Chapter 1 #4
The carriage proceeded through the countryside, carrying them away from the scene of Arabella's social destruction.
Through the window, she could see the familiar landmarks of home approaching; the ancient oak that marked the boundary of their property and the stone wall that Papa had always said needed repair but never quite got around to fixing before his death last year.
Papa would have found the whole thing amusing, she thought.
He would have laughed until he cried, then immediately set about turning it into one of his infamous dinner gathering stories.
"Did I tell you about the time my Bella decided to have a swimming lesson at the Duchess's garden gathering?
" he would have said, eyes twinkling with mirth.
But Papa was gone, and with him the laughter that had made their reduced circumstances bearable.
Now there was only Mama's anxiety about their dwindling funds, the estate that needed more repairs than they could afford, and the pressing need for Arabella to make a good match before their money ran out entirely.
A good match that had almost certainly just drowned in the same lake where she'd attempted to rescue Thistle.
"What am I going to do?" she asked quietly, the reality of the situation finally settling upon her like a wet blanket.
Her mother reached across the carriage and took her hand. "We'll think of something. We always do. Perhaps... perhaps Lord Blackthorn will call tomorrow to inquire after your health."
"Why would he do that?"
"Because," her mother said carefully, "a gentleman who rescues a lady from drowning..."
"Potential drowning," Arabella corrected automatically.
"From whatever it was, has certain obligations. It would be improper for him not to call."
"The Earl of Blackthorn doesn't strike me as someone who particularly cares about propriety," Arabella observed, remembering the way he'd simply walked away after their rescue, as if saving drowning debutantes was something he did every Tuesday.
"No," her mother agreed thoughtfully. "He doesn't, does he? Which makes his intervention all the more interesting."
The carriage turned into their drive, the wheels crunching on gravel that needed refreshing but would have to wait another year.
Marchwood House rose before them, smaller than the Hall they'd just left but still gracious in its proportions, still home despite the patches of damp in the east wing and the roof that leaked whenever it rained.
"Perhaps," Penelope said as they pulled to a stop, "this isn't the disaster you think it is. Perhaps it's an opportunity."
"An opportunity for what?" Arabella asked, accepting the footman's hand as she descended from the carriage, her skirts still unpleasantly damp and considerably heavier than they'd been that morning.
"I haven't the faintest idea," Penelope admitted cheerfully. "But any story that involves Lord Blackthorn, a lake, and a stolen slipper is bound to lead somewhere interesting."
As if in agreement, Thistle leapt from the carriage and immediately began investigating a flower bed with the dedication of a dog who has learned nothing whatsoever from his recent aquatic adventure.
"Thistle," Arabella called wearily. "Please don't dig up the roses. We can't afford to replace them."
The dog paused, looked at her with an expression of wounded innocence that fooled no one, and then promptly stuck his nose into the exact rosebush she'd been trying to protect.
"I'm beginning to think," she said to no one in particular, "that my life would be considerably simpler without that dog."
"Simpler, perhaps," Penelope agreed, gathering her own things to depart. "But then you'd never have met Lord Blackthorn. And wouldn't that be a shame?"
She left before Arabella could formulate a suitable response, climbing into her own family's carriage with a wave and a smile that suggested she was already composing the letters she would write about this afternoon's events.
"Inside," Lady Honoria commanded, ushering Arabella toward the house. "You need a hot bath and a complete change of clothes. And then we need to discuss damage control."
"Damage control," Arabella repeated, allowing herself to be herded through the familiar hallways of home. "You make it sound like a military campaign."
"All of society is a military campaign," her mother replied grimly. "And we've just given the enemy enough ammunition to destroy us completely."
But as Arabella climbed the stairs to her room, leaving damp footprints on the threadbare carpet, she found herself thinking not of destruction but of creation.
The Earl's arms around her waist, his voice in her ear and the way he'd looked at her when he'd raised his hand in that mock salute—as if she was something unexpected, something worth acknowledging.
Perhaps Penelope was right. Mayhap this was an opportunity, though for what, she couldn't begin to imagine.
Behind her, she could hear Thistle barking at something in the garden; probably the gardener, who had never quite forgiven the dog for the incident with the prize tulips. Some things, she reflected, never changed.
But as her maid rushed to help her out of her ruined gown, exclaiming over the state of her hair and the probable destruction of her best day dress, Arabella couldn't shake the feeling that everything had changed.
That the moment she'd entered that lake, she'd set something in motion that couldn't be stopped.
As she sank into the blessed warmth of her bath, she found herself remembering the strength of the Earl's arms, the unexpected gentle humor in his voice when he'd told her to stop helping, the way he'd lied to protect her reputation even as everyone watched it dissolve.
No, she thought, closing her eyes and sinking deeper into the water—intentionally this time. Things would never be the same.
And perhaps, just perhaps, that was exactly what she'd been hoping for all along.