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
