away.
After luncheon, she found herself unable to con
centrate on her needlework or the book she was reading. Even the pianoforte and a piece by Beethoven—a combination she usually found easy to lose herself in—failed to hold her attention. Finally, she asked her grandmother for permission to visit the British Museum.
“Again?” Lady Westwick asked.
“There’s a horse’s head I wish to sketch.”
Her grandmother’s face softened into a smile. “How like your father you are.”
Arabella bit her lip and stared down at the carpet, a particularly fine Kidderminster in blue and red.
* * *
THE HORSE’S HEAD was one of the marbles brought to England by Lord Elgin. It had staring eyes, flared nostrils, and broken ears. A war horse, Arabella decided, opening her sketchbook and extracting a pencil from her reticule.
“Miss Knightley.”
Her heart gave a frightened little skip. She dropped the pencil. “Mr. St. Just! What . . . what are you doing here?”
“I followed you.”
“Followed me?” She glanced around for Polly and found her by the window, studying horsemen galloping across a frieze. “Why?”
“Because I want to talk with you. That tale you told me this morning . . . was it true?”
Arabella swallowed. “Yes.”
A frown creased between St. Just’s eyebrows. “Why did you place those dice in Lord Crowe’s pocket?”
“I thought that was obvious. To ruin him.”
“But why?”
“Does the reason matter?” Arabella asked, holding her sketchbook tightly. “I was responsible for Lord Crowe’s ruin, and his death. Isn’t that enough?”
His frown deepened. “I want to know why.”
Arabella looked at the pencil lying on the floor. She bit her lip.
“I’ve always approved of Tom’s choice of victims. So I want to know . . . why Lord Crowe? Why so harsh a punishment?”
Memory came rushing back: her mother’s cries rang in her ears, the smell of blood filled her nostrils.