by Emily Larkin
Tendrils of desire began to unfurl inside her. She wanted him to hold her closer.
This was why the more straitlaced members of Society disapproved of waltzing: the intimacy, the proximity. It made her think of things she shouldn’t. It made her want them.
She glanced up at St. Just’s face. Would he come to her tonight?
I hope so.
St. Just’s gaze sharpened. “What is it?”
Arabella swallowed. “Nothing.”
They danced another circuit of the drawing room. She was intensely aware of St. Just’s hand at her waist. It seemed to burn through the fabric of her gown. More memories intruded: the soft stroke of his fingers across her skin, the touch of his mouth, the clean, male scent of him. Her pulse quickened and she began to feel uncomfortably warm. She wished that the waltz would finish—such a dangerous dance—and yet, when the final chord was played, she was intensely disappointed.
* * *
ST. JUST SAT alongside her in the intimate darkness of the carriage. After several minutes his hand found hers. Their fingers interlaced.
Arabella sat bolt upright on the swaying seat while conversations drifted around her: Grace discussing the dancing, her grandmother discussing the cards. It would be easy to lean against Adam St. Just, easy to nestle into his warmth. Heat built inside her. She wanted more than this hidden handclasp. She wanted his mouth, his bare hands, she wanted his skin against hers.
It was shocking to want such things. Am I so wanton?
If they were married, she could have those things without being thought wanton: St. Just’s mouth, his hands, his skin against hers. If they were married, he could put his arm around her while they sat in the carriage, he could dip his head and kiss her, and when they reached the Priory they could do more than that—and she could be rid of all this heat, all this wanting.
They entered the Priory in a flurry of noise and movement: the clatter of heels on the flagstones, the swirl of petticoats and long dresses and cloaks, Grace’s laughter, her aunt’s amused response. Shadows and candlelight chased each other across the walls, and the high ceiling resonated with the sound of voices and footsteps.
On the oak table in the entrance hall were five candles in silver-gilt holders and a lamp.
Arabella watched while St. Just lit the candles one by one. Anticipation built inside her as each small flame flared to life. She was trembling by the time he turned to her. Say you’ll come to me tonight.
St. Just handed her a candle. “Good night, Miss Knightley.”
“Good night, Mr. St. Just.” Say it.
But St. Just didn’t. He merely smiled and said, “Sleep well.”
* * *
ADAM WHISTLED BENEATH his breath as he strolled into the library the next afternoon. Tonight he’d visit Arabella Knightley again. And after he’d made love to her, he’d ask her to marry him.
A love match? How very bourgeois. The voice was his father’s, cold with scorn.
His cousin, the new duke, would echo the sentiment. To hell with Frew, Adam thought. There was such a thing as carrying familial pride too far.
He walked across to one of the tall, arched windows and stood for a moment, staring out. He could see the hillside where he’d kissed Arabella yesterday. Memory intruded: her flushed cheeks, her soft mouth.
Muscles clenched in his belly. Adam turned away from the window. Tonight he’d finish what he’d started that first night. There’d be no pain for her, only pleasure.
He flicked through the newspapers lying on the table. Arabella Knightley wasn’t the bold lover who’d invaded his dreams; she was shy and inexperienced—which made her kisses infinitely more precious. Her London face, the bravado and the amused contempt, was a mask. Beneath it was the real person: lonely, brave, vulnerable—
A slight movement made him turn his head. A lady was seated on the sofa, diminutive, bird-like, white-haired. “Lady Westwick. I beg your pardon.” Adam bowed. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
Lady Westwick lowered the book she was reading and inclined her head.
Adam retreated a pace. “Don’t let me disturb you.”
Lady Westwick put the book aside. “You’re not disturbing me, Mr. St. Just. In fact, I had hoped to have the opportunity to speak with you.”
“Oh?” he said, politely.
“Yes.” She nodded at the sofa, an imperious gesture. “Please, sit.”
