Chapter 10
The rest of the day passed in a blur of ordinary domestic life made extraordinary by the new awareness between them. Every glance lingered, every accidental touch sparked. When their hands met over the teapot at afternoon tea, Arabella felt the contact all the way to her toes.
"You're not very subtle," she told him after Mrs. Fielding left the room.
"I wasn't trying to be."
"The servants will gossip."
"Let them. We're married, Arabella. We're allowed to look at each other."
"The way you're looking at me has nothing to do with marriage and everything to do with what happened last night."
"And this morning," he reminded her, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made her insides melt.
"Lucien..."
"I like when you say my name."
"You're trying to distract me."
"Is it working?"
"Yes, it truly is."
He grinned, a real smile that transformed his face completely. "Good."
That evening, as they dressed for dinner, separately, despite the new intimacy between them, Arabella found herself nervous. Would they return to the formal distance of before? Or had everything truly changed?
She entered the dining room to find he'd had the table reset. Instead of the vast expanse between them, two places were arranged at one end, close enough to touch, closer than ever.
"Better?" he asked, holding her chair.
"Much."
Dinner was different this time. The conversation flowed naturally, punctuated by laughter and long looks that promised things she was only beginning to understand. When his fingers brushed hers as he passed the salt, she felt the touch like flame.
"You're doing it again," she said.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're remembering last night."
"I am remembering last night. In vivid detail. Would you like me to describe..."
"The footmen are right there!"
"They're well-trained. They won't listen."
But she could see Thomas, the youngest footman, turning pink at the ears.
"You're incorrigible," she whispered.
"You're blushing."
"I am not."
"You are. It starts at your chest and works its way up. I noticed last night when I..."
"Lucien!"
"Yes, darling?"
The endearment slipped out so naturally that they both froze. It was the first time either had used such a term, and it hung between them like a question.
"I should check on Thistle," Arabella said, fleeing before the moment could become more intense.
She found the dog in the kitchen, having apparently made peace with Cookie through sheer persistence and charm. He was lying by the fire, gnawing contentedly on what looked suspiciously like an entire ham bone and apparently alone at that moment.
"You've corrupted my entire household," she told him.
He wagged his tail, unrepentant.
"Though I suppose I can scarcely speak on the matter myself," she added, thinking of how thoroughly she'd corrupted the Earl's careful isolation.
"Talking to the dog again?" Lucien's voice came from behind her.
"He's an excellent conversationalist. He never argues."
"Unlike your husband?"
"My husband doesn't argue. He makes pronouncements and expects the world to rearrange itself accordingly."
"And does it?"
"Usually, I imagine. You're rather used to getting your way."
"So are you."
"Then we're well matched."
"In some things." He moved closer, and she could feel the heat of him along her back. "In others, we're still learning."
"What others?"
"This, for instance." His hands settled on her waist, drawing her back against him. "I don't know the rules anymore, Arabella. Are we maintaining separate rooms? Are we..."
"Are we what?"
"Are we truly married now?"
She turned in his arms to face him. "What do you want?"
"You," he said simply. "I want you. In my bed, at my table, in my life. But I don't know if that's what you want."
"Last night..."
"Last night was a storm. Today is reality."
"And in reality?"
"In reality, I'm still the Beast of Blackthorn. Scarred, difficult, with a past that won't stay buried and a reputation that will always follow us."
"And I'm still the girl who fell into a lake to save a dog. Impulsive, challenging, with a criminal pet and a tendency toward chaos."
"Dived into a lake," he corrected, and she could see him fighting a smile.
"The point stands. We're both disasters in our own ways."
"So what do we do?"
"We can be disasters together."
He kissed her then, right there in the kitchen with Thistle wagging his approval. It was tender and passionate and full of promise.
"Your room or mine?" he asked against her lips.
"Yours is closer."
"You said that last night too."
"It was true then, and it's true now."
"My practical wife."
"Someone has to be practical in this marriage."
"And someone has to be impractical. I suppose that's you as well."
"I suppose it is."
They barely made it to his chambers, stopping to kiss in alcoves, against walls, anywhere the need overwhelmed them. By the time they reached his door, Arabella's hair was thoroughly disheveled and Lucien's cravat was undone.
"The servants," she gasped as he pressed her against his door.
"Will learn to knock."
"Lucien..."
But then they were inside, the door locked, and conversation became unnecessary.
