by Emily Larkin
Adam raised his head. Miss Knightley’s face was averted, her head slightly bowed. He saw the curve of her cheek and line of her jaw above the ruffled collar of her nightgown. As he watched she moistened her lips. “Mr. St. Just—”
“Adam,” he said, still lightly holding her wrist. Her pulse was tumultuous beneath his fingers. “And if you have no objection, I’m going to call you Bella.”
She swallowed. “No . . . no, I don’t mind.”
“Look at me, Bella,” he said softly.
She did, lifting her head, glancing at him. Her face was no longer as pale as it had been. A flush tinted her skin.
“I need you to trust me,” he said quietly, holding her eyes. “I need you to know that I’m not going to harm you in any way.”
Arabella Knightley swallowed, and then nodded. “I trust you,” she whispered, and then she blushed and looked away from him.
Adam stroked the inside of her wrist and felt her shiver again. “Good,” he said. “Because it’s going to feel a lot more dangerous than this.” And then he proceeded to show her, unbuttoning her other cuff, rolling the sleeve up, trailing his fingers up her arm and then doing the same with his mouth, making her shiver, making her blush. Then he peeled back the ruffled collar and lightly teased her throat with his fingertips, with his lips. He didn’t kiss her mouth, didn’t touch her breasts, didn’t try to remove her nightgown—nothing that might frighten her, nothing that might make her feel threatened.
Arousal began to build in him. The warmth rising inside him had nothing to do with the fire, and everything to do with the smooth texture of Arabella Knightley’s skin, the taste of her on his tongue. Take it slowly, Adam told himself. He kissed her temple, smelling the orange-blossom scent of her hair—and then lightly touched her ankle, lightly skimmed his hand up her leg. She stiffened.
“Does this feel dangerous?” Adam whispered against her temple, and stroked again, ankle, calf, the sensitive hollow of her knee.
She shivered. “Yes.”
He pressed a kiss into her hair. “Good,” he said, and pushed the footstool away. “Lie down here, alongside me.”
“Adam . . .” He heard nervousness in her voice.
Adam kissed her cheek lightly. It was warm, flushed. “Trust me,” he whispered.
He watched her face as he lightly explored beneath the nightgown, his fingers tracing paths from her ankles to her knees. Her cheeks grew pinker and her eyes even darker. His own arousal began to spiral inside him, not urgent yet, but building, tightening. When he judged her ready, he slid his hand higher, exploring the silky skin of her inner thigh with light fingertips, stroking, teasing, until she was breathless and trembling. “Adam . . .”
“Mmm?” He slid his hand higher, touching soft curls.
She gasped.
“Dangerous?” he asked in her ear.
“Yes.” It was a low, breathless whisper.
Adam smiled, and began to stroke her teasingly, rhythmically.
She gasped again and stiffened. Her fingers gripped his dressing gown. “Adam.”
“Relax,” he whispered into her ear. “Enjoy.”
He could feel her arousal beneath his hand, warm and damp, he could hear it in her ragged breathing, see it in her heated cheeks, could smell it—a faint, tantalizing fragrance that made the muscles in his groin tighten fiercely.
Adam slid his fingers inside her. She was tight, hot, wet. His erection surged against his dressing gown. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on what he was doing: teasing, drawing pleasure from her, making her pant, making her clutch the lapels of his dressing gown more tightly.
The helpless movement of her body beneath his hand almost pushed him over the edge. When the waves of pleasure surged through her, he felt an answering surge in his own body and nearly climaxed, too. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and held tightly to his control.
She let out a long, shuddering breath. He felt her body relax.
Adam chuckled. He opened his eyes. “Dangerous?”
“Very,” she whispered. Her face was turned to him, her eyes huge and dark, her cheeks flushed. Her braided hair was tumbled on the floor behind her.
Adam stared at her. I love you.
He swallowed, and glanced at the bed. From this angle it loomed even larger, was even more tomb-like, with its heavy frame and ample canopy.
It would be an easy matter to pick her up, carry her to the bed, and lay her gently on it, but he couldn’t bring himself to push up from the floor. The bed had intent; here on the rug there was nothing but firelight and warmth, nothing to scare her, nothing to intimidate her.
