Chapter 12
"If you adjust that cravat one more time, I'm going to tie you to the bedpost with it."
The morning of the ball had dawned with unseasonable heat, as if nature itself had decided to add to the evening's anticipated drama.
Arabella had woken early, too nervous to sleep, and found Lucien already awake beside her, staring at the canopy above their bed with the expression of a man contemplating his own execution.
"We could still claim illness," he'd suggested over breakfast.
"We're both claiming illness? What are the odds of that?"
"Food poisoning. Cookie's fish was suspicious last night."
"Cookie's fish was perfect, and you know it."
"Then we blame Thistle. He's probably eaten something toxic by now."
Thistle, hearing his name, had looked up from where he was systematically destroying what appeared to be one of Morrison's gloves, tail wagging with enthusiasm.
"The picture of health," Arabella had observed.
"My goodness."
The rest of the day had passed in a blur of preparation.
Madame Phillipe had arrived for final adjustments to the gown, declaring that Arabella would "éclater comme un bijou"—shine like a jewel. Another woman had come from the village to arrange Arabella’s hair, armed with hot irons and enough pins to construct a small building.
Even Lucien had submitted to additional grooming, his valet practically glowing with the opportunity to properly dress his master for society.
"You're fidgeting," Julian observed now, having arrived an hour ago to provide moral support and unhelpful commentary.
"I don't fidget," Lucien said, fidgeting.
"You're literally tapping your foot as we speak."
"That's... rhythmic thinking."
"That's nervous tapping."
"Gentlemen," Arabella interrupted, "you're not helping."
Arabella's threat, delivered while Jane attempted to secure the last of her hairpins, made Lucien pause with his hands halfway to his throat.
They were in their chambers, his chambers, though she'd quite thoroughly colonized them over the past four days, preparing for the Desclaire ball with the sort of grim determination usually reserved for military campaigns.
"It's crooked," he said, but dropped his hands.
"It's perfect. You're nervous."
"I'm not nervous. I'm..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Alert."
"You're nervous," Julian said from his position by the fireplace, where he'd been offering unhelpful commentary for the past hour. "I haven't seen you this nervous since that incident with the Ambassador's daughter in Vienna."
"What incident?" Arabella asked, turning so quickly that Jane nearly stabbed her with a hairpin.
"Nothing," Lucien said quickly. "Julian is misremembering."
"I never misremember. She was completely besotted with you, used to leave poetry under your door."
"Bad poetry," Lucien corrected. "Truly awful poetry. She rhymed 'heart' with 'dart' in every single verse."
"But you kept them," Julian observed with a grin. "I saw them in your desk."
"I kept them as a reminder that attraction and literary talent are not necessarily linked."
"How romantic," Arabella said dryly. "Did you keep any of Cassandra's letters?"
"Cassandra never wrote letters. She considered putting thoughts to paper beneath her."
"She preferred dramatic scenes?"
"She preferred an audience. Letters can't applaud."
Jane stepped back, surveying her work. "There, my lady. You're ready."
Arabella stood and turned to face the mirror, barely recognizing herself.
Madame Phillipe's creation was everything promised—the midnight blue silk seemed to glow in the candlelight, the neckline was daring without being scandalous, and the way it moved when she walked suggested things that made her blush.
"Oh, Heavens," Lucien breathed.
She turned to find him staring at her with an expression that sent heat through her entire body.
"Is it too much?" she asked.
"It's..." He seemed to have lost the ability to form complete sentences. "You're..."
"I believe what my articulate friend is trying to say," Julian interjected, "is that you look magnificent and Cassandra is going to want to murder you on sight."
"That's reassuring."
Lucien crossed to her in two strides, his hands settling on her waist. "You don't have to do this. We can stay home, claim illness..."
"We're going," she said firmly. "We've practised, we're prepared, and I'm wearing a dress that cost more than most people see in a year. We're definitely going."
"Besides," Julian added, "I've already wagered fifty pounds that you'll make it through the evening without anyone getting pushed into a fountain."
"Why would anyone get pushed into a fountain?" Arabella asked.
"You haven't been to a Desclaire ball. Their fountains are strategically placed for maximum dramatic potential."
A knock came at the door, and Morrison entered. "The carriage is ready, my Lord."
"Excellent." Julian clapped his hands. "Let the games begin."
"This isn't a game," Lucien said.
