Chapter 13
Mr. Hartwell looked between them all, then seemed to make a decision. "Yes. She was going to ask for her freedom. She... she had realised you didn't love each other, not truly. And she wanted to release you both."
The silence that followed was deafening. Arabella could hear her own heartbeat, could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes upon them.
Then she stepped forward.
"Is it?" Cassandra's voice carried now, ensuring maximum audience. "I just think that the Countess would want to know if her husband's past is as he said it was."
"Enough," Arabella said, stepping forward. "You've made your point."
"Have I? And what point would that be?"
"That you're bitter, vindictive, and so consumed by jealousy that you'd slander a dead woman to hurt the man who rejected you."
Gasps rippled through their audience. Cassandra's perfect composure cracked.
"How dare you?"
"How dare I what? Speak the truth? You couldn't have Lucien, so you've decided no one can. But here's what you don't understand; I already know about Matilda. I know about the fire. I know about his scars, inside and out. And I don't care."
"You don't care that she might have been..."
"What? Human? Imperfect? Trapped in a betrothal she might not have wanted any more than he did?" Arabella looked at Mr. Hartwell. "Were you lovers?"
The man looked terrified but answered. "No. We were friends. Just friends. She was lonely, and we talked sometimes. That's all."
"But the fire..." Cassandra started.
"Was an accident," Arabella said firmly. "A terrible, tragic accident that took a young woman's life and nearly took my husband's. And you're using it as a weapon because you can't bear that he's happy without you."
"Happy?" Cassandra laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. "With you? A nobody who fell into a lake?"
"Dived," Lucien corrected quietly. "She dived into the lake."
It was such an unexpected interjection that Cassandra stopped mid-tirade.
"What?"
"She dived into the lake," he repeated, louder now. "To save her dog. She didn't fall, she didn't stumble but she chose to jump in. Just like she chose to marry me, despite my scars and reputation. Just like she chooses, every day, to see me as a man instead of a beast."
He took Arabella's hand, lifting it to his lips in a gesture that was both public and intensely intimate.
"You want to hurt me through her," he said to Cassandra. "But all you've done is remind me how fortunate I am. My wife knows my past, my failures, my regrets. She knows them and stands beside me anyway. Can you say the same about anyone in your life?"
Cassandra's face had gone white, then red. "You'll regret this. Both of you."
"The only thing I regret," Lucien said, "is wasting so many years letting you and others dictate my life. Now, if you'll excuse us, I promised my wife another dance."
He led Arabella away, leaving Cassandra standing in the middle of a crowd that was already beginning to whisper—not about the Blackthorns, but about Lady Velott's spectacular failure.
"That was magnificent," Julian said, appearing at their elbow. "Absolutely magnificent. She'll never recover from this."
"I don't care about her," Lucien said, his eyes on Arabella. "Are you all right?"
"I'm perfect," she said, and meant it.
The final dance was a waltz, slow and romantic. They moved together as if they'd been dancing for years, not days. Around them, other couples joined, but Arabella barely noticed.
"Thank you," Lucien said softly.
"For what?"
"For defending me. For standing beside me. For diving into that lake."
"I fear I shall never hear the end of it, shall I?"
"Never." He spun her, then pulled her closer than was strictly proper. "It's my favourite story."
"Even with all the chaos that followed?"
"Especially with the chaos. My life was orderly before you. But cold and empty."
"And now?"
"Now I have a wife who argues with me, a dog who destroys my house, and a life that's messier than I ever imagined."
"Regrets?"
"Never." He leaned close enough that his breath stirred her hair. "I love you, Arabella."
She stumbled, only his arms keeping her upright. "What?"
"I love you. I should have said it before, but I'm saying it now. In front of everyone, so there's no doubt."
"Lucien..."
"You don't have to say it back. I just needed you to know."
The music ended, but they stood there, holding each other while the ballroom erupted in applause. Not polite, measured applause, but genuine appreciation for what they'd witnessed—not just a dance, but a declaration.
"I love you too," Arabella said, the words coming easier than she'd expected. "I think I have since you pulled me from that lake."
"You were unconscious for part of that."
"The conscious parts were very romantic."
He kissed her then, right there in the middle of the ballroom, in front of society and scandal and everything they'd hidden from for so long. It wasn't proper, it wasn't appropriate, but it was absolutely perfect.
When they finally parted, the applause had turned to cheers. Even Lady Desclaire looked grudgingly approving.
"Can we leave now?" Lucien asked.
"Heavens, yes."
