by Emily Larkin
“Crowe was one of your mother’s . . . protectors, wasn’t he? After your father’s death.” St. Just’s voice was low. “What did he do, Miss Knightley?”
Arabella cleared her throat. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Miss Knightley, you can hardly tell me that you ruined Lord Crowe and then refuse to tell me why.”
Yes, I can. She blinked back tears.
“I should inform you, Miss Knightley,” St. Just said in an affable voice, “that I’m a stubborn man. If you don’t tell me today, then I shall ask the same question of you tomorrow, and the day after that. It will be easier for us both if you tell me now.”
His hand cupped her elbow, drawing her towards a window embrasure. Arabella glanced around for Polly. She was still studying the horsemen.
St. Just released her elbow. He removed the sketchbook from her grasp and placed it on the windowsill. “Now, Miss Knightley: tell me. What did Crowe do?”
The undertone of kindness in his low voice brought more tears to her eyes. Arabella groped in her reticule for a handkerchief. St. Just handed her his own, a neatly folded square of white linen. “I beg your pardon—”
“I am perfectly fine,” Arabella said, annoyed with herself. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose defiantly. She found it impossible, though, to look him in the face. She folded the handkerchief. “Lord Crowe was the last of my mother’s protectors—as you called it. He . . . had a very violent temper. My mother was afraid of him, but . . . he was generous with his gifts. She hoped to save enough money to buy a house, so . . . we stayed.”
“And?” St. Just prompted, after she’d been silent for several seconds.
Arabella gripped the handkerchief tightly. “And one day he hurt her. Very badly.”
“Why?”
Arabella shuddered. “Because . . . he touched me.”
She wasn’t looking at Adam St. Just, but she was aware of him stiffening. “He what?”
She glanced at him fleetingly; his face was as grim as his voice.
“He came early to my mother’s rooms and . . . and he was drunk, and my mother wasn’t ready . . . and—” She could still feel Lord Crowe’s clumsy caress, still smell the brandy on his breath. “My mother came in and told him to take his hands off me and . . . he lost his temper.”
“You were right to punish him!” St. Just said. “By God, if Crowe was still alive—”
Arabella glanced at him again. “I didn’t punish Lord Crowe for touching me; I punished him for what he did to my mother.”
St. Just observed her for several seconds. “What did he do?”
She looked down at the handkerchief. “He beat her and kicked her—” The smell of blood was in her nostrils, nauseating. “There was so much blood. I thought she was dead.” Arabella no longer saw the handkerchief; instead she saw her mother’s face: broken, unrecognizable. “She lost a lot of her teeth. Her arm was broken and her ribs, and . . . she was blind in one eye afterwards.”
“Dear God,” St. Just said, half under his breath. “But she recovered?”
Arabella lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “She was half senseless for weeks. It took months before she was well enough to get out of bed, and by that time her savings were gone—” She turned the handkerchief over in her fingers. “That was my fault. I paid too much for everything. I thought— My mother’s maid, the woman Crowe had hired for her, took us in. She told me how much it cost for the room, how much for the doctor each time he came and I . . . I believed her. I gave most of Mother’s jewelry to her and all of the guineas. Everything she’d saved—” She stopped and took a shallow breath, squeezing her eyes shut against useless tears.
“How old were you?”
“Eight.”
“Your mother couldn’t have blamed you,” St. Just said softly.
Arabella opened her eyes. She looked down at the handkerchief. “No, but . . . Her beauty was the only thing my mother had to sell. Without it . . .”
“She could no longer be a rich man’s mistress.”
Arabella nodded. Only a poor man’s prostitute.
“I understand why you ruined Crowe.” St. Just’s hands clenched. “It’s well he’s dead, for I’d have to kill him myself.”
She looked at him. “No, you wouldn’t. It’s a terrible thing to have a death on your conscience.”
His hands unclenched. The fierceness of his brow, the hardness of his mouth, softened. For several long seconds he studied her face. “Do you regret it?” he asked finally, quietly.