Adam walked across to the sofa and sat, amused.
Lady Westwick surveyed him for a moment, a scrutiny that made him feel like a slightly grubby schoolboy. He resisted the urge to check that his neckcloth was still perfectly creased.
“What are your intentions towards my granddaughter?”
Adam blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Lady Westwick leaned closer. Her blue eyes were fierce, her voice sharp. “Your intentions, Mr. St. Just.”
“I intend to marry her,” Adam replied mildly.
Lady Westwick’s lips tightened. “Why?”
Because I love her. “Because I hold your granddaughter in great esteem.”
“You?” Her voice was contemptuous.
Adam flushed. “Madam, I deeply regret any distress I may have caused your granddaughter seven years ago—”
“Smell of gutters.” Lady Westwick’s mouth twisted.
Adam shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “An error on my part. I have apologized to her—”
“Do you have any idea how much you hurt Arabella? Do you?” There were tears in those blue eyes now, fierce, angry tears. “The Season was difficult enough for her before you said that. Afterwards, it was terrible!”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I know. I’m very sorry for what happened.”
“You weren’t there,” she said bitterly. “You didn’t have to face the laughter, the whispers—”
Adam looked down at his hands.
“You’re the last person I should choose for her. The last!”
Adam looked up. “Madam, believe me when I say that I truly esteem your granddaughter. If she agrees to marry me, I’ll do everything in my power to make her happy.”
“Easily said, Mr. St. Just.”
He felt a stir of anger, and suppressed it. I’d be suspicious, too, if I were her. “Madam, your granddaughter is an extraordinary young lady, unlike anyone I know. She’s beautiful, clever, talented, and courageous.”
Lady Westwick stared at him, her eyes narrow, her expression hostile.
“She is also very lonely.”
Lady Westwick looked away abruptly. Adam watched as she blinked back tears.
“Believe me, madam, when I say that I want her to be happy.”
Lady Westwick groped in her reticule. “So do I.”
Adam handed her his handkerchief. “Madam,” he said. “Forgive me, but your relationship with your granddaughter—”
“She hates me,” Lady Westwick said, and wiped her eyes. “She always has.”
“Why?” he asked quietly.
Lady Westwick was silent for a long moment, then she blew her nose. “The day she arrived . . . she was standing in the entrance hall, so small, so alone. She looked so much like Edward—her face, that chin.” Her lips quivered. “And William—my husband—he looked at her and said: ‘Where’s that mother of hers? I won’t have that woman in this house!’ As if Arabella wasn’t standing in front of him.” Her mouth twisted. “She was dressed in black—he must have known . . .”
A tear spilled down her wrinkled cheek. She wiped it with the handkerchief, not looking at him. “And Arabella said . . . ‘My mother is dead.’ Just like that. Politely. There was nothing in her face, but when she looked at William—I could see in her eyes how much she hated him.” Lady Westwick screwed the handkerchief up in her hand. “William didn’t notice. He only ever saw what he wanted to see.” Her voice was bitter, contemptuous.
Lady Westwick smoothed the creased handkerchief with trembling fingers. “I embraced her. I told her she was my darling. I told h
er she had a home with us and we’d look after her always—and I held her so tightly—and . . . and Arabella just stood there, and when I looked at her I could see in her eyes that she hated me, too.” Her face crumpled.
“I’m very sorry, madam.”
Lady Westwick sniffed into the handkerchief. On her bosom an eye stared balefully at him from a jet-and-pearl mourning brooch. Adam averted his gaze from it. “Madam . . . forgive me for asking, but . . . if you care so deeply for your granddaughter, why don’t you chaperone her more closely at balls? Why do you seek the card rooms?”
“She’s happier without my presence,” Lady Westwick said, wiping her eyes.
“She needs your protection,” Adam said, unable to keep censure from his voice. “From men like Emsley—”
Lady Westwick looked at him sharply. “Lord Emsley has been constant in his affection for Arabella.”
