Chapter 7
The hip bath had been delivered and filled with warm water by the time Arabella reached her rooms. Thistle took one look at it and immediately tried to hide under the bed, which might have worked if he'd been considerably smaller or the bed considerably higher.
"Come on, you coward," Arabella coaxed, pulling at his back end while his front end remained firmly wedged under the bed frame. "You can't stay flour-covered forever."
What followed was a battle of wills that left Arabella nearly as wet as she'd been after the lake incident and Thistle only marginally cleaner. He did, however, smell less like a bakery and more like wet dog, which was arguably an improvement.
"You're impossible," she told him as he shook himself, sending water droplets across her newly assigned sitting room.
He wagged his tail, taking this as praise.
Jane arrived to help her prepare for bed, making disapproving sounds over the state of Arabella's wedding gown.
"Flour and dog water," she observed. "Not the usual stains for a wedding night."
"It's not a usual wedding night."
"No, my lady." Jane began unlacing the gown with practised efficiency. "His lordship seems... different than expected."
"Different how?"
"Well, they call him the Beast, but he doesn't seem particularly beastly. Melancholy, perhaps. Lonely, certainly. But not cruel."
"No," Arabella agreed, stepping out of the ruined gown. "Not cruel."
"Will you wear the nightgown Miss Finch gave you?"
Arabella looked at the scandalous confection of silk and lace that Jane had laid out on the bed. "Why would I? We have separate rooms."
"Still your wedding night, my lady."
"In name only."
Jane made that sound again, the one that suggested opinions she wouldn't voice. She helped Arabella into a much more modest nightgown and wrapper, then began taking down her hair.
"The staff likes you already," Jane said as she worked the brush through Arabella's tangles.
"How can you tell?"
"They're talking about you. Not gossip, mind you, just... interest. It's been a long time since there was a mistress at Blackthorn Manor."
"What do they say about Lord Blackthorn?"
"That he's a good master. Fair. Generous at Christmas. But distant. He keeps to himself, rarely leaves his study except for meals and his morning rides."
"A hermit in his own home."
"Yes, my lady. Though perhaps that will change now."
"I doubt it. He was very clear about wanting to maintain his isolation."
"Men often say things they don't mean, especially when they're frightened."
"You think Lord Blackthorn is frightened?"
"I think any man who's built walls that high must be protecting himself from something."
Before Arabella could respond, a knock came at the door. Jane went to answer it, returning with a surprised expression.
"His lordship asks if you would join him in his study for a nightcap."
"A nightcap?" Arabella repeated, surprised. "Now?"
"So it would seem, my lady."
Arabella looked down at her wrapper and nightgown. It was hardly appropriate attire for visiting her husband's study, but then again, nothing about their marriage was appropriate.
"Tell him I'll be there shortly."
Jane's eyes widened slightly, but she bobbed a curtsey and left to deliver the message.
Arabella looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was loose, falling in waves over her shoulders. Her wrapper was decent enough, a deep blue velvet that covered her from throat to floor, but there was something undeniably intimate about appearing before her husband in nightclothes.
"Well," she told her reflection, "you wanted honesty. This is certainly that."
The walk to the west wing felt longer in the darkness. The hallways were lit only by occasional candles, creating pools of light and shadow that made the portraits seem to watch her pass. She could hear Thistle padding along behind her, apparently deciding that where she went, he followed.
The study door was ajar, firelight spilling into the hallway. She knocked softly.
"Come."
Lord Blackthorn was standing by the fire, having changed from his flour-covered evening clothes into a burgundy dressing gown. He looked less formal, younger somehow, though the firelight made his scars more prominent.
"Thank you for coming," he said, gesturing to a chair by the fire. "I realised we never finished dinner."
"We were rather interrupted."
"Yes." He moved to a sideboard where crystal decanters glowed in the firelight. "Brandy? Or I have wine if you prefer."
"Brandy," she said, surprising herself. "It's been that sort of day."