Arabella looked away from that compassion. She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“Then I wish you had let me kill him.” St. Just reached a hand towards her, and checked the motion as a governess shepherding two girls entered the room. He stepped back a pace. “I think we need to talk further,” he said, picking up the sketchbook. “Shall we go to Kensington Gardens?”
“What?” she said, startled. “Now?”
“We can talk here, if you wish. Personally, I’d prefer a little more privacy.”
Talk? Arabella bit her lip. But what if he proposes again?
If he did, she’d have to refuse him. She’d have to tell him, to his face, that she didn’t want to marry him—however much she shrank from doing it.
Arabella took a deep breath. “Very well,” she said, clutching the handkerchief tightly. “Kensington Gardens.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THEY WALKED ALONG one of the more thickly wooded paths. Polly was several paces behind—within sight, but not within hearing. Arabella hoped her nervousness wasn’t apparent. There were a hundred places she would rather be right now.
Coward, she castigated herself.
“Miss Knightley, I should like to know why you told me about Lord Crowe this morning—and why you chose to portray yourself in such a villainous light.” St. Just’s pace was strolling, yet she thought he wasn’t quite as at ease as he pretended.
Was he nervous, too?
Arabella had a sudden flash of insight. Of course he’s nervous. If St. Just still wanted to marry her, he’d be dreading a refusal; and if he’d changed his mind, if he wanted not to marry her, he’d be dreading an acceptance.
“Why did you tell me, Miss Knightley?”
She took a deep breath and blurted out the truth: “Because I thought it would make you withdraw your offer.”
St. Just glanced at her. “I thought that must be your reason. But I confess, I don’t understand why. If you don’t wish to marry me, then you may tell me. I promise you I shan’t enact a Cheltenham tragedy.”
“I was hoping to spare you from . . . from any hurt,” Arabella said, and felt a blush rise in her cheeks.
She had the impression that St. Just relaxed slightly, as if an underlying tension eased. “So you chose to make me angry with you instead?”
“Yes.” She looked away from those keen gray eyes. Her gloves were fastened at the wrist with tiny buttons. She studied them. Mother-of-pearl, glinting in the sunlight.
“May I ask why you wish me to withdraw my offer?”
“Because . . . because I think we’re not compatible,” Arabella said, studying the buttons intently.
“You do?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “For a number of reasons.”
“Very well,” St. Just said in an agreeable tone. “Let’s discuss these reasons.”
“Discuss them?” She glanced at him.
“I realize, Miss Knightley, that this is a conversation you had hoped to avoid.” Amusement glinted briefly in his eyes, and then vanished. “But I would be grateful if you could bring yourself to discuss the reasons you believe make us incompatible.”
Arabella bit her lip.
“For my own part, there are a couple of . . . er, things, that I would like to discuss with you myself.”
“There are?”
He nodded, and then opened his hand to her. “Please, you first, Miss Knightley.”
* * *
ARABELLA TOOK FIR
M grip of her reticule. She transferred her gaze from St. Just to the path on which they walked, the border of grass, the overshading trees. “By your own confession you’re a gambler, Mr. St. Just, and I’m very sorry, but I couldn’t bring myself to marry a gambler.”
St. Just was silent.
“The money, you see,” she explained, glancing at him. “I know you can afford it, but when I think of the waste, when I think of what a difference it could make to people’s lives—”
He grimaced wryly. “You need have no fears on that score, Miss Knightley. You’ve successfully destroyed any pleasure I had in gambling.”
Arabella stared at him. “I have?”
“Yes.” St. Just looked at her, his expression one of exasperation tinged with humor. “I used to enjoy gambling, you know.”
Arabella bit her lip again.
“Thanks to your . . . er, remarks, at the Mallorys’ ball, I no longer do. In fact, I still have three hundred and sixty-four guineas to give away.” His brow creased slightly, as if he’d had a sudden thought. “Have you ever considered a school for boys from the slums?”
