Chapter 9 #2
But for now, she was content to lie in her husband's arms, listening to his heartbeat and the storm, and marvel at how thoroughly her life had changed in less than a week.
"Arabella?" he said softly.
"Mmm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being brave enough to fall into that lake."
She smiled against his chest. "It was Thistle's fault, really."
"Then remind me to give that dog an entire roast tomorrow."
"The Cook will have an apoplexy."
"Worth it."
They fell asleep like that, wrapped around each other while the storm raged on, unaware that Morrison had already instructed the staff that the rose suite would no longer be needed, that Mrs. Fielding was having a quiet glass of wine in celebration, and that somewhere in the kitchen, Thistle was indeed demolishing the careful treaty, though Cookie was laughing too hard to care.
***
Morning arrived with embarrassing brightness, streaming through the windows Lucien had forgotten to curtain the night before. Arabella woke slowly, aware first of warmth, then of the solid presence beside her, and of the delicious soreness that reminded her of exactly what had transpired.
"Stop thinking so loudly," Lucien murmured against her hair.
"I'm not thinking."
"Liar. I can practically hear your thoughts."
She turned in his arms to face him. In the morning light, he looked younger, more relaxed. The scar was still prominent, would always be, but it no longer seemed like a barrier between the world and him.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
"That I should probably be panicking."
"But you're not?"
"Strangely, no." He traced her face with one finger. "Though I suspect that will come later, when I remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea."
"Such optimism."
"I'm trying to be realistic. We agreed to separate lives, and now..."
"Now we're naked in your bed."
"Precisely. It complicates things."
"Everything about us has been complicated from the start."
"True." He kissed her, morning-lazy and sweet. "We should probably get up."
"Probably."
Neither moved.
"The household will talk."
"They're already talking."
"Good point." He pulled her closer. "Five more minutes?"
"Five more minutes."
An hour later, they finally emerged, trying to look as though they hadn't just thoroughly debauched each other. The attempt was somewhat undermined by Arabella wearing one of Lucien's dressing gowns, her own clothes being somewhere in the chaos of his chambers.
"I need to get to my chambers," she said, peering down the hallway.
"The staff has seen worse."
"From your ancestors, maybe. Not from us."
"We're married, Arabella. This is actually what married people do."
"Novel concept."
They made it halfway to the east wing before encountering Mrs. Fielding, who took one look at them and developed a sudden fascination with her household keys.
"Good morning, my lord, my lady. Breakfast is served in the morning room."
"Thank you, Mrs. Fielding," Lucien said with remarkable composure. "We'll be down shortly."
"Of course, my lord. And may I say, the storm damage has been fully addressed. No permanent harm done."
"Excellent."
She bustled away, and Arabella could have sworn she was humming.
"Did your housekeeper just give us her approval?" Arabella asked.
"I believe she did. Disturbing, isn't it?"
"Everything about this situation is disturbing."
"Including last night?"
"Especially last night. I'm supposed to be a proper lady."
"You are a proper lady. You're also my wife. The two aren't mutually opposed."
"Aren't they?"
He stopped walking, turning to face her. "Arabella, what happened between us... there's nothing improper about it. Perhaps unexpected, certainly unplanned, but not improper."
"Even though we agreed..."
"Agreements can be renegotiated."
"Is that what we're doing? Renegotiating?"
"I don't know what we're doing," he admitted. "But I know I don't regret it."
Before she could respond, Jane appeared from the direction of the rose suite, carrying an armload of clothing.
"My lady! I was just coming to look for you. Your morning dress is laid out, and..." She stopped, taking in Arabella's attire and location. "Oh. Oh, I see. Shall I.....Would you prefer…?"
"I'll be there shortly, Jane."
"Yes, my lady." Jane bobbed a curtsey and fled, but not before Arabella caught her delighted grin.
"By noon, the entire household will know," Arabella sighed.
"Good. Maybe they'll stop looking at us like we're about to murder each other."
"Have they been doing that?"
"You haven't noticed? Every meal, Morrison watches us like he's expecting bloodshed."
"That's just his face."
"No, his normal face is disapproving. His worried face involves more eyebrow."
Arabella laughed despite herself. "You've made a study of Morrison's eyebrows?"
"There's not much else to do in the evenings when one is avoiding one's wife."
"Were you? Avoiding me?"
"Desperately. You're very difficult to ignore."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should."
They reached her chambers, and she paused at the door. "I should dress. Face the day. Deal with whatever Thistle has destroyed in our absence."
"Our absence," he repeated. "I like the sound of that."
"Don't get too comfortable with it. This might have been a one-time aberration."
"Was it?"
She looked at him, this man she'd married in haste and was apparently repenting at leisure; though repenting seemed the wrong word for what they'd done last night.
"I don't know," she said honestly. "Can we take it day by day?"
"We can take it hour by hour if you prefer."
"And this hour?"
"This hour, you get dressed, we have breakfast, and we pretend to be a properly married couple."
"As opposed to what we actually are?"
"What we actually are," he said, moving closer, "is a work in progress."
He kissed her, quick but thorough, then walked away before she could respond. She watched him go, admiring the way he moved, the broad set of his shoulders, the way morning light caught in his dark hair.
"My lady?" Jane's voice came from within her chambers. "Your bath is ready."
Arabella entered to find Jane practically vibrating with suppressed excitement.
"Not a word," Arabella warned.
"I wouldn't dream of it, my lady. Though might I suggest the rose morning dress? It brings out your complexion beautifully."
"My complexion?"
"That lovely glow you've developed. Quite becoming."
"Jane!"
"Yes, my lady?"
But the maid's innocent expression fooled no one.
An hour later, properly dressed and attempting to look like she hadn't spent the night doing thoroughly improper things with her husband, Arabella made her way to the morning room.
She could hear voices as she approached; Lucien's low rumble and another, higher, feminine laugh that made her stomach clench.
She entered to find her husband standing by the window, tension in every line of his body, while a vision in pale blue silk occupied the settee. Lady Cassandra Velott had arrived.
She was everything Arabella wasn't—tall, willowy, with golden hair arranged in perfect ringlets and a complexion that suggested she'd never done anything as vulgar as falling into a lake.
Her dress was clearly London-made, probably cost more than Arabella's entire wardrobe, and she wore it with the confidence of a woman who'd never questioned her place in the world.
"Ah," Cassandra said, rising with fluid grace. "You must be the new Lady Blackthorn. How delightful to finally meet you."
Her tone suggested it was anything but delightful. Her eyes, a cold pale blue, swept over Arabella with an assessment that found her wanting.
"Lady Velott," Arabella said, proud that her voice remained steady. "How unexpected."
"I did write that I would call."
"Yes, yesterday. I hadn't anticipated such... promptness."
"I was in the neighbourhood." Cassandra's smile was sharp as glass. "Staying with the Desclaires. Perhaps you know them?"
She knew perfectly well that the Desclaires were above Arabella's former social circle. It was a deliberate cut, elegantly delivered.
"I haven't had that pleasure," Arabella replied evenly.
"No? How strange. They know everyone worth knowing." Another cut. "But then, you've been rather busy lately, haven't you? Such a whirlwind courtship. Why, surely no more than a week has passed."
"Five days, actually," Arabella said, deciding to own it rather than apologize for it.
"Five days!" Cassandra's laugh tinkled like breaking crystal. "How impulsive. But then, Lucien always did have a weakness for impulsive women."