And?
"Bad news, my lady?" Morrison asked, apparently reading her expression.
"I'm not sure yet," Arabella said carefully. "Do you know Lady Cassandra Velott?"
Morrison's expression became even more disapproving, if such a thing was possible. "I am... acquainted with her ladyship."
"It's not my place to say, my lady."
"Morrison, I'm asking for your help. I know nothing about my husband's past relationships, and this woman claims to have been his betrothed."
The butler wrestled with propriety for a moment before speaking. "Lady Velott was... a frequent visitor some years ago. Before his lordship's time abroad."
"And?"
"She was not…...The staff found her demanding."
"Demanding."
"She once had a maid dismissed for serving tea at the wrong temperature."
"I see."
"And there was an incident with the roses."
"The roses?"
"She ordered the gardener to cut them all. She said they were vulgar. His lordship's mother's roses, my lady. Planted with her own hands."
Arabella felt a surge of protective anger. "And Lord Blackthorn allowed this?"
"He was... different then, my lady. Before the fire. More willing to be led."
"And now?"
"Now he leads himself, my lady. Or did, until you arrived."
Before Arabella could ask what that meant, Lucien returned, looking triumphant.
"Success," he announced as the butler was leaving. "I've negotiated a treaty. Thistle gets kitchen scraps after dinner in exchange for staying out during cooking times."
"And Cook agreed to this?"
"She did after Thistle demonstrated his ability to open the pantry door. I think she's secretly impressed."
"Or terrified."
Just then he noticed the letter in her hand. "More congratulations on our blessed union?"
"Not exactly." She handed him the letter, watching his face carefully as he read.
His expression went from casual interest to stone in seconds. "When did this arrive?"
"Just now."
"She has no right..." He stopped, crumpling the letter in his fist. "I'll write to her immediately and make it clear she's not welcome."
"Why was she your betrothed?"
The question seemed to surprise him. "That was years ago. Before Matilda."
"Two betrothals?"
"Cassandra was first. A childhood nonsense. I ended it when I met Matilda."
"And she didn't take it well?"
"She... no. She didn't." He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing its careful arrangement. "She made things difficult."
"Difficult how?"
"Does it matter? It's in the past."
"Apparently not, if she's writing letters and planning to visit."
"She won't visit. I'll make sure of it."
"Or," Arabella said slowly, "we could invite her."
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Possibly. But think about it. She's clearly trying to unsettle us. If we invite her on our terms, we control the situation."
"You don't know Cassandra. Control is her specialty."
"Then it's time someone challenged that specialty." Arabella lifted her chin. "I'm your wife now. She's the past. Let her come and see that."
He stared at her for a long moment. "You're either very brave or very foolish."
"You said that about me once before."
"I'm beginning to think it's both." He moved closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "Cassandra is not kind, Arabella. She will look for weaknesses and exploit them."
"What weaknesses?"
"Our arrangement, for one. Separate rooms don't exactly suggest marital bliss."
"Then perhaps we should work on appearing more... married."
The words hung between them, loaded with possibility. His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she found herself swaying toward him, drawn by something she couldn't name.
"That would be dangerous," he said softly.
"Why?"
"Because I might forget it's just an appearance."
Her breath caught. "Would that be so terrible?"
"Yes." But he didn't move away. If anything, he moved closer, his hand rising to cup her cheek. "You don't know what you're suggesting."
"Then tell me."
"Arabella..."
A crash from somewhere above them shattered the moment. They jumped apart as they heard footsteps, followed by what sounded like Mrs. Fielding having hysterics.
"Now what?" Lucien muttered, already moving toward the door.
They found the source of the commotion in the guest wing. The windows had been left open, and the afternoon's brewing storm had sent wind and rain cascading into one of the unused bedrooms. Curtains whipped like banners, and papers from a writing desk had scattered everywhere.
"The carpet is ruined!" Mrs. Fielding wailed.
"It's just water," Arabella said, moving to help gather the scattered papers but getting wet as the rain kept coming into the room. "It will dry."
"But the damage..."
"Will be minimal if we act quickly." Lucien was already directing footmen to close the windows and move the furniture. But something was not quite right with one of the windows and it kept opening again and again. "Have the carpet taken up and dried properly."
They worked together for the next hour, saving what they could and assessing the damage. By the time they finished, the storm had worsened, thunder rolling across the sky like divine displeasure.
"You're soaked," Lucien observed, and Arabella realized he was right. Her dress clung to her in ways that would have been scandalous if half the household hadn't been equally drenched.
"So are you."
His white shirt had become nearly transparent, revealing the lean muscles beneath. She tried not to stare and failed miserably.
"We should change," he said when they were left alone, his voice rougher than usual.
"Yes."
Neither moved.
Lightning flashed, illuminating his face in sharp relief. The scar stood out pale against his skin, and without thinking, she reached up to touch it.
He caught her wrist. "Don't."
"Why?"
"Because if you touch me now, I won't be able to stop."
"Stop what?"
"This."
He pulled her against him and kissed her.
It was nothing like their wedding kiss—that brief, formal brush of lips. This was fire and desperation, three days of careful distance exploding into need. She made a sound she didn't recognize, her hands tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer.
He backed her against the wall, his body caging hers, and she'd never felt anything like this before; this hunger, this need that seemed to consume her from within. His hands were in her hair, scattering pins, but she didn't care, couldn't care about anything beyond the heat of his mouth on hers.
"Your room or mine?" he growled against her lips.
"Yours is closer."
He pulled back, his eyes dark and wild. "Be sure, Arabella. Be very sure."
"I'm sure."
Thunder crashed overhead as he took her hand and led her through the halls.
They passed servants who suddenly found the walls fascinating, passed portraits whose subjects seemed to turn away in shock.
She didn't care. Let them look. Let them gossip.
She was tired of being careful, tired of distance, tired of pretending she didn't want this.
His chambers were dark, lit only by the fire and occasional lightning. She had a brief impression of massive furniture, heavy drapes, a bed that seemed to dominate the room; but then he was kissing her again, and coherent thought fled.