“Constant, perhaps—but he doesn’t respect her.”
Her mouth tightened. He saw that she didn’t believe him.
“Lady Westwick . . . we both want the same thing: for your granddaughter to be happy.” Adam held her gaze. “For her to have a home, a family, a husband who . . .” Who loves her. “Who cares deeply for her.”
Her gaze dropped. She pleated the handkerchief between her fingers. “You think you can make her happy?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all I want for her.” Lady Westwick’s mouth tightened. She looked at him. Hostility glittered in her eyes. “My husband wanted a man of consequence and wealth—which is precisely what you are, Mr. St. Just—but let me tell you that he would never have allowed Arabella to marry you!”
“Madam—”
“William never forgave you for what you said,” Lady Westwick said fiercely, the handkerchief clenched in her hand. “And neither have I.”
Adam sat silently for a long moment, looking at her, then he stood and bowed. “Good day, madam.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AFTER DINNER, ARABELLA played one of her favorite sonatas by Beethoven. Adam St. Just came to stand beside her afterwards. “An excellent performance, Miss Knightley,” he said in a loud voice, and then, more quietly, so that she scarcely heard him: “May I visit you tonight?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. She busied herself tidying the sheets of music. “Yes.”
The longcase clock in the hall struck ten as Arabella climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. She glanced back from the half-landing. St. Just stood in the hallway, watching her.
Arabella blushed, and almost tripped over a step.
In her bedroom, a fire burned in the grate and the coverlet had carefully been turned back. Polly chattered cheerfully as she helped her prepare for the night. Arabella scarcely heard a word; her attention was on the little ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, on the movement of the hands around the engraved dial. She couldn’t decide whether time was moving too fast or too slowly.
She heard the longcase clock strike the quarter hour downstairs, and then the half hour. She washed her face and brushed her teeth and braided her hair, aware of the minutes ticking inexorably past.
Polly left when the hour was three quarters gone.
Arabella stood for a moment in the middle of the bedchamber, staring at the ormolu clock. The minute hand seemed hardly to be moving. Should she sit in the armchair and read or . . . or . . .
No, not the bed.
Arabella resolutely averted her gaze from the four-poster with its turned-back coverlet. She walked across to the armchair and sat with her feet tucked under her, trying to pretend to herself that everything was normal. She opened the second volume of Northanger Abbey and turned to the page she’d marked, but her thoughts were too disordered to make sense of the words. Anticipation and apprehension churned inside her in equal measure, making the words jerk about on the page. Finally she laid the book aside and hugged her knees, staring at the fire, wanting St. Just to come, shrinking from it. If only he’d chosen last night, when she’d been so eager for his touch—
A faint sound drew her attention. She turned her head. The door was open. Adam St. Just stood on the threshold.
Arabella’s heart began to beat faster.
St. Just closed the door. He walked over to the fireplace, bare-footed, silent, and stood looking down at her, his eyes dark, a faint smile on his lips. “Not reading?”
Arabella shook her head mutely.
St. Just extended his hand to her. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it. His fingers closed over hers. He drew her to her feet.
Arabella moistened her lips. She was aware of the four-poster behind them. Not the bed. Not yet. “Adam?”
He smiled at her. “Sit here on the rug, beside me.”
She felt a surge of relief.
St. Just released her hand. He settled himself on the rug. Arabella sat alongside him. She hugged her knees and glanced at his face.
St. Just caught the glance and smiled at her, firelight and shadows flickering in his eyes. He reached out and lightly touched her face. She shivered as his fingers trailed down her cheek and along her jaw. He traced the cleft in her chin with a fingertip, so lightly that it drew another shiver from her, and then he tilted her face up and kissed her.
Arabella closed her eyes. Heat washed through her. This was what she’d wanted in the carriage last night: his mouth on hers, his hand at the nape of her neck.