Adam turned back to her. “This next bit will probably hurt. I’ll try to . . . to be quick.”
He was trembling as he slid the nightgown up her legs, trembling as he untied his belt, as the dressing gown fell open. His hand shook as he gently parted her legs. “I’m sorry,” he said as he positioned himself over her. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
Arabella Knightley’s eyes were dark and grave, but her mouth smiled faintly at him. “It’s all right, Adam,” she whispered.
Adam bowed his head. God give me strength. He took a deep breath and entered her in one, swift movement.
She flinched. He felt her stiffen, heard her gasp with pain.
Adam froze, fully sheathed in her. I’m hurting her.
His body urged him to move, to thrust into her again, to find release. Adam held himself still, his head bowed and his eyes clenched shut. Arabella lay tense and unmoving beneath him. He couldn’t hear her breathe. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely against her cheek.
She released her breath. “Don’t be.”
Adam felt a surge of tenderness—intense, shocking—and almost lost his control. His hips moved once, thrusting, and he withdrew hastily, groping for the handkerchief in his pocket. He came swiftly and quietly into it. The force of his release left him shaking.
Adam belted his dressing gown with trembling fingers and helped Arabella to pull down her nightgown, smoothing it over her legs. Then he drew her into his arms, hugging her into the curve of his body.
She didn’t nestle into him, nor did she pull away. She lay quietly. She trusts me.
The realization brought tightness to Adam’s throat. It was frightening to love Arabella Knightley this much—frightening to know she could still refuse his offer.
Gradually his pulse slowed and his breathing steadied. When he was certain he had control of his voice, he asked: “Was that . . . too dreadful?”
She shook her head.
Adam pressed his face into her hair. “Next time it won’t hurt,” he said. “I promise.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ARABELLA SET UP her easel and gazed at the scene in front of her. The estate was spread out at her feet: the parkland and woodland in their different shades of green, the mellow honey-colored Priory tucked in its sunny hollow, the lazy glint of the brook, the broad windswept hump of Blackdown. And above, a blue sky with a few wisps of white cloud.
She hummed as she prepared her paints. Such a beautiful place, this. Magically beautiful. The days ran together, full of sunshine and beauty. Even when it rained, the Priory still felt as if it was bathed in sunlight—the golden stone, the beauty, the sense of safety.
There was so much peace here: in the cloister where roses unfurled their petals and filled the air with their scent, in the walled gardens behind the Priory where fruit trees and vegetables grew in tidy, cheerful rows, in the long stone-flagged passageways with their high-arched ceilings, even in the cool, fan-vaulted cellars. Everywhere, there was peace.
Roseneath Priory felt apart from the world. It felt safe. It felt home.
Arabella stopped humming. Roseneath Priory wasn’t her home; it was Adam St. Just’s.
But I want it to be mine.
She glanced at the scene in front of her: meadows and stands of trees, the Priory. This would be hers if she married St. Just.
Arabella frowned as she sele
cted a brush. Was it the Priory she wanted, or Adam St. Just, or both?
It was an important question; one she needed to know the answer to. To marry St. Just because she wanted his home would be a terrible mistake to make.
Arabella tested the brush between her fingertips. The tuft was soft and flexible. Do I want to marry him?
That first night—the rug, the firelight, the candlelight—seemed almost a dream. She had spent most of the past three days in Grace’s company. St. Just, when she’d seen him, had played the host, not the lover—but she could vividly remember the lover: his gentle touch, his murmured words.
Her skin shivered in memory.
Arabella cleared her throat. She focused on the easel, on the sheet of paper. She had penciled in the outlines yesterday, very faintly. Today she would make a start on the brushwork.
* * *
THE PRIORY WAS painted, in warm tones of yellow and brown, and the sky with its wisps of clouds, when she heard a horse approaching.
Arabella turned her head.
Adam St. Just was coming along the hillside towards her astride a big bay gelding.
Her fingers tightened around the paintbrush. Her heart began to beat faster.
