Chapter 3
Arabella woke to find Thistle had somehow migrated during the night and was now occupying approximately three-quarters of the bed, leaving her clinging to the edge like a shipwreck survivor on a very comfortable raft.
"This," she informed the ceiling, "is a metaphor for my entire life."
Thistle opened one eye, evaluated whether this statement required his attention, decided it didn't, and resumed snoring.
A knock at the door was followed by her maid, Jane, entering with a tea tray and an expression that suggested she'd already heard several versions of yesterday's events.
"Good morning, milady," Jane said, setting down the tray with careful precision. "Your mother requests your presence in her chambers at your earliest convenience. She also asked me to remind you about the blue gown."
"The blue gown," Arabella repeated, sitting up and displacing Thistle, who grumbled but relocated to the warm spot she'd vacated. "Yes, I've been thoroughly briefed on the strategic importance of the blue gown."
Jane's lips twitched. "Shall I prepare it, milady?"
"I suppose you must. Though I fail to see how a gown with lace is going to salvage my reputation."
"Gowns with lace have salvaged more reputations than you might think," Jane said sagely. "There's something about the lace that suggests innocence and good breeding."
"Neither of which I demonstrated yesterday when I flung myself into a lake."
"You were rescuing a dog," Jane said, beginning to lay out the various components of Arabella's armor for the coming battle. "It shows a good heart."
"It shows a complete absence of common sense."
"Well," Jane said philosophically, "that too."
The morning proceeded with military precision.
Arabella had a bath again, her hair was arranged in a style that suggested she was a delicate flower who would never dream of aquatic adventures, and she was wrapped into the blue gown with its strategic lace.
The overall effect, when she examined herself in the mirror, was of someone trying very hard to appear as though they weren't trying at all.
"Perfect," her mother declared, having come to inspect the troops. "You look exactly like a young lady who might accidentally fall into a lake but would never do so on purpose."
"That's quite specific."
"I've given this considerable thought." Lady Honoria circled her daughter, making minute adjustments to ribbons and lace. "Now, remember; we're grateful for his assistance, sorry for any inconvenience, and utterly vague about everything else."
"Grateful, sorry, vague," Arabella repeated. "It sounds like a rather uninspiring saying."
"It's gotten many a young lady through a difficult social situation." Her mother paused. "Also, I've locked Thistle in the stables."
"Mama!"
"It's for his own good. And ours. The last thing we need is for him to develop an opinion about Lord Blackthorn while the man is here."
"Thistle has opinions about everyone."
"Yes, and he expresses them with alarming enthusiasm. The stable is the safest place for him."
From somewhere outside came the sound of aggrieved barking, suggesting that Thistle had discovered his imprisonment and had several opinions about that as well.
"He'll never forgive me," Arabella said.
"He'll forgive you the moment you give him a biscuit. Dogs are wonderfully simple that way." Her mother checked the small watch pinned to her bodice. "Two hours until his visit. I suggest we use the time to practice conversation."
"Practice conversation?"
"Yes. I shall be Lord Blackthorn, and you'll be yourself, only more restrained."
What followed was perhaps the most excruciating hour of Arabella's life. Her mother, adopting what she apparently believed was a masculine growl, interrogated her on everything from the weather to her views on agricultural reform.
"And what are your thoughts on the current political situation, Lady Arabella?" her mother rumbled in her false baritone.
"I try not to have thoughts on politics, Lord Blackthorn. I find they give me a headache."
"No!" Her mother dropped her voice. "You can't claim to be thoughtless. It makes you sound like a foolish person."
"You just told me to be vague!"
"Vague, not vacant. There's a difference."
They were saved from further theatrical endeavors by Jameson, who approached as though unveiling a great and terrible omen.
"Lord Blackthorn's carriage has been sighted approaching, my lady."
"Already?" Lady Honoria consulted her watch again. "He's fifteen minutes early."
"A sign of eagerness?" Arabella suggested.
"Or a desire to get this over with as quickly as possible," her mother countered, but she was already moving toward the morning room with the determination of a general taking the field.
The morning room was indeed their best room, positioned to catch the light in a way that made the slightly worn furniture less obvious and the water stain on the far wall nearly invisible.
Fresh flowers had been arranged; not too many, which would suggest they were trying too hard, but enough to indicate they were a household that appreciated beauty.
"Sit," her mother commanded, pointing to the settee by the window. "No, not like that. You look like you're about to be executed. Relax. But not too much. Casual elegance, Arabella. Think of casual elegance."
Arabella had no idea what casual elegance looked like, but she attempted to arrange herself in a way that suggested she sat in morning rooms awaiting potentially reputation-destroying visits from scarred earls all the time.
The sound of wheels on gravel sent her heart rate accelerating in a most unexpectedly elegant manner.
Through the window, she caught a glimpse of a black carriage—expensive, understated, with the Blackthorn arms on the door.
The horses were matched grays, beautiful animals that probably cost more than their entire household budget for a year.
"Remember," her mother hissed, "grateful, sorry, vague."
"Grateful, sorry, vague," Arabella repeated, though the words seemed to be sticking in her suddenly dry throat.