This time was different from the storm-driven passion of the night before. This was deliberate, chosen, a conscious decision to let their marriage become real. They took their time, learning each other's responses, mapping skin with hands and mouths, building something that felt like foundation.
"I didn't plan this," Lucien said afterward, holding her close. "Any of it. You were supposed to live in the east wing and I in the west, and we'd pass each other occasionally in the halls."
"A terrible plan."
"The worst I've ever made."
"I'm glad it failed."
"So am I." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "Though I have no idea what we do now."
"Now we sleep. Tomorrow we'll face whatever comes."
"Including Cassandra's ball?"
"Especially that."
"You're determined to torture me with society."
"I'm determined to show you that hiding isn't the answer."
"I wasn't hiding," he protested.
"You were absolutely hiding."
"Fine. I was hiding. But I had good reasons."
"And now?"
"Now I have better reasons not to." His arms tightened around her. "You're a good reason, Arabella."
"Just good?"
"Excellent. Exceptional. Extraordinary."
"Better."
They lay in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the house settle around them. Then Arabella remembered something.
"We should probably do something about the rose suite."
"Why?"
"Well, if I'm not going to use it..."
"You're not."
"That was decisive."
"I'm a decisive man. And I've decided I like you here."
"In your bed?"
"In my bed, in my life, in my world. Wherever you'll stay."
"Careful, Lord Blackthorn. That sounds dangerously close to a romantic declaration."
"Heaven forbid. My reputation would be ruined."
"Your reputation is already ruined. You married a woman who swims with dogs."
"Dived. You dived with dogs."
"I'm never going to win this argument, am I?"
"Never."
"Good thing I like you."
"Just like?"
"What would you prefer?"
He was quiet for a moment, and she could feel him choosing his words carefully. "I prefer honesty. And honestly, I don't know what this feeling is yet. It's too new, too unexpected. But it's... significant."
"Significant," she repeated. "I can work with significant."
"Can you?"
"Yes. Because I feel it too. This significant thing that doesn't have a name yet."
"Maybe it doesn't need one."
"Maybe not."
A scratching at the door interrupted them. Lucien groaned.
"If that's Morrison with another crisis..."
But it was Thistle, who had apparently decided that wherever his humans were, he should be too. He padded into the room, took one look at them in the bed, and promptly claimed the hearth rug as his own.
"Your dog has no sense of propriety," Lucien observed.
"Our dog. And no, he doesn't."
"He's going to be there every night now, isn't he?"
"Probably."
"Wonderful. The Beast of Blackthorn, tamed by a woman and her criminal dog."
"There are worse fates."
"Name one."
"Being alone in this massive house with only your brooding for company."
"That's a fair point."
"I'm full of fair points," she said and she hit him with a pillow, which led to him retaliating, and then led to a brief but enthusiastic pillow fight that ended with them tangled together again, laughing and breathless.
"This is not how I expected marriage to be," Lucien admitted.
"Disappointed?"
"The opposite." He kissed her, slow and sweet. "Though I could do without the dog as audience."
Thistle, as if understanding, turned his back to them and began snoring pointedly.
"See? He's discreet."
"He's a threat."
"Our threat."
"Everything is 'ours' with you, isn't it?"
"That's generally how marriage works, yes."
"I wouldn't know. This is my first one."
"Mine too, in case you'd forgotten."
"How could I forget? You wore your mother's dress and looked like you might faint."
"You looked like you were attending an execution."
"I thought I was."
"And now?"
"Now I think I was attending a resurrection."
The words were so unexpected, so quietly profound, that Arabella felt tears prick her eyes.
"Lucien..."
"Don't cry. If you cry, I'll panic, and if I panic, the dog will probably attack me."
"He wouldn't attack you."
"He might. He's very protective of you."
"So are you."
"Yes," he agreed simply. "I am."
They finally slept, wrapped around each other with Thistle standing guard.
Outside, the night was clear and star-filled, the storm having passed.
But inside Blackthorn Manor, another sort of storm was brewing; the kind that came from two damaged people learning to trust, to hope, to build something from the wreckage of their respective pasts.
***
The next few days fell into a pattern that should have been domestic but felt revolutionary.
They woke together, broke their fast together, and spent their days in each other's company more often than not.
The household adjusted with remarkable speed, as if they'd been waiting for their master to remember how to be happy.
