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The door, lower down, opened. Quickly, she blew out the candle. He pulled her back, into the darkness, wrapping his arms around her—one around her waist, the other hand around her shoulder. She melted up against him.
They listened to the sound of whomever it was. They were moving slowly, silently, up the stairs. Charles didn’t know what he would do, should they be discovered.
Who could be walking about the estate, this late at night? One of the servants, perhaps? The footsteps paused, on the floor just below them. A door opened, and then closed after them.
They both let out a sigh of relief. He let her go, then relit the candle. She looked up at him.
“I know that you want me to ask your father for permission to court you,” he said. “I think we should wait.”
“My parents are urging me to marry,” she replied.
“Six months,” he said.
“My eighteenth birthday,” she said.
“If you marry me, then you will be giving up this lifestyle to which you are accustomed,” he replied. “I can buy you a house in the country, but it won’t be as grand as this. You will be in charge of the household, but you will have to learn how to make money last. I am well off, but not extravagantly so.”
“I can do that,” she replied.
“You will not have a title,” he pointed out. “The ton will not consider you one of them. You will be Mrs. Conolly, and Madam. Not My Lady.”
“What’s the difference?” she asked.
“It’s a great difference,” he said. “One which the ton reminds me of, every time that I am in their presence, without fail.”
She exhaled, nodding. “All right. Six months. You’ll ask my father then?”
“The day after your eighteenth birthday,” he promised her.
“December the sixteenth,” she replied.
“Come. I will walk you back,” he said. “I don’t like not knowing who is walking about the house at this hour.”
* * *
Arabella and Mr. Conolly walked back toward her room in the pitch darkness. She was hyperaware of every move that he made. Her hand was tucked into the crook of his elbow.
When they arrived at the door to the stairwell, she whispered to him, “Annette awaits me at my room.”
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll watch your progress from here.” He raised her hand to his lips, brushing them across her skin. “Goodnight, My Lady.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
As she walked down the hallway, her skin felt heated up, where his lips had touched. After their talk, she felt better. Everything between them was decided.
Six months. She could understand why he wanted to wait. It would be a change, certainly. She could learn to economize. She would be fine giving up the ton.
She had no doubt that her father would see that they were in love, and that he could provide her a comfortable home.
Arabella opened the door to her room and slipped inside. Annette stirred in the chair by the fire, where she’d fallen asleep. She stretched.
“I apologize My Lady,” she said. “How did it go?”
Arabella beamed at her lady’s maid. “It’s perfect, Annette,” she said. “Everything’s perfect.”
* * *
In the darkness, the boy worked quickly. He had never in his life been in a large, fancy house such as this. He had been told about the servants’ corridors, by one of the fancy maids, who had mistaken him for someone else.