The big bay came up to the blanket she’d spread on the grass and halted. St. Just bowed in the saddle. “Miss Knightley,” he said. “Bella.”
Arabella swallowed nervously. “Good afternoon.”
He wore the clothes of a country gentleman: dun-colored coat, plain waistcoat, breeches, and top boots. He looked much more approachable than he did in London.
She put down the paintbrush.
“Don’t stop,” St. Just said.
“The paint needs to dry before I start the next section.”
“Then perhaps you’ll have a glass of lemonade with me?”
She glanced at him in query, and saw the small basket tied to the saddle.
Arabella slowly cleaned the brush while St. Just laid the contents of the basket on the blanket: a flask of lemonade, macaroons, plates and glasses and napkins. Where should she sit? Close to him? At a distance? For a long moment she hesitated, and then chose a spot that was close to him, but not too close. A friendly distance.
St. Just poured a glass of lemonade and handed it to her. “Grace didn’t want to paint?”
“She had letters to write.” Arabella tasted the lemonade. It was cool and tart, delicious.
St. Just politely offered her a macaroon. It was still warm from the oven. She took one and bit into it, tasting sugar and coconut. She watched as he poured himself lemonade and selected a macaroon. He’d taken off his hat and riding gloves. He had strong, lean hands.
Arabella remembered how his hands had felt on her skin. She looked hastily away, feeling suddenly awkward. St. Just had touched her so intimately—
She stared down at the glass she held. Condensation beaded on it.
“May I?”
She glanced at him. He gestured to her sketchbook, lying closed on the blanket.
“Of course.”
She sipped the lemonade and watched St. Just turn the pages. The book was one she’d started since coming here. The first few pages were filled with sketches of the windows, the gothic tracery, the trefoils and quatrefoils. Then she’d drawn the cloister and its roses, the library with its canopied alcoves, the walled kitchen gardens.
Next came the little chapel, where she’d sat in an oak pew with the rest of the household while St. Just had given a reading that was simple and sincere and had made her grandmother murmur with approval. After that came various views of the estate, of the ridge of Blackdown with its pines and wild heather.
Above them, a skylark sang. She heard the drowsy hum of bees, the sound of St. Just’s horse cropping grass, the rustle of paper as he turned each page. Her memory of that marvelous, frightening hour on the rug faded; her awkwardness became that of an artist. What did St. Just think of each sketch? Did he see the mistakes she’d made—or the greater picture? Could he see her love for his home?
He gave a snort of laughter.
Arabella put down her glass. “What?” she said, shifting closer to him on the blanket.
“This.”
She looked over his arm. Ah, he’d come to the caricatures she’d drawn for Grace: the butler, Fiscus, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Bidwell.
She bit her lip and glanced at St. Just. Laughter creased the corners of his eyes.
Arabella was conscious of a flush of pleasure. He liked the caricatures.
She returned her gaze to the drawings, examining them. Fiscus was a stork, with his height, his thin arms and legs, his long face and jutting beak of a nose. Mrs. Bidwell was a bustling hen, round-cheeked and plump and cheerful. Arabella had taken the time to add clothing and a few touches of color. Fiscus had a tall hat and black tail coat and gray plumage; Mrs. Bidwell, a crisp apron and rosy cheeks and brown feathers.
St. Just brushed a fingertip over the drawings. “Very clever,” he said.
Arabella blushed. She became aware of their closeness, the way their arms almost touched, and drew back.
“No,” St. Just said, putting down the sketchbook. He reached for her wrist, lightly clasped it. “Stay here, beside me.”
Her cheeks became hotter.
St. Just smiled at her, with his eyes, with his mouth. “Please?”
Arabella hesitated, and then allowed him to draw her back to where she’d been sitting. She looked at him shyly from beneath the brim of her bonnet. This was different from the rug and the firelight. She could see him clearly: the gray of his eyes, the glints of gold in his brown hair.
One of his fingers stroked her wrist, drawing a shiver of pleasure from her. “Do you mind if I do this?” he asked softly, leaning towards her, touching his lips to the corner of her mouth, drawing back to look at her.
