Chapter 8
"My lady, you cannot possibly be serious about rearranging the entire library."
Mrs. Fielding's tone suggested that Arabella had proposed something on par with burning the house down. It was their third morning at Blackthorn Manor, and Arabella was discovering that being mistress of an imposing estate came with rather more resistance than she'd anticipated.
"I'm merely suggesting," Arabella said, maintaining her composure despite the urge to throw something, "that organizing books by subject rather than by the colour of their spines might be more practical."
"The late Countess arranged them thus," Mrs. Fielding replied, as if this settled the matter entirely.
"The late Countess has been dead for twelve years."
"Yes, my lady."
The housekeeper's expression suggested that death was no excuse for having one's decorating choices questioned. Arabella was formulating a response when Lord Blackthorn's voice came from the doorway.
"Is there a problem?"
He stood there in riding clothes, having clearly just returned from his morning ride.
His hair was windswept, his boots muddy, and there was color in his cheeks that made him look younger, less burdened.
Arabella found herself staring at the way his riding coat stretched across his shoulders and had to force herself to look away.
"Lady Blackthorn wishes to rearrange the library," Mrs. Fielding said in the tone one might use to report a murder.
"Does she?" His eyes found Arabella's, and she thought she saw amusement there. "How revolutionary. Books arranged for use rather than aesthetics. Whatever will people think?"
"My lord," Mrs. Fielding began, but he held up a hand.
"Lady Blackthorn is mistress of this house. If she wishes to rearrange the library, the breakfast room, or the entire estate, that is her prerogative."
The housekeeper's mouth opened and closed several times. Finally, she managed, "of course, my Lord. I'll have the footmen assist immediately."
She swept out, dignity intact but clearly ruffled. Arabella looked at her husband, surprised by his support.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. You'll be the one dealing with her wounded sensibilities for the next week.
" He moved into the library, surveying the admittedly bizarre color-coding system.
"Though I confess, I never understood my mother's logic here either.
Why should Byron be separated from Wordsworth simply because their spines are different shades? "
"Exactly!" Arabella said, warming to the subject. "And poor Shakespeare is scattered across three shelves because some volumes are red and others are blue."
"A tragedy." He pulled off his riding gloves, and Arabella found herself watching his hands—strong, capable, bearing small scars that suggested a man who didn't just direct labor but participated in it. "Would you like help?"
"You want to help me rearrange the library?"
"I want to see Mrs. Fielding's face when she discovers the master of the house moving furniture like a common footman." That almost-smile played at his lips. "Also, I have nothing else to do this morning, and watching you attempt to reach the higher shelves promises to be entertaining."
"I'm not that short."
"You're not that tall either."
"This from a man who probably has to duck through doorways."
"Only some doorways. The Tudor parts of the house were built for smaller people. More your size, actually."
"Are you calling me Tudor-sized?"
"I'm calling you appropriately historical."
Despite herself, Arabella laughed. These past three days had been full of such moments; unexpected exchanges that suggested her husband possessed a dry wit he deployed when she least expected it. It made the formal dinners less awkward, the strange reality of their situation more bearable.
They worked together for the next hour, Arabella directing and Lucien reaching the books she couldn't. Their hands brushed once as they both reached for the same volume, and the contact sent an unexpected jolt through her.
He jerked back as if burned, and they spent the next several minutes carefully avoiding any possibility of touching.
"Poetry here?" he asked, holding a stack of volumes.
"Yes, and then plays below."
"Very logical. Though I notice you've put Byron with the romantics rather than the reprobates."
"Is there a reprobate section?"
"There should be. We could include my ancestor's memoirs."
"The one who was pushed down the stairs?"
"The very same. His journals are quite scandalous. I keep them locked away to protect innocent minds."
"I'm hardly innocent."
The words hung in the air, taking on a meaning she hadn't intended. His eyes darkened, and suddenly the library felt much smaller, the air thicker.
"No," he said quietly, "I suppose you're not. You're a married woman now."
"In name only," she reminded him, though the words came out breathier than intended.
"Yes." He turned back to the shelves abruptly. "Where do you want the histories?"
The moment passed, but the awareness remained.
She could feel him in the room like a physical presence, could catch his scent, sandalwood and leather and something uniquely him, whenever he moved past her.
Three days of marriage, and already the careful boundaries they'd established seemed to be blurring.
Thistle came into the library, effectively breaking the tension by tracking mud across the rug and attempting to befriend a stack of newly sorted books.
"Your dog," Lucien said with resignation.
"Our dog."
"He's only ours when he's behaving."
"So never, then?"
"Precisely."
A footman appeared in the doorway, looking harried. "My lord, there's a... situation in the kitchen."
"Let me guess," Lucien said dryly. "The dog?"
"The Cook says to tell you that if 'that beast' steals one more roast, she's giving notice."
"She says that daily."
"Yes, my lord, but this time she's written it down."
Arabella bit her lip to keep from laughing at Lucien's expression of long-suffering patience. "I shall handle it," she said.
"No, allow me," Lucien said, already moving toward the door. "I need to establish dominance."
"Over Cook or Thistle?"
"Both, ideally, though I'll settle for one out of two."
He left, Thistle trotting after him with the air of a dog who knew perfectly well he was in trouble but didn't particularly care. Arabella returned to her sorting, but her mind kept wandering to the way Lucien's eyes had darkened when she'd said she wasn't innocent.
A throat clearing made her turn. Morrison stood in the doorway, bearing his silver salver with an expression of deep disapproval.
"Letters have arrived, my lady."
The first few were expected; notes from neighbors welcoming the new Countess, invitations to tea that she suspected were more about gossip than hospitality. But the last letter bore no return direction, just her name in elegant, feminine script.
She opened it, and her blood chilled as she read: