Chapter 5
The next three days passed in a blur of frantic preparation and barely controlled panic.
True to his word, Lord Blackthorn had procured a special license with remarkable efficiency.
He called each day, briefly, to discuss practical matters; the time of the ceremony, the name of his solicitor, the arrangements for moving her belongings to Blackthorn Manor.
They were the conversations of strangers preparing to share a life, polite and careful and utterly devoid of warmth.
"Your friend Miss Finch may attend, of course," he said on the second day, standing in their morning room like a dark cloud in their sunny space.
"That's kind of you."
"It's practical. You'll want someone familiar there."
Everything, it seemed, was practical with Lord Blackthorn.
Their marriage, their arrangements, probably their entire future.
Arabella wondered if he'd schedule their conversations by appointment; Tuesdays and Thursdays for discussion of household matters, perhaps a monthly review of their cordial partnership.
"I've arranged for the rose suite to be prepared for you," he continued, consulting a small notebook he'd produced from his pocket. "It's in the east wing, well away from my chambers in the west. You'll have privacy."
"How... practical," she said, unable to keep a slight edge from her voice.
He looked up from his notebook. "You're angry."
"I'm not angry."
"You say 'practical' as if it were an insult."
"Do I? How impractical of me."
His jaw tightened. "Lady Arabella..."
"It's fine," she interrupted. "Truly. I appreciate the separate wings. I wouldn't want to inconvenience you with my presence."
"That's not..." He stopped, running a hand through his dark hair in the first gesture of frustration she'd seen from him. "I'm trying to honour your conditions."
"And you're doing so admirably. Really, Lord Blackthorn, you've thought of everything. Separate wings, separate lives, separate everything except the legal technicality of marriage."
"Is that not what you wanted?"
"It's exactly what I asked for," she agreed. "Which makes me wonder why I feel so... unsettled."
He was quiet for a moment, studying her with those dark eyes. "Second thoughts?"
"Third and fourth thoughts, actually. But I've given my word."
"Words can be taken back. If you've changed your mind..."
"Have you?" she countered. "Changed your mind?"
"No."
The simple word fell between them like a stone into still water. Arabella wondered what ripples it might cause.
"Then we proceed as planned," she said. "Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock, simple ceremony, practical marriage."
"Arabella..." It was the first time he'd used her name without the title, and something about the way he said it made her chest tighten.
"Yes?"
But whatever he'd been about to say was lost as Jameson appeared to announce that the dressmaker had arrived for the final fitting. Lord Blackthorn took his leave with his usual formal bow, and Arabella was left wondering what words had died unspoken.
Penelope arrived that evening, full of barely suppressed excitement and carrying an enormous basket.
"Wedding gifts," she announced, sweeping into Arabella's room without ceremony. "Well, wedding gift, singular, but I couldn't fit everything into one package."
"Pen, you didn't need to..."
"Hush. My dearest friend is marrying the mysterious Earl of Blackthorn after a whirlwind acquaintance involving lakes and stolen slippers. If that doesn't deserve presents, nothing does."
She began unpacking the basket, revealing an assortment of items that ranged from practical to absurd.
Books, obviously. Handkerchiefs embroidered with tiny dogs that looked suspiciously like Thistle.
A bottle of lavender oil for calming nerves.
A small silver flask for when the lavender doesn't work.
And finally, wrapped in tissue paper, a nightgown of such exquisite silk and scandalous design that Arabella felt herself blushing.
"Penelope!"
"What? You're getting married. These things are expected."
"We're having separate bedchambers."
"Separate bedrooms that presumably have doors. Which can be opened."
"It's not that kind of marriage."
Penelope settled onto the bed beside her, suddenly serious. "Bella, are you certain about this?"
"No," Arabella admitted. "But what choice do I have? We both know what would happen if I refused. The scandal, the gossip, the complete loss of any prospect!"
"You could weather it. You're stronger than you think."
"But my mother isn't. And our situation... Pen, we're barely managing as it is. Without a good marriage, without some kind of security, I don't know how much longer we can maintain even this."
Penelope took her hand. "So you're sacrificing yourself."
"It's not a sacrifice. Lord Blackthorn is wealthy, titled, and has promised to honour my conditions. It could be much worse."