He kissed her lips, her chin, the curve of jaw and cheek, her temple. Feather-light kisses. Kisses that made her tremble at his gentleness. Then he returned to her mouth, nipping her lower lip lightly with his teeth.
Arabella opened her mouth to him.
He tasted her with his tongue, fleetingly, and then withdrew and whispered, “Kiss me,” against her lips.
Her eyelids fluttered open. St. Just drew back slightly, watching her, his eyes dark. For a moment she hesitated, and then she did as he asked, sliding a hand around his neck, pulling him closer, lifting her mouth to him, kissing him.
She learned the shape of his lips, and then his mouth opened for her and she tasted him shyly. She felt him shudder, and shuddered herself.
Time ceased to have any meaning. Their kisses grew slowly more intimate. Arabella lost all sense of where she was, sinking deeper into heat, into pleasure. When St. Just finally drew back, she opened her eyes and stared at him, dazed.
“The bed this time,” he said, and stood. He drew her to her feet and picked her up as if she weighed no more than thistledown.
“Adam!” she said, clutching him.
He carried her across the room and laid her on the bed. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “It won’t hurt this time.”
She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t afraid, but he was kissing her again and she had no breath for speech, no thought of anything beyond St. Just’s mouth, his hands, his long body stretched alongside her on the bed.
He peeled the nightgown from her and touched her far more intimately than he had the first time, running his hands over her breasts, her belly, and then following that path with his mouth. The pleasure she felt shocked her. She was wanton, wanting. Heat and urgency built inside her until she was almost mad from it. She had never felt so alive. This was what her body was made for: to be touched like this, to want like this.
She was dimly aware that St. Just’s dressing gown was gone, that her braid was undone and her hair spread across the pillow. “Adam . . .”
He lifted his mouth from her breast and looked at her. His eyes glittered blackly in the candlelight. His face was flushed, his hair tousled, and there was a sheen of sweat on his skin. Arabella had never seen anything more beautiful. She reached out and touched his cheek. His skin was hot beneath her hand.
“Now?” he asked, his voice hoarse, and she nodded, and suddenly his weight was pressing down on her. Her hips rocked at the exquisite pleasure of it.
Adam St. Just moved, thrusting into her. Her body responded eagerly, greedily. There was no pain, only a swiftly rising sense of urgency. T
ime blurred, and then fragmented into a long moment of ecstasy, when the world seemed to splinter around her.
Arabella spiraled slowly down, aware of a sense of completion, as if for the first time in her life she was whole—and then abruptly St. Just was gone, and her body felt bereft.
She opened her eyes, looking for him. He was alongside her on the bed, turned away from her. She felt him shudder, heard him gasp, and reached out and touched his shoulder blade lightly. Such a strong, beautiful body. Such a strong, beautiful man. I love him.
With that thought came panic and a terrifying sense of vulnerability. Love meant grief, it meant loss.
St. Just turned. He gathered her in his arms and held her pressed to him. Arabella closed her eyes. She inhaled the scent of his skin, drank in the heat and strength of his body. This was what her mother had had, what her mother had lost: being held in someone’s arms, being safe, being loved, knowing you were precious to them.
She listened as St. Just’s heartbeat slowed.
“Bella,” he said softly.
She tensed. Don’t ask me.
“Please . . . marry me.”
There could only be one answer, even though it terrified her to utter it. “Yes,” she whispered.
St. Just pressed a kiss into her hair. “Thank you.”
Her throat closed. Tears filled her eyes. She had no defenses against this: Adam St. Just’s love, his tenderness.
I love you, she told him silently, and felt an almost overwhelming sense of panic.
* * *
THE PANIC DIDN’T fade overnight—if anything, it strengthened. Arabella picked at her breakfast, pushing the food around her plate, while Grace talked cheerfully beside her.
If Adam St. Just was afflicted by the same panic, it wasn’t apparent; he ate a hearty breakfast. His eyes, when he caught hers, held a warm smile.