Chapter 14
But the night wasn't quite over. As they were ready to sleep, Lucien said quietly, "what Mr. Hartwell said... About Matilda wanting to end things..."
"Does it matter?" she asked gently.
"I don't know. I spent two years believing I'd failed her, that if I'd been faster, stronger, I could have saved her."
"You nearly died trying."
"But maybe she didn't want saving. Not by