"You're humming," Arabella observed on the fourth morning, finding Lucien in his study.
"I don't hum."
"You were definitely humming."
"Beasts don't hum."
"This one does. What were you humming?"
"I don't know. Something my mother used to sing."
She moved to perch on the arm of his chair, a liberty that would have been unthinkable a week ago. "Tell me about her."
"She was... light," he said after a moment. "Everything about her was light. She laughed easily, sang constantly, and never met a person she couldn't find something to love about."
"She sounds wonderful."
"She was. She would have liked you."
"Because I fell into a lake?"
"Because you saved the dog." He pulled her down into his lap, another new intimacy that made her pulse race. "She always said you could judge a person by how they treated animals."
"Then she would have loved Thistle."
"She would have adopted Thistle and probably taught him to steal better things."
"Better things?"
"Useful things. She trained her dog to fetch her spectacles."
"That's brilliant."
"That's dangerous. You're already looking speculative."
"Thistle could learn..."
"Thistle could learn to burn the house down. Let's not encourage him."
As if summoned, the dog appeared in the doorway, tail wagging and what looked suspiciously like one of Mrs. Fielding's best dish towels in his mouth.
"Speaking of theft," Lucien sighed.
"I shall handle it." Arabella slipped from his lap, already moving toward the dog. "Thistle, drop it."
Thistle considered this suggestion and apparently found it lacking. He ran away, towel flapping like a banner of victory.
"I should help," Lucien said, not moving.
"You should definitely help," Arabella agreed, also not moving.
They looked at each other for a moment, then simultaneously decided that Mrs. Fielding could spare one towel.
"We're terrible pet owners," Arabella observed.
"We're learning."
"We're enabling."
"That too."
Morrison appeared in the doorway, his expression suggesting news of importance. "My lord, a letter has arrived from the Desclaires."
"The invitation to the ball?" Arabella guessed.
"It would appear so, my lady."
Lucien took the letter with obvious reluctance, breaking the seal as if it might contain something poisonous. Which, given Cassandra's involvement, it might.
"A ball in honour of Lord and Lady Blackthorn's recent marriage," he read. "How thoughtful."
"It's a trap," Arabella said.
"Obviously."
"We're still going."
"Apparently."
Morrison cleared his throat delicately. "Shall I send acceptance, my lord?"
"Yes," Arabella said before Lucien could refuse. "And Morrison? We'll need to order from London. Evening clothes suitable for a ball."
"Of course, my lady. I'll send for the modiste immediately."
After he left, Lucien pulled her back into his lap. "You're determined to drag me back into society."
"I'm determined to show society that the Beast of Blackthorn is actually a man. A good man. My man."
"Your man?"
"Aren't you?"
"I suppose I am." He kissed her, deep and possessive. "Just as you're my woman."
"How primitively territorial."
"You bring out the primitive in me."
"Just me? Not Cassandra?"
His expression darkened. "Cassandra brings out the murderous in me. There's a difference."
"She wants you back."
"She wants what she can't have. If I suddenly became available, she'd lose interest immediately."
"You don't think she loved you?"
"Cassandra loves Cassandra. Everyone else is just... accessories."
"Then why were you betrothed?"
"Because I was young and foolish and thought beauty was enough."
"And now?"
"Now I know better. Beauty fades. But courage, kindness, the ability to make me laugh—those things last."
"Are you calling me courageous and kind?"
"And funny. Don't forget funny."
"I'm not funny."
"Oh, yes, you are. Yesterday you tried to teach Thistle to fetch your slippers."
"That was training!"
"That was comedy. He brought you one of my boots, three potatoes, and what I'm fairly certain was Mrs. Fielding's wig."
"She said it was a hairpiece."
"It was definitely a wig."
They were laughing when another crash echoed through the house, followed by the now-familiar sound of chaos.
"Your turn," they said simultaneously.
"We could leave him to it," Lucien suggested.
"We could..."
Another crash, this one accompanied by what sounded like Cookie's operatic distress.
"We should go," Arabella sighed.
"We should."
They found Thistle in the pantry, having somehow opened every flour container in his quest for whatever he'd been seeking. He sat in the middle of the white explosion, tail wagging, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself.
"This," Lucien said surveying the disaster, "is our life now."
"Regrets?"
He looked at her, disheveled from his lap, laughing at the chaos, already moving to help clean up, and smiled.
"Not even one."