Chapter 12 #2
As they took their position, Arabella caught sight of their reflection in one of the massive mirrors lining the ballroom.
They looked like what they were; a newly married couple, he dark and imposing despite his scars, she smaller but no less striking in her midnight silk.
But there was something else there too, something in the way they stood together, the way his hand held hers. They looked... united.
"Everyone's staring," she whispered.
"Let them."
"Easy for you to say. You're used to being stared at."
"For entirely different reasons."
"Still."
"Arabella." He turned her to face him fully, ignoring protocol that said they should be acknowledging the musicians. "Look at me."
She did.
"What do you see?"
"You," she said simply.
"And when I look at you, I see my wife. Not the scandal, not the hasty marriage, not the woman who fell..."
"Dived."
"Into a lake. I see the woman who makes me laugh, who argues with me about book organisation, who convinced my entire household to commit treason in defence of a criminal dog."
"That's not treason."
"It's definitely insurrection."
"You're trying to distract me."
"Is it working?"
"Yes."
"Good." The music swelled, and he swept her into the dance. "Because you're about to discover that I'm actually an excellent dancer when properly motivated."
He was. The Lucien who had claimed to barely remember how to waltz moved with a grace that made her feel as if she were floating. He led her through the complicated steps with confidence, spinning her at exactly the right moments, pulling her close enough to be thrilling but not quite scandalous.
"You lied," she accused breathlessly as he dipped her.
"I prevaricated."
"You said you hadn't danced since before Matilda's death."
"I said I hadn't waltzed. I've been practising other dances. With Mrs. Fielding."
"Mrs. Fielding?"
"She was quite insistent. She said it would be a tragedy if I couldn't properly dance with my bride. We've been practising in the servants' hall after you go to sleep."
"You've been sneaking off to dance with the housekeeper?"
"Don't make it sound sordid. Morrison played the pianoforte."
The image of stern Morrison at the piano while Lucien danced with Mrs. Fielding was so absurd that Arabella laughed, the sound ringing across the ballroom.
"That's better," Lucien said with satisfaction.
"You planned this. The distraction, the revelation, all of it."
"I may have, slightly."
"Slightly?"
"Fine. Julian and I spent two hours this morning discussing tactics."
"Two hours?"
"He had charts."
She laughed again, and this time he smiled—a real, genuine smile that transformed his face completely. Around them, she heard the tone of the whispers change. No longer scandalized or pitying, but something else. Envious, perhaps?
The dance ended to polite applause, and immediately they were surrounded by curious guests. Arabella found herself separated from Lucien as various ladies descended, all eager to examine the woman who'd captured the Beast.
"Lady Blackthorn," a woman in puce silk gushed, "we're all simply eager to know how you met."
"In a lake," Arabella said, deciding honesty might derail their gossip.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I was rescuing my dog. Lord Blackthorn assisted."
"You... rescued a dog?"
"Well, he wasn't actually drowning, as it turned out. But I didn't know that at the time."
The ladies exchanged glances that suggested this was even better than they'd hoped.
"How... unusual," one ventured.
"Yes, I suppose it was. But then, I've never been particularly usual."
"And Lord Blackthorn simply... jumped in after you?"
"Well, he walked in rather purposefully, actually. Very heroic. Though he did tell me to stop helping halfway through the rescue."
"Stop helping?"
"Apparently, I was making the drowning worse with my efforts to not drown."
"But you weren't actually drowning?"
"That's a matter of some debate. I maintain I was in distress. My husband insists I was simply over-complicated by fabric."
"Your husband," one of the ladies, Lady Worthington, if Arabella remembered correctly, said with barely concealed curiosity. "He seems quite... devoted."
"Does he?"
"The way he looks at you. It's rather intense."
Arabella glanced across the room where Lucien stood surrounded by gentlemen, his gaze finding hers even through the crowd. The look he gave her sent heat through her entire body.
"Yes," she agreed. "He can be rather intense."
"It must be frightening sometimes," another lady suggested. "His reputation..."
"The only frightening thing about my husband," Arabella said firmly, "is his inability to refuse our dog anything. Last week, Thistle convinced him to share his entire breakfast. It's disturbing."
"You jest," Lady Worthington said, "but surely the adjustment must be difficult. From your circumstances to... all this."
The subtle reminder of her family's reduced finances was expertly delivered. Arabella felt her spine stiffen.
"You're right," she said sweetly. "Having a husband who adores me, a beautiful home, and the means to help my family is terribly difficult. I cry myself to sleep on silk sheets every night."
One of the younger ladies, barely out of the schoolroom, giggled, then quickly covered her mouth.
"I didn't mean..." Lady Worthington began.
"Of course not," Arabella interrupted. "You were simply concerned for my welfare. How kind. Though I assure you, Lord Blackthorn takes excellent care of me. In every way."
The implication in her tone was unmistakable. Several of the ladies blushed, and Lady Worthington's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.
Across the room, she could see Lucien cornered by a group of men, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Julian was nearby, clearly running interference, but she could see the tension in Lucien's shoulders.
"Excuse me," she said to the ladies, "I must rejoin my husband."
She made her way through the crowd, catching fragments of conversation:
"Scarred, but not as hideously as they say..."
"Her family has no money..."
"Must have been a desperate situation..."