He poured two generous measures and handed her one before taking the chair opposite. Thistle settled between them on the hearth rug, apparently deciding the fire was worth the risk of proximity to Lord Blackthorn.
"Your dog is dripping on my carpet," he observed.
"Our dog. And it's just water."
"Famous last words." But he made no move to banish Thistle.
They sat in silence for a moment, the brandy warming Arabella from the inside out. The study was more personal than any room she'd seen so far; books everywhere, papers on the desk, a half-finished chess game on a side table.
"Do you play?" she asked, nodding to the chess board.
"Sometimes. Against myself, mostly."
"Who wins?"
"I always do. And I always lose. It's very philosophical."
"Or very lonely."
He looked at her sharply. "You're determined to see me as some tragic figure, aren't you?"
"Aren't you?"
"No more than anyone else."
"Most people don't live in self-imposed exile."
"Most people haven't..." He stopped abruptly.
"Haven't what?"
He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Then: "You asked about the fire."
"You don't have to..."
"No, you're right. You should know." He took a long drink of brandy. "Her name was Matilda. We were betrothed. It was arranged by our families and it was a good match, everyone said. She was beautiful, accomplished, everything a future countess should be."
Arabella waited, sensing that interrupting would break whatever spell had prompted this confession.
"We were at my estate in France. There was a fire, which started in the drawing room and spread faster than anyone expected. Matilda was trapped. I tried to reach her." He gestured to his scars. "But I failed."
"I'm sorry."
"Everyone was sorry. Sorry for my loss, sorry for my scars, sorry for the tragedy of it all. But here's the truth I've never told anyone; I was relieved."
Arabella's breath caught. "Relieved?"
"Not that she died. Heavens, not that. But relieved that I wouldn't have to marry her. We were completely wrong for each other. She found me too serious, too dark. I found her vapid and shallow. We would have made each other miserable."
"But you tried to save her."
"Of course I did. She didn't deserve to die just because we were incompatible."
"And the guilt?"
"Has been my constant companion ever since. Not guilt that she died; that was the fire's doing. But guilt that I was grateful to be free, even as I mourned her."
They sat in silence, the fire crackling between them. Thistle had begun to snore, apparently finding the emotional revelations less interesting than the warmth of the hearth.
"Why are you telling me this?" Arabella asked finally.
"Because you asked for honesty. And because..." He paused, seeming to search for words. "Because you fell into a lake to save a dog. Matilda would have watched him drown rather than risk her gown."
"That's not a fair comparison."
"Isn't it? Two women, two responses to crisis. One preserves herself, one risks herself for something that matters to her. Which would you rather have as a wife?"
"But you didn't want a wife at all."
"No," he agreed. "I didn't. And yet here you are, in my study at midnight, covered in dog water and flour residue, listening to my tragic history."
"The flour adds character."
"Everything adds character with you, doesn't it?"
"Would you prefer I be characterless?"
"I'd prefer..." He stopped again, shaking his head. "I don't know what I'd prefer anymore."
The admission hung between them, vulnerable and unexpected. Arabella set down her brandy and leaned forward.
"Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe not knowing means you're open to possibilities."
"I haven't been open to possibilities in years."
"Then perhaps it's time to start."
He looked at her then, firelight playing across his features, and she saw something shift in his expression; a softening, perhaps, or maybe just exhaustion breaking through his carefully maintained walls.
"You should go to bed," he said quietly. "It's been a long day."
"For both of us."
"Yes." He stood, and she did as well, while Thistle was grumbling at the disturbance. "Arabella..."
It was the second time he'd used her name without the title, and something about the way he said it made her pause.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For listening. For not... judging."
"Thank you for telling me."
They stood there, closer than they'd been since the lake, close enough that she could smell the sandalwood and brandy, see the way his pulse beat at his throat. For a moment, she thought he might...
But then he stepped back, the moment breaking like a soap bubble.