Jameson's voice could be heard in the hallway, followed by footsteps; firm, measured, definitely masculine. Arabella found herself holding her breath.
"The Earl of Blackthorn," Jameson announced, and then there he was, filling the doorway of their morning room with an almost overwhelming presence.
He was dressed formally but not ostentatiously; a dark blue coat that had been tailored within an inch of its life, buff breeches and boots polished to a gleam.
His cravat was simply tied but pristine white.
The overall effect was of controlled elegance, though Arabella noticed his hair was slightly windswept, as if he'd ridden alongside the carriage rather than in it.
The scar was more visible in daylight, she noticed.
It carved its path down the left side of his face with brutal honesty, pulling slightly at his eye and giving him a perpetual look of sardonic inquiry.
Rather than detracting from his appearance, it added something; a suggestion of danger, of stories untold.
"Lord Blackthorn," Lady Honoria said, dropping into a curtsey that was precisely calibrated to show respect without servility. "How kind of you to call."
"Lady March." He bowed, then turned to Arabella. "Lady Arabella. I trust you've recovered from yesterday's aquatic adventure?"
There was something in the way he said "aquatic adventure" that suggested he found the entire situation slightly absurd, which, Arabella supposed, it was.
"Quite recovered, thank you," she said, managing her own curtsey without tangling her skirts. "Though I fear the same cannot be said for my dignity."
"Dignity," he said, with what appeared to be amusement in his voice? "is highly overrated. I've found that the most interesting people are frequently those with the least attachment to it."
"Then I must be absolutely fascinating," Arabella said before she could stop herself.
Her mother made a small noise that might have been horror or possibly a suppressed laugh. Lord Blackthorn's expression shifted minutely and the corner of his mouth that wasn't affected by the scar twitched upward.
"Indeed," he said, and there was definitely amusement there now. "Though I might suggest that future displays of fascinating behaviour should avoid bodies of water. They seem not to agree with you."
"On the contrary," Arabella replied, finding her tongue despite her mother's increasingly frantic eye signals, "I thought we got along swimmingly."
"Arabella," her mother said in a warning tone.
"I apologise," Arabella said quickly. "I have an unfortunate tendency toward wordplay when nervous."
"Are you nervous?" Lord Blackthorn asked, accepting the seat her mother indicated; a chair positioned at a respectable distance from the settee but close enough for conversation.
"Shouldn't I be? You're rather imposing."
"Arabella!" Her mother's voice reached the sharpness she employed only in the face of true household disorder.
"It's quite all right, Lady March," the Earl said, and Arabella could have sworn he was trying not to smile. "I've been called worse things than imposing. Though usually not to my face."
"How cowardly of them," Arabella observed.
"How practical of them," he countered. "I'm told I can be quite intimidating when irritated."
"And are you frequently irritated?"
"That depends entirely on whether dogs are stealing footwear and ladies are falling into lakes."
"Then you must have been in quite a temper yesterday."
"Enraged," he agreed dryly. "I barely managed to contain myself."
Jameson appeared with the tea service, providing a welcome interruption to what was becoming an increasingly inappropriate exchange of banter.
Lady Honoria seized upon the ritual of tea service like a drowning woman clutching a rope, which, given yesterday's events, was perhaps an unfortunate comparison.
"How do you take your tea, Lord Blackthorn?" she asked with determined normalcy.
"Black, no sugar," he replied, which somehow didn't surprise Arabella at all.
"How austere," she commented, accepting her own cup liberally dosed with sugar and milk.
"I find that too much sweetness can mask the true flavour of things," he said, and something in his tone made her wonder if they were still talking about tea.
"Perhaps," she said, meeting his gaze over her teacup, "but a little sweetness can make even bitter things palatable."
"Speaking of bitter things," her mother interjected with the determination of one steering a conversation away from dangerous waters, "I understand you've been making improvements to Blackthorn Manor. The new stables are said to be quite magnificent."
"They're functional," Lord Blackthorn replied, though his eyes remained on Arabella. "I prefer function to magnificence."
"How disappointing," Arabella said. "I confess, I expected imposing pillars and a profusion of gilt ornaments."
"The horses complained. They found it ostentatious."
"Horses are notably conservative in their tastes."
"Unlike dogs, who appear to have no taste whatsoever."
"Thistle has excellent taste," Arabella protested. "Did you see the quality of that slipper he liberated?"
"I was rather more focused on the quality of the lady who dived in after him."
The words hung in the air for a moment, shifting the atmosphere in the room from light banter to something else entirely. Arabella felt heat rise to her cheeks and quickly looked down at her tea.
"That was kindly said," her mother managed after a pause that had grown slightly too long.
"It was honestly said," the Earl corrected. "Though I stand by my initial assessment that the dog should have been left to his own devices."
"You don't mean that," Arabella said, looking up at him.
"Don't I?"
"No. Because you dived in after us both, which suggests that despite your protests, you're actually quite heroic."
"Or quite foolish," he countered. "The two are often confused."
"In my experience," Arabella said, "they're often the same thing."
“May I ask you something, Lady Arabella?”
“Yes.”
“Will you marry me?”