Her cheeks became even hotter. “No,” she whispered.
St. Just smiled. He leaned forward and kissed her again, lightly, softly.
Arabella trembled and closed her eyes.
“The brim of your bonnet is in the way,” St. Just whispered against her cheek.
She opened her eyes. “It . . . it is?”
St. Just untied the ribbons of her bonnet and laid it aside. “That’s better.” He smiled at her and touched his fingertips to her cheek, her jaw. She shivered. Such a dangerous way he had of touching her, causing pleasure to prickle over her skin.
His head dipped again, his lips touched hers.
This time St. Just didn’t stop. His mouth was gentle, coaxing, teasing. Arabella closed her eyes. Her awareness of their surroundings faded. The lemonade and the macaroons, the horse, the hillside, no longer existed. The world narrowed to St. Just’s hand lightly at the nape of her neck, to his mouth, to the heat rising inside her—
His tongue touched her lower lip, his teeth gently nipped: a question.
Arabella answered by shyly opening her mouth to him.
St. Just kissed her slowly, gently. He tasted of sugar and coconut, of lemon. Delicious. Heady. Heat flooded her body. She leaned towards him and clutched the lapel of his coat.
Seconds, minutes, hours . . . she had no idea how long the kiss lasted before St. Just finally broke it.
Arabella opened her eyes. His hand was gone from the nape of her neck; her skin felt cold where it had been, bereft. Come back. She blinked and stared at him. Her breathing was ragged, her pulse tumultuous.
St. Just stared back at her. His eyes were more black than gray, the pupils dilated. Beneath her hand, his heart beat rapidly. “I think we’d better stop,” he said, in an unsteady voice.
Arabella swallowed and nodded, unable to speak. Her awareness of their surroundings returned abruptly: the blanket, the picnic, the horse. She lowered her hand and drew back.
St. Just cleared his throat. He refilled her glass. The flask clunked against the little goblet, as if his hand shook.
Arabella sipped the lemonade. Her fingers trembled.
Slowly the heat faded,
her pulse slowed, her breathing steadied. Kissing, she realized belatedly, was a very dangerous pastime.
* * *
THAT EVENING THEY attended a dinner hosted by a neighbor of Adam St. Just’s. Arabella wore her ivory-white silk, with a golden fillet threaded through her hair. She touched her fingers lightly to the silk as the carriage drew up at their destination. Armor.
But she had no need of armor that evening; the other guests were pleasant and friendly and eager to make a new acquaintance. Some thirty people sat down to dinner at the long table. She encountered no snubs from the gentlemen seated on either side of her, no disapproving stares from the ladies opposite. I’m not Miss Smell o’ Gutters here.
Afterwards, the carpet was rolled back in the drawing room and an impromptu ball announced for the younger members of the party.
There were more young ladies than men, but nobody seemed to mind. Lines were formed for a country dance, and the next two hours passed with gaiety and none of the aloofness that characterized town manners. Sometimes Arabella’s partner was a gentleman, sometimes a young lady—but male or female, all were disposed to enjoy themselves. The last dance was called after midnight. “A waltz!” someone cried, and was eagerly seconded. From across the room, she saw Adam St. Just look at her.
Arabella held her breath as he walked towards her. “Would you like to dance?” he asked quietly. “Or would you prefer to sit it out?”
She blushed. “Dance.”
The pianist played the opening chords. St. Just smiled at her and held out his hand.
They began to waltz. The way St. Just held her was almost an embrace—his hand at her waist, their bodies so close—but for the first time in her life, Arabella didn’t feel uncomfortable being held by a man; instead she was aware of a frisson of pleasure. She shivered slightly.
St. Just’s eyes seemed to darken.
Arabella felt heat mount in her cheeks. She looked hastily away, fastening her gaze on his neckcloth, on the crisp folds of muslin, on the pearl tiepin. It didn’t help. The movement of their bodies reminded her of that dream-like hour on the rug—the firelight, the candlelight, the low murmur of St. Just’s voice. It made her think of this afternoon’s kiss: the lemon and coconut taste of his mouth.