They made their escape, pausing only to thank their hostess and collect their things. Cassandra was nowhere to be seen, having apparently fled after her humiliation.
"That was the most entertaining ball I've attended in years," Julian said as they waited for their carriage. "You two should go out more often."
"Never again," Lucien said firmly.
"Well, perhaps occasionally," Arabella amended. "Maybe once a year."
"Twice," Julian suggested.
"Don't push it," Lucien warned.
The carriage ride home was quiet, but it was a comfortable quiet. Arabella curled against Lucien's side, his arm around her, while Julian dozed in the opposite corner.
"Did you mean it?" she asked. "What you said?"
"Every word."
"Even the part about loving me?"
"Especially that part."
"When did you know?"
He considered. "I think I started knowing when you negotiated terms for our marriage like a shipping contract. But I truly knew, when you spent twenty minutes trying to teach Thistle to fetch your slippers and ended up with him bringing you every shoe in the house except yours."
"That's when you knew you loved me?"
"That's when I knew I couldn't imagine life without you."
"That's beautiful."
"That's terrifying."
"That too."
They rode in silence for a while, then Arabella said, "Mr. Hartwell seemed nice."
"Don't."
"I'm just saying, if Matilda had a friend..."
"Arabella."
"You said you didn't love her. Maybe she didn't love you either. Maybe you were both trapped."
"Maybe." He was quiet for a moment. "It doesn't matter now."
"No," she agreed. "It doesn't."
Blackthorn Manor was lit up when they arrived, the staff clearly having waited up to hear about the evening. Thistle rushed out to greet them, having apparently escaped the kitchen through means unknown.
"Our criminal has been busy," Lucien observed.
"Our criminal has been perfect," Arabella corrected, kneeling to accept Thistle's enthusiastic greeting. "Haven't you, boy?"
They made their way inside, where Morrison was waiting with his usual dignity only slightly marred by what appeared to be dog drool on his sleeve.
"I trust the evening was satisfactory, my Lord?"
"More than satisfactory," Lucien replied. "My wife was magnificent."
"As was my husband," Arabella added.
Morrison's expression actually shifted toward what might have been approval. "Very good, my Lord, my Lady. Shall I have refreshments sent up?"
"Just brandy," Lucien said. "In my study."
"Our study," Arabella corrected.
"Our study," he agreed.
Julian yawned dramatically. "And that's my cue to retire. I'll want all the gossip in the morning, but for now, I'll leave you two alone."
After he left, they made their way to the study, Thistle padding along behind. The fire was already lit, the brandy waiting, everything perfect for a quiet end to a tumultuous evening.
"We did it," Arabella said, sinking into what had become her chair. "We faced society and survived."
"We did more than survive. We conquered."
"That might be overstating it."
"Did you see Cassandra's face when you defended me? That was conquest."
"That was instinct. Nobody speaks ill of my husband."
"Your husband." He pulled her from her chair and into his lap. "I like how that sounds."
"My husband, the Beast of Blackthorn."
"Former Beast. I've been thoroughly tamed."
"Have you?"
"Completely. I even dance now."
"Three whole dances. Very impressive."
"I might manage four next time."
"Next time? I thought you said never again."
"I might have been hasty. Perhaps for our anniversary."
"Our anniversary of what? Meeting? Marrying? Falling in love?"
"Yes."
"That's three anniversaries."
"Then three balls."
"You hate balls."
"I hate most things. But I love you, which seems to override the hate."
"That's possibly the most romantic thing you've ever said."
"I'm new to romance. Give me time."
"All the time in the world," she agreed, then kissed him.
They were interrupted by Thistle, who had apparently decided that Mrs. Fielding’s bonnet wasn't sufficiently destroyed and was now attempting to bury it in the rug.
"Our life is never going to be peaceful, is it?" Lucien asked.
"Never."
"Good," he said, surprising her. "I've had enough of peace. It's overrated."
"Like dignity?"
"Exactly like dignity."
They sat together, watching Thistle destroy the rug, drinking brandy, and reveling in their victory. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—gossip to weather, Cassandra's probable revenge attempts, the ongoing chaos of daily life with a criminal dog.
But tonight, they were together. The Beast had been vanquished, the lady had been victorious, and love, improbable, impossible, absolutely perfect love, had won the day.
"Bed?" Lucien suggested.
"Bed," Arabella agreed.
They made their way upstairs, Thistle following with the mangled bonnet like a trophy of war. At the door to their chambers, Lucien paused.