"Everything with Cassandra is a game. The key is making sure you're playing the same one."
They made their way downstairs, where the household staff had assembled to see them off. Mrs. Fielding was actually smiling, Cookie had tears in her eyes, and even Morrison looked slightly less disapproving than usual.
"You look beautiful, my lady," Cookie said, then immediately looked mortified at having spoken out of turn.
"Thank you, Cookie. And thank you for keeping Thistle occupied tonight."
The dog in question was in the kitchen, having been bribed with treats to prevent him from attempting to join the festivities. They could hear him barking occasionally, but it sounded more celebratory than distressed.
"He'll be fine," Mrs. Fielding assured her. "We'll take good care of him."
"I'm more worried about him taking care of you," Lucien muttered.
*
The carriage ride to the Desclaire estate took forty minutes, during which Arabella's nerves grew progressively worse. Lucien held her hand, his thumb tracing soothing circles on her palm, while Julian kept up a steady stream of society gossip designed to distract her.
"Remember," Julian said as they approached the gates, "you're the Countess of Blackthorn. You outrank most of the people there."
"Rank doesn't matter to gossips," Arabella said.
"No, but it matters to hostesses. The Desclaires won't allow anything too scandalous to happen to a countess in her home. It would reflect badly on her."
"How reassuring."
The Desclaire estate was ablaze with lights, carriages lined up to discharge their elegantly dressed occupants. Through the windows, Arabella could see figures moving in what looked like a golden fairy tale.
"Ready?" Lucien asked.
"No."
"Good. Neither am I. We shall not be ready together."
"That's the spirit," Julian said cheerfully. "Mutual terror is the foundation of all good marriages."
Their arrival caused the expected stir. Conversations paused, heads turned, and Arabella felt the weight of dozens of eyes as they were announced.
"The Earl and Countess of Blackthorn."
The words rang through the ballroom like a bell, and for a moment, complete silence fell. Then the whispers started, rippling outward like waves from a stone dropped in still water.
"Chin up," Lucien murmured. "We're magnificent, remember?"
They descended into the ballroom with Julian flanking them like a particularly well-dressed guard. Lady Desclaire, a woman who seemed to be composed entirely of silk and disapproval, glided toward them.
"Lord Blackthorn," she said, her tone suggesting she wasn't entirely pleased by their presence. "How... unexpected to see you in society again."
"My wife was eager to meet our neighbours," Lucien replied smoothly. "I could hardly deny her."
The hostess’s gaze shifted to Arabella, taking in every detail of her appearance with the efficiency of an accountant reviewing ledgers. "Lady Blackthorn. What a... striking gown."
"Thank you. Madame Phillipe created it."
"Ah yes, she has such a way with... dramatic statements."
Before Arabella could decide if that was an insult, Cassandra appeared, resplendent in ice-pink silk that made her look like a particularly venomous confection.
"Darling!" she exclaimed, air-kissing Lady Desclaire. "Isn't this wonderful? Everyone's been simply dying to meet the new Countess."
Her tone suggested everyone had actually been eager to witness a spectacular disaster.
"Lady Velott," Lucien said coldly. "I wasn't aware you were co-hosting."
"Oh, I'm not. But dear Lady Desclaire asked for my assistance with the guest list. After all, I know everyone who matters." Her gaze flicked to Arabella. "And some who don't."
"How fortunate," Arabella said, "that my husband matters enough to warrant an invitation to celebrate our marriage."
"Yes, your marriage." Cassandra's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Five days, wasn't it? From meeting to matrimony? It must be some sort of record."
"When you know, you know," Julian interjected smoothly. "Rather like when you knew Lord Ashby wasn't going to leave his wife for you. Quick decisions all around."
Cassandra's perfect complexion flushed. "Julian. I didn't realise you were still playing nursemaid to Lucien."
"Not nursemaid. More like witness to happiness. It's quite touching, really. They can barely keep their hands off each other."
As if to prove his point, Lucien's arm slid around Arabella's waist, pulling her against his side with casual possessiveness.
"The dancing is about to begin," Lady Desclaire announced, clearly eager to defuse the tension. "Lord and Lady Blackthorn, would you honour us by opening the ball?"
Arabella felt Lucien tense beside her. They'd practised, yes, but opening the ball meant every eye would be on them.
"We'd be delighted," she said before he could refuse.