“No,” Arabella said. “I’m more concerned with the plight of girls. But perhaps you’d like to start one?”
St. Just looked at her for a long moment, his expression startled, and then gave a sudden smile. “Perhaps I shall.”
Adam St. Just was a very handsome man when he smiled like that, his eyes creasing at the corners. Arabella returned her attention to the path. She cleared her throat.
“You had another reason to believe us incompatible, Miss Knightley?”
“Er . . . yes.” She could see the Against list in her mind’s eye. She hesitated, unsure of what words to use. Bluntness seemed best. “Your habit of keeping a mistress.”
St. Just’s stride seemed to falter. “My what?”
Arabella looked at him. “Your habit of keeping a mistress,” she said firmly.
“How did you . . . ? I thought I was very discreet!”
“You are.”
“Then how . . .” His eyebrows drew together. “Did someone tell you?”
Arabella shook her head. “I’m by nature an observer. I see a lot of things people would like to keep hidden.”
He stared at her, his expression taken aback. After a moment he said stiffly, “My relationship with Lady Mary is over.”
“I’m aware of that. But it is your habit to have a mistress, and I couldn’t tolerate that in a husband.”
“Good,” he said dryly. “Because I couldn’t tolerate it in a wife!”
“The situations aren’t the same. It’s quite accepted for a man—”
“I give you my word of honor, Miss Knightley,” St. Just said, holding her gaze, “that if we marry I’ll be faithful to you. And I would expect the same undertaking from you!”
Arabella looked at him doubtfully. He radiated sincerity, but . . . “It’s hard to break the habit of a lifetime, Mr. St. Just.”
“Hardly a lifetime,” he said, a hint of humor coming into his voice. “When I was in my boyhood, I don’t believe I had a mistress. Although there was a serving maid at Eton with whom I was quite besotted . . .” His voice became musing. “I wonder what became of her?”
He was teasing her. Arabella flushed. “The habit of your adult years—”
“Miss Knightley,” St. Just said, all humor falling away from him. “My habit as an unmarried man has been to have a mistress; my habit as a married man will be quite different. That, you may be quite certain of.”
“Oh,” Arabella said, taken aback by the vehemence of his voice, his expression.
Adam St. Just held her eyes for a long moment, and then nodded, as if satisfied she’d understood him. “Do you have any more reasons?”
The last item on the Against list had been: I find him attractive. Arabella found herself unable to articulate this. “Er . . . you had some things you wished to discuss?” she said politely.
“That was the last of your reasons?”
“Er . . . no. But I should like to discuss yours first.”
Adam St. Just looked at her thoughtfully for several seconds, and then said, “Very well. The first thing is a condition I must place upon our marriage.”
A condition? That sounded ominous.
“If you accept my offer, then you must cease to be Tom. As of today.”
Arabella blinked. “Oh.”
“Much as I . . . er, admire your career as Tom, I’m appalled by the risks you’ve taken. As my wife, I couldn’t allow you to take such risks.”
“I intend to retire Tom upon my twenty-fifth birthday—”
St. Just shook his head. “You’d have to retire him now.”
“But— It’s little more than two weeks away! What if I see something—”
“It must be now, Miss Knightley.” His expression was stern. “Two weeks is ample time for disaster to happen.”
Arabella set her chin stubbornly.
“Miss Knightley, if anything should happen—” Adam St. Just swallowed and looked away. “By your own admission, you intend to retire Tom. What is two weeks?”
Two weeks was nothing. But even so, the principle of the matter was—
St. Just turned his head and looked at her. “Please,” he said simply.
The expression in his eyes, the quiet plea in his voice, were things she had no defenses against. Arabella felt a sudden rush of emotion, a tightening in her throat. She dropped her gaze. “Very well.” Her voice was a little gruff.
“Thank you.”