"What?" Arabella asked.
"I'm just... happy," he said, sounding slightly surprised. "Genuinely happy."
"Is that so unusual?"
"It's been years since I felt this way. I'd forgotten it was possible."
"And now?"
"Now I have you to remind me. Every day."
"Every day," she agreed.
They entered their chambers to find rose petals scattered on the bed and a bottle of champagne cooling in ice.
"The staff appears to have opinions about our evening," Lucien observed.
"Romantic opinions."
"Highly inappropriate opinions."
"Should we complain?"
"Definitely not."
Pushing Arabella gently but firmly against the wall, Lucien leaned in until their lips were a breath apart, his voice a wicked murmur. “It would be rather disheartening,” he said, “not to properly appreciate the efforts of those who dress you so exquisitely, don’t you think?”
His hands were already at work, fingers slipping with practised ease through the fastenings of her gown.
Each movement was slow, reverent, as though unwrapping a gift he’d waited far too long to open.
“Though personally,” he added, his breath tickling the shell of her ear, “I prefer what’s underneath. ”
Arabella’s breath caught. “And what would you propose?” she asked, though her voice came out uneven, heat rising to her cheeks. “An excursion like our first?”
Lucien pulled back just enough to grin; openly, wickedly delighted. “On the contrary, my love,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Tonight, I’ll teach you more.”
With a low growl of approval, he slid the fabric from her shoulders, watching hungrily as each layer fell away.
His hands never stopped—unhooking, tugging, baring inch after inch of silken skin, until she stood naked before him in the dim light.
He took a moment to simply look, drinking her in as though committing every curve and hollow to memory.
“Mon Dieu,” he whispered, voice thick with awe. “You’re art.”
Before she could even respond, he bent down and swept her up, effortless, strong, hoisting her over his shoulder with a playful smack to her backside that made her squeak in surprise.
“Lucien!”
“You’ll forgive me later,” he said smugly.
He set her down on the edge of the bed, positioning her so that her lower half hung just off the mattress, thighs parted, vulnerable and inviting.
His gaze never left hers as he took her hand, pressing a lingering kiss to her palm, then the inside of her wrist, before lowering himself slowly to his knees.
Arabella’s breath trembled. “You don’t have to...”
“Oh, but I want to,” Lucien interrupted, grinning like a man starved. “This is my favourite part.”
With one hand gently urging her knees further apart, Lucien leaned in. When his tongue finally met her folds, slow, deliberate, and unbearably thorough, Arabella gasped, her back arching off the bed as sensation ripped through her like a lightning bolt.
This was what he meant.
Lucien didn’t rush. He tasted her like a man relishing every note of a decadent feast. His hands slid beneath her thighs to anchor her, holding her steady as his tongue danced over her most sensitive places.
Her hands flew to his hair, fingers tightening instinctively in the dark strands. “Lucien,” she moaned, half in plea, half in disbelief.
He only chuckled against her, sending another tremor through her body. He loved this, she realized dimly. He was lost in it, groaning softly as he devoured her, eyes occasionally flicking up to watch her come undone.
Her entire body convulsed, hips bucking, thighs trembling. Pleasure radiated outward from her core in sharp, hot waves, her vision going hazy as she cried out his name again and again.
Lucien didn’t stop until she was completely spent, until her legs went limp and her hands slipped from his hair, too exhausted to hold on.
Only then did he rise, his lips glistening, a satisfied glint in his eye as he gathered her into his arms and laid her back against the pillows with a tenderness that belied the raw hunger of moments before.
Arabella blinked up at him, still breathless, chest rising and falling rapidly.
He brushed a damp strand of hair from her temple and smiled; smug and sweet all at once. “You can return the favour later,” he said, voice low and teasing, “but only if you’re not too wobbly on your legs.”
She let out a breathless laugh. “You’re insufferable.”
Lucien kissed her forehead. “I’m insatiable. There’s a difference.”
Later, much later, as they lay tangled together with Thistle snoring at their feet and moonlight streaming through the windows, Arabella thought about how much had changed in such a short time.
"What are you thinking?" Lucien murmured against her hair.
"About fairy tales."
"What about them?"
"They usually end with 'happily ever after.'"
"And?"
"I think ours is just beginning."
"That's not how fairy tales work."
"Then we'll write a better one."
"With a criminal dog?"
"Especially with a criminal dog."
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I love you, Arabella Harrow."
"And I love you, Lucien Harrow. Beast, man, and everything in between."
"Everything?"
"Everything."