"It could also be much better. You could have love."
"Love is a luxury I can't afford."
"That," Penelope said firmly, "is the saddest thing you've ever said."
Later that night, Arabella stood at her window for what would be the last time as an unmarried woman.
Tomorrow, she would become the Countess of Blackthorn, wife to a man she barely knew, mistress of an estate she'd never seen, bound for life to someone who viewed their union as a practical solution to mutual problems.
Thistle padded over and leaned against her legs, offering silent comfort.
"What have I agreed to?" she asked him softly.
He wagged his tail, apparently finding nothing objectionable in the arrangement as long as he was included.
"At least one of us is confident about tomorrow."
A movement in the garden below caught her eye.
A figure on horseback, barely visible in the moonlight.
As she watched, the rider paused at their gate, looking up toward the house.
Even in the darkness, she knew who it was.
The broad shoulders, the way he sat on his horse, the patient stillness—Lord Blackthorn had come to...
what? Ensure she hadn't fled? Have second thoughts of his own?
For a long moment, they regarded each other across the distance; she at her window, he on his horse, both poised on the edge of an irrevocable decision. Then, slowly, he raised his hand to his hat in a gesture of acknowledgment before turning his horse and disappearing into the night.
Arabella remained at the window long after he'd gone, wondering what thoughts had brought him to her gate in the darkness, what words might have been said if distance and propriety hadn't stood between them.
Tomorrow, those distances would be eliminated by law, even as they maintained them by choice. Separate rooms, separate lives, together apart.
"Come on, Thistle," she said finally, moving away from the window. "We should try to sleep. Tomorrow, we become residents of Blackthorn Manor."
***
The wedding day dawned gray and misty, as if nature itself was uncertain about the proceedings. Arabella woke to Jane fussing over her, having arrived before dawn to ensure everything was perfect.
"It's your wedding day, milady," Jane said, her excitement enough for both of them. "You must eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
"Nevertheless." A tray appeared bearing tea and toast, though the thought of eating made Arabella's stomach twist most uncomfortably.
Her mother arrived shortly after, already dressed in her best purple silk, looking simultaneously pleased and anxious.
"How are you, my dear?"
"Terrified," Arabella admitted.
"Good. I'd be worried if you weren't. Terror is perfectly appropriate for one's wedding day. It shows you understand the magnitude of what you're doing."
"That's not particularly comforting, Mama."
"It's not meant to be comforting. It's meant to be true." Her mother sat beside her, taking her hand. "Arabella, you can still change your mind."
"Can I? Really? After all the arrangements, the license, the expectations?"
"You can always change your mind. Right up until the moment you say 'I do.' Your father would never forgive me if I let you go through with this if you're truly unwilling."
Arabella squeezed her mother's hand. "I'm not unwilling. I'm just... uncertain."
"Uncertainty can be overcome. Unwillingness cannot."
The morning progressed with relentless efficiency.
Arabella was bathed, perfumed, and wrestled into her wedding dress; not the elaborate creation she might have imagined in her girlhood dreams, but a simple gown of cream silk that had been her mother's and hastily altered to fit.
The lace from the infamous blue gown had been repurposed as trimming, which seemed oddly appropriate.
"You look beautiful," Penelope declared, having arrived to serve as witness and moral support. "Ethereal. Bridal. Slightly terrified, but that adds character."
"I don't feel beautiful. I feel like I might be sick."
"That's also traditional. Here." Penelope produced the silver flask from her gift basket. "Courage."
Arabella took a small sip of what turned out to be excellent brandy. "Where did you get this?"
"My father's study. What he doesn't know won't hurt him."
"Penelope Finch, you're corrupting me on my wedding day."
"Someone has to. You're marrying the Beast of Blackthorn. A little corruption seems appropriate."
*
The carriage ride to the church was silent except for the clip of horses' hooves and Thistle's occasional whine. He'd been relegated to riding with the servants, much to his vocal displeasure.
The church itself was nearly empty. Lord Blackthorn had been true to his word about keeping things small. Only the necessary witnesses were present: Penelope, Arabella's mother, and surprisingly, a well-dressed gentleman Arabella didn't recognize, presumably there for the Earl.