Chapter 5 #2
Lord Blackthorn himself stood at the altar, dressed entirely in black except for his white cravat, looking like he was attending a funeral rather than his own wedding. When he turned to watch her approach, his expression was unreadable, the scar more pronounced in the dim church light.
Arabella's walk down the aisle felt both eternal and far too brief. Before she quite knew how it had happened, she was standing beside him, her hand in his, repeating words that would bind them forever.
"Do you, Arabella Matilda, take this man..."
The words washed over her in a blur. She heard herself responding, felt the ring, a simple gold band with a single sapphire, slide onto her finger, watched as she placed a matching plain band on his hand.
"You may kiss the bride."
The words sent a jolt through her. In all their practical discussions, they'd never mentioned this part.
Lord Blackthorn hesitated, and for a moment she thought he might simply bow and consider the matter concluded.
Then, with the air of someone approaching a potentially dangerous animal, he leaned down.
The kiss was brief, formal, barely a brush of lips. It should have meant nothing because it was just another practical necessity in their practical arrangement. Yet Arabella felt it like a spark, a suggestion of something that made her breath catch and her pulse accelerate.
He pulled back immediately, his expression still unreadable, and offered her his arm.
"My lady," he said, and it took her a moment to realize he meant it literally. She was Lady Blackthorn now, a Countess and his wife.
The register was signed, witnesses gave their congratulations; Penelope with enthusiasm, the unknown gentleman with polite reserve, and then it was done. In less than an hour, Arabella had become the Countess of Blackthorn, married to a man she'd known for exactly five days.
The wedding breakfast was a stilted affair held at Marchwood House. The Cook had outdone herself despite the time constraints, producing a spread that would have done credit to any society wedding. Lord Blackthorn ate little and said less, responding to attempts at conversation with monosyllables.
"Julian Ashford," the unknown gentleman introduced himself to Arabella when he found the opportunity to do so. "Lucien and I were at school together."
"It was kind of you to come," Arabella said, grateful for someone willing to make conversation.
"Wouldn't have missed it. It's not every day the Beast of… Well, not every day Lucien gets married." He covered his slip with a charming smile. "You're very brave."
"Brave?"
"Or foolish. The two are often confused." He winked, echoing her husband's words from days ago. "But I think brave. Lucien needs someone brave."
Before she could ask what he meant, Lord Blackthorn appeared at her elbow.
"We should go," he said quietly. "If we're to reach Blackthorn Manor before dark."
"Of course." She rose, looking around the familiar room one last time. This had been her home for twenty-three years. Every corner held memories; Papa teaching her to dance by the fireplace, Mama reading to her on the worn settee, Thistle's numerous crimes against propriety.
"You can visit whenever you wish," her husband said, apparently reading her expression. "This isn't exile."
"Isn't it?"
He had no answer for that.
The goodbyes were tearful on her mother's part, stoic on Lord Blackthorn's, and enthusiastic on Thistle's. He'd finally been released from servant supervision and was expressing his joy by attempting to befriend the Earl's impressive black stallion, who was regarding the dog with equine disdain.
"That horse will probably eat him," Arabella observed as Thistle danced around the stallion's legs.
"Tempest has better taste," Lord Blackthorn replied. "Though I make no promises about my stable boys' tolerance for canine enthusiasm."
The carriage, an elegant conveyance with the Blackthorn arms on the doors, awaited. Arabella's trunks had already been loaded. There was nothing left but to go.
"Bella," her mother said, pulling her into one last embrace. "Be happy. Try to be happy."
"I'll try, Mama."
Penelope hugged her next, whispering, "remember the nightgown. And the flask. Both might prove useful."
Then Arabella was in the carriage, Thistle somehow managing to claim the best spot despite Lord Blackthorn's clear intention that he ride with the luggage. Her husband sat across from her, having apparently decided that sharing a bench would be too intimate for their practical arrangement.
As the carriage rolled away from Marchwood House, Arabella watched her old life recede through the window. Her mother and Penelope stood in the doorway, waving until they were lost to distance and the curve of the road.
"Regrets already?" Lord Blackthorn asked.
"Should I have them?"
"Most brides do, I'm told. Though most brides have longer than five days to prepare."
"Most brides also marry for love."
"Yes," he agreed quietly. "They do."
***