Chapter 2 #2
"Now then," Lady Honoria said, consulting a list she'd apparently been composing.
"Tomorrow's visit. We'll receive him in the morning room; it gets the best light and doesn't show the water damage quite as badly as the formal drawing room.
Jameson will serve tea; the good china, not the set with the chipped saucers.
You'll sit on the settee by the window, it's the most flattering angle, and I'll ensure the conversation remains appropriate. "
"You're going to chaperone?"
"Of course I'm going to chaperone. An unchaperoned visit from Lord Blackthorn after today's events? We might as well announce your betrothal in the papers."
"Betrothal?" Arabella's voice rose to a pitch that would have impressed the Cook. "Mama, he's coming to inquire after my health, not propose marriage."
"Men like Lord Blackthorn don't make social calls, Arabella. He hasn't been seen in polite society for over a year. The fact that he's coming here, tomorrow, after what happened today... it means something."
"It means he feels guilty."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps he feels something else entirely." Her mother's expression grew thoughtful. "You should know there are... stories about him."
"Stories?"
"About why he stays away from society. About how he got those scars.
" Lady Honoria paused, clearly debating how much to share.
"They say there was a fire at his estate on the Continent.
A woman died—some say she was his mistress, others say she was his betrothed.
He tried to save her but he couldn't and the scars are from that night. "
Arabella felt something shift in her chest; a combination of sympathy and curiosity that she didn't quite know what to do with. "How tragic."
"Yes. And it explains why he's been so reclusive since his return. But it doesn't explain why he was at the fete today, or why he threw himself into that lake after you."
"He was probably just..."
"Being heroic, yes, you've said that before. But men who've shut themselves away from the world don't suddenly develop heroic impulses for strangers." Her mother stood, apparently having made some sort of decision. "Tomorrow, we'll see what Lord Blackthorn wants. But Arabella, you must be careful."
"Careful?"
"A man with that much tragedy in his past, who's chosen isolation over society.
.. he's not some simple country squire you can manage with smiles and small talk.
If he's interested in you, and I'm not saying he is, but if he is, you need to decide what you want before he makes any sort of declaration. "
"Mama, you're being ridiculously premature. He's making one call out of courtesy."
"Perhaps," her mother agreed. "But wear the blue gown anyway."
***
Later that evening, as Arabella prepared for bed, she found herself standing at her window, looking out toward the lake that was just visible in the distance, silvered by moonlight.
Somewhere beyond that, past the village and the woods, lay Blackthorn Manor; that mysterious estate where the Earl lived in self-imposed exile.
What had driven him to the fete today? He'd been on horseback, she remembered, not in a carriage with family or friends. A solitary figure who'd chosen, for reasons unknown, to attend a social gathering for the first time in over a year.
And then he'd seen her—ridiculous, impulsive, water-logged —and dived in without hesitation.
Her mother was right about one thing: it didn't make sense. Nothing about the Earl of Blackthorn's behavior today had made sense. Which meant either he was simply prone to inexplicable acts of charity, or...
"Or what?" she asked her reflection in the window glass.
Her reflection, unhelpfully, offered no answers.
A scratching at her door interrupted her musings. She opened it to find Thistle, still slightly damp and smelling distinctly of lake despite multiple attempts at bathing him, wagging his tail hopefully.
"You," she said severely, "are the author of all my troubles."
Thistle's tail wagged harder, taking this as a compliment.
"If you hadn't stolen that slipper..."
More wagging.
"And then fallen through that dock..."
Enthusiastic whole-body wagging now.
"None of this would have happened."
Thistle barked once, quietly, and then sat, fixing her with the liquid brown eyes that had gotten him out of more trouble than any dog deserved.
"Oh, all right," she sighed, stepping aside to let him in. "But you're sleeping on the floor."
Five minutes later, Thistle was sprawled across the foot of her bed, snoring contentedly and occasionally twitching as he dreamed what were probably dreams of theft and lakes and successful liberation of beef joints.
Arabella lay awake, staring at the canopy above her bed and trying not to think about tomorrow, about Lord Blackthorn coming to call, and about what he might say, what she might say or what any of it might mean.
She thought instead about the moment in the lake and the way he'd looked at her afterward, as if she was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
Tomorrow, he would come to their modest morning room with its slightly faded wallpaper and carefully mended cushions. He would drink tea from their good china and make polite conversation while her mother watched them both like a hawk. It would be proper, formal, and probably excruciating.
But perhaps, if she was very lucky, she might see something in his expression; some hint of the man who'd thrown propriety to the wind and dived into a lake to rescue a ridiculous girl and her even more ridiculous dog.
The thought shouldn't have made her smile; yet, it did.