Arabella concentrated on the path, on the tiny chips of stone, the fringe of grass, the dappling of light and shade. She cleared her throat. “You had a second condition?”
“Not a condition; more . . . a question.”
She glanced at him.
“When I waltz with you, why do you . . . uh, sharpen your claws on me?” His smile was wry. “You see, I’d like to be able to waltz with my wife in harmony.”
Heat rose in Arabella’s cheeks. She looked hastily away.
St. Just strolled alongside her, apparently at ease. “I know you must have a reason, but I confess that I’m unable to decipher it.”
Arabella studied the mother-of-pearl buttons on her glove again.
“Do you sharpen your claws on Revelstoke?”
“No,” she said, as heat mounted higher in her cheeks.
“On Emsley, perhaps?”
“No.”
“Then why me?” St. Just’s tone was good-humored, plaintive, curious.
Arabella twisted a button between her fingers. “To . . . to distract me.”
St. Just halted. “To distract you? From what?”
Arabella stared down at the button. “I find it uncomfortable,” she said. “Waltzing with you.”
St. Just appeared to digest this statement for a few seconds. “But waltzing with Revelstoke isn’t uncomfortable.”
Arabella twisted the button back and forth between her fingers. “Not as much, no.”
“Or Emsley?”
She grimaced. “I dislike waltzing with him, but . . .”
“Not as much as with me.” St. Just’s voice was wooden.
I’ve offended him. Arabella nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
“Forgive me, Miss Knightley,” he said stiffly. “I must assure you that it’s never been my intention to make you uncomfortable.”
“I know,” Arabella said. “It’s my fault, not yours.” She clutched the little button tightly. “I don’t . . . I don’t like it when men touch me.”
St. Just took a step closer to her. His voice was harsh, “Miss Knightley, has anything happened to you that I should know about? Has any man other than Lord Crowe tried to harm you?”
“Oh, no!” she hastened to assure him, glancing up at his face. He wore a fierce frown. “I mean, once in the slums . . . But my mother hit him over the head with a skillet and he bled everywhere and—”
His eyebrows had risen, although his expression was still
fierce. “You intrigue me, Miss Knightley. I should like to hear more about the skillet.”
“Oh . . . well . . .” She fiddled with the little mother-of-pearl button. “It’s rather a long story.”
St. Just bowed slightly. He held out his arm to her. “I have ample time.”
Arabella bit her lip. She released the button and laid her hand on his arm. They began to stroll again.
“The skillet . . .” St. Just prompted.
Where to start? He’d be appalled if she told him the truth about her life in the slums.
Appalled enough to withdraw his offer?
Arabella took a deep breath. “We had a room in one of the rookeries. Mother . . . at first she used to work on the streets, but something bad happened to her . . . she never told me what, but after that she brought her . . . her clients back to our room.” Arabella glanced at St. Just. His expression was stiff, slightly shocked. “My mattress was in one corner and Mother hung a blanket so that I couldn’t see anything.”
She looked away from him and continued, “Mother was always very particular that I do things properly. She said that one day I’d take my place in Society—and it was essential I talk like a lady and eat like a lady and move like a lady. That I speak French and Italian, that I sew beautifully, that I . . .” Arabella shrugged. “She was determined that I become a lady.”
So many lessons: how to sit, how to stand, how to walk gracefully, how to sip from a glass, how to eat politely.
“Mother had a set of cutlery that she laid out every night. She used to pretend we had lots of courses to choose from.” Arabella could see the room in her mind’s eye, the stained walls, the mattresses on the floor, the tiny fireplace with its broken grate—and the miscellany of knives and forks and spoons laid out on the lopsided table. “I had to use the right ones.” She glanced at St. Just. “It was a game, you see.”
His expression was faintly bemused. He nodded.
“One night, while I was eating, one of Mother’s clients came. He wanted— Well, you can guess what he wanted. But my mother was very particular about dinner, and she told him to go away.”
She fell silent. After a moment, St. Just said, “I take it he didn’t?”