"Goodnight, Lady Blackthorn."
The title was back, the wall rebuilt. But weaker now, she thought. Definitely weaker.
"Goodnight, Lord Blackthorn."
She left him standing by the fire, a solitary figure surrounded by books and shadows and the weight of untold stories.
The walk back to her rooms seemed shorter, or perhaps she was simply lost in thought. Jane had left candles burning, and the rooms felt welcoming despite their unfamiliarity.
Arabella climbed into the large bed, Thistle settling at her feet with a contented sigh. Through the windows, she could see stars; more than were ever visible in London, a vast tapestry of light against the darkness.
This was her wedding night. Not what she'd imagined in her girlish dreams, certainly. No passionate embraces, no whispered endearments, no consummation of vows. Just two damaged people sharing brandy and truths in a fire-lit study.
And yet, she thought as sleep began to claim her, there had been something there. In the way he'd said her name, in the vulnerability of his confession, in that moment by the fire when the air had seemed to thicken between them.
They were married strangers, bound by scandal and propriety rather than love. But strangers could become friends, and friends could become... something more. Maybe.
Time would tell.
A scratch at her door interrupted her descent into sleep. She sat up, wondering if she'd imagined it. Then it came again, definitely real.
"Who is it?"
"It's... it's me." Lord Blackthorn's voice, muffled by the heavy door.
Arabella's heart began to race. She pulled her wrapper more tightly around herself and went to the door, opening it a crack.
He stood in the hallway, still in his dressing gown, holding what appeared to be a book.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," he said, and she could see he was genuinely uncomfortable. "I just... I thought you might... My mother used to read this." He held out the book. "I thought you might enjoy it. For your library here. A wedding gift, of sorts."
She took the book, a leather-bound volume worn soft with handling. "Pride and Prejudice," she read from the spine.
"She said it reminded her that first impressions aren't always accurate," he said. "That people can surprise you if you let them."
"And did she? Surprise you?"
"Every day." His voice was soft with memory. "She was the only person who never saw me as the future Earl first and a person second. Until..." He stopped.
"Until?"
"Nothing. It's late. I shouldn't have disturbed you."
"I'm glad you did."
He looked at her then, something raw and uncertain in his expression. "Are you?"
"Yes."
"Even though I'm the Beast of Blackthorn who trapped you in a practical marriage?"
"You're not a beast," she said firmly. "And you didn't trap me. I walked in with my eyes open."
"Half-drowned and covered in lake weed, as I recall."
"The lake weed added character."
He almost smiled; she could see it hovering at the corners of his mouth. "Everything adds character with you."
"It's a gift."
"Or a curse."
"Probably both."
This time he did smile, just slightly, and it transformed his face. The scars were still there, would always be there, but suddenly she could see the man he might have been without the weight of tragedy and isolation.
"Goodnight, Arabella."
"Goodnight, Lucien."
She used his name deliberately, watching as surprise flickered across his features. Then something else, which looked like pleasure but It was gone too quickly to be sure.
He bowed slightly and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the west wing. Arabella closed the door and leaned against it, holding the book to her chest.
A wedding gift. The first gift he'd given her that wasn't born of duty or propriety but something approaching affection. She opened the cover and found an inscription in faded ink:
"To my darling boy! May you find someone who challenges your pride and softens your prejudices. All my love, Mother"
Below it, in fresher ink, a new inscription:
"To Arabella—who is already doing both. L."
She traced the letters with one finger, feeling something warm in her chest. They were strangers, indeed. Married for all the wrong reasons, certainly. But perhaps, just perhaps, they might find something right in all this wrongness.
She climbed back into bed, the book still clutched in her hands, and fell asleep thinking not of what she'd lost but of what she might, possibly, or impossibly, find.
Outside, the stars continued their silent vigil, and somewhere in the west wing, a lonely earl sat by his fire, wondering if he'd just made everything better or infinitely more complicated.
Time, as they both knew, would tell.