Chapter 6
The entrance hall of Blackthorn Manor was designed to impress, and it succeeded admirably.
Soaring ceilings disappeared into shadow, while a massive staircase curved upward like a question mark.
Portraits of long-dead Blackthorns gazed down with expressions ranging from stern disapproval to outright hostility.
A chandelier that probably weighed as much as a small horse hung from the ceiling, its crystals catching the late afternoon light.
"Your ancestors seem... imposing," Arabella observed, studying a particularly fierce-looking gentleman whose portrait dominated the far wall.
"That's the third Earl," Lord Blackthorn said, following her gaze. "He supposedly killed a man in a duel over a game of cards. Family legend says he cheated at both."
"Charming. And I thought Thistle was the only criminal in the family."
"Speaking of which, where is your miscreant?"
As if summoned, a series of barks echoed from somewhere deeper in the house, followed by what sounded like several people attempting to give contradictory commands.
"I should probably..." Arabella began.
"Mrs. Fielding will handle it," Lord Blackthorn interrupted, gesturing to a formidable woman who had separated herself from the line of servants. The housekeeper was perhaps fifty, with iron-gray hair and the bearing of someone who had never met a crisis she couldn't manage.
"My lady," Mrs. Fielding said, dropping into a curtsey that managed to convey both respect and assessment. "Welcome to Blackthorn Manor. I've taken the liberty of having tea prepared in the Blue Salon, unless you'd prefer to go directly to your chambers?"
"Tea would be lovely," Arabella said, grateful for the prospect of any familiar ritual in this overwhelming place.
"This way, my lady."
The Blue Salon, as it turned out, was only partially blue and seemed to have aspirations toward being a ballroom when it grew up.
The walls were covered in silk damask that had probably been the height of fashion during the last king's reign, and the furniture looked as though it had been designed by someone who believed comfort was a character flaw.
"It's... impressive," Arabella managed, perching on a settee that seemed determined to make her maintain perfect posture whether she wanted to or not.
"It's hideous," Lord Blackthorn corrected, taking a chair across from her. "My grandmother decorated it. She believed that suffering built character."
"Did it work?"
"I have an exceptional character and a deep hatred of blue damask."
Tea arrived on a silver service that could have doubled as a mirror, accompanied by enough delicate sandwiches and cakes to feed a small army. Or one enthusiastic dog, who chose that moment to come into the room, tail wagging and what looked suspiciously like meat pie crumbs around his mouth.
"Thistle," Arabella said in a warning tone.
He attempted to look innocent, failed spectacularly, and settled for leaning against her skirts, leaving muddy paw prints on the cream silk.
"Your dog," Lord Blackthorn observed, "has been here less than ten minutes and has already corrupted my kitchen staff."
"That might be a record, even for him."
"I'm not sure whether to be impressed or appalled."
"Both is traditional where Thistle is concerned."
Mrs. Fielding appeared, slightly flushed. "I apologise, my lord. The dog was... persuasive."
"Persuasive," Lord Blackthorn repeated dryly. "Is that what we're calling theft now?"
"Cookie, that is, the Cook, my lord, may have been somewhat... charmed by his enthusiasm."
"Cookie?" Arabella asked, trying not to smile.
"The. Cook, officially," Mrs. Fielding explained. "But she's been Cookie to the household for so long that no one quite remembers to use her proper name."
"And she's already fallen victim to Thistle's charms?"
"She mentioned something about his soulful eyes and tragic circumstances, my lady."
Lord Blackthorn made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. "My cook, who once chased a footman with a cleaver for stealing tarts, has been conquered by a dog with a criminal record?"
"It would appear so, my lord."
"The estate is doomed."
"Quite possibly, my lord."
There was something in the way they spoke to each other, formal but with an undertone of genuine affection, that made Arabella revise her assessment of Lord Blackthorn's isolation. He might keep society at bay, but clearly he'd maintained relationships within his household.
"Perhaps," Arabella suggested, "we could establish some rules for Thistle. A treaty of sorts between the kitchen and him."
"You want to negotiate with a dog?" Lord Blackthorn asked.
"I want to negotiate on behalf of the dog. There's a difference."
"Is there? It seems equally futile."
As if to prove his point, Thistle had wandered over to the tea service and was eyeing the sandwiches with intent.
"No," Arabella said firmly.
Thistle looked at her, then at the sandwiches, then back at her, clearly weighing his options.
"I mean it."
He sighed dramatically and flopped down on the carpet with the air of a dog most terribly wronged by the cruelties of the world.
"Remarkable," Lord Blackthorn said. "He actually listened."
"He's not entirely uncivilized. Just... selectively civilized."
"Like his mistress?"
"Did you just compare me to my dog?"
"Would you prefer I compare you to my ancestors?" He gestured toward the window, where another portrait was visible just next to it. "That's the fifth Earl. He supposedly kept three mistresses and died when one of them pushed him down the stairs."
"How did they know which one?"
"They didn't. All three claimed credit."
"Your family history is colourful."
"That's one word for it." He paused, then added more quietly, "you might find it lonely here. The nearest neighbours are five miles away, and I don't... I don't often entertain."
"Often?"
"Ever."
"So I'm to be a hermit's wife?"
"You knew what I was when you agreed to this." His tone had cooled considerably.
"I knew you were reclusive. I didn't know you were completely isolated."
"There's a difference?"
"Yes. Reclusive suggests choice. Isolated suggests... I don't know. Something sadder."
"I'm not sad, Lady Blackthorn."
The use of her new title felt like a wall being erected between them. Arabella set down her teacup with care.
"Of course not. The Beast of Blackthorn doesn't feel such human emotions."
His jaw tightened. "Don't call me that."
"Why? Everyone else does."
"You're not everyone else. You're my wife."
"In name only, as you've made abundantly clear."
They stared at each other across the tea service, the air between them charged with something that wasn't quite anger but wasn't far from it.
"Perhaps," Mrs. Fielding suggested from the doorway where she'd been hovering, "her ladyship would like to see her chambers now?"
"Yes," Lord Blackthorn said immediately. "That would be... practical."
That word again. Arabella was beginning to hate it.
The walk to the east wing took them through what felt like miles of corridor, past more disapproving ancestors and rooms shrouded in covers. The house felt like a museum; perfectly preserved but lifeless.
"This was my mother's wing," Lord Blackthorn said as they climbed yet another staircase. "She had it redecorated shortly after her marriage. It hasn't been touched since."
"When did she pass?"
"Twelve years ago. Consumption."
"I'm sorry."
"As I said, it was a long time ago."
But something in his voice suggested that time hadn't dulled all the edges of that loss.
The suite, when they reached it, was a revelation.
Unlike the oppressive grandeur of the public rooms, these chambers had been decorated by someone who understood that people actually had to live in them.
The sitting room was done in soft greens and golds, with comfortable-looking furniture arranged around a fireplace.
Books lined one wall, and windows overlooked the rose gardens.
"It's lovely," Arabella said, meaning it.
"My mother had good taste. Better than my grandmother's, certainly."
"No blue damask?"
"She threatened to burn it all once. My father talked her out of it, but only just."
Through a connecting door lay the bedroom, dominated by a four-poster bed hung with ivory silk. Another door presumably led to a dressing room. Everything was clean, aired, and welcoming despite its long abandonment.
"I shall leave you to settle in," Lord Blackthorn said, already backing toward the door. "Dinner is at eight. We keep country hours here."
"Do...Do we dine together?"
He paused. "Would you prefer to dine separately?"
"No, I just... I don't know what the rules are. For our arrangement."
"There are no rules, Lady Blackthorn. We make them as we go."
"That sounds rather uncertain."
"Welcome to marriage." He bowed and was gone before she could respond.
Arabella stood in the middle of her new sitting room, Thistle at her feet, and wondered what she'd gotten herself into. The rooms were beautiful, the house was magnificent, and her husband was... what? Confusing? Contradictory? Capable of moments of dry humor followed by arctic coldness?
A scratch at the door interrupted her musings. Jane entered, followed by two footmen carrying her trunks.
"Oh, my lady," Jane breathed, looking around with wide eyes. "It's like something from a fairy tale."
"Yes," Arabella agreed. "Complete with a beast in the west wing."
Jane's eyes grew even wider. "Is he really as fearsome as they say?"
"He's..." Arabella paused, considering. "He's complicated."
"That's one word for a husband, I suppose."
"What would be another?"
"Well, my mother always said husbands were like weather; unpredictable, occasionally stormy, and best handled with patience and a good umbrella."
Despite everything, Arabella laughed. "I don't think Lord Blackthorn would appreciate being compared to weather."
"No, my lady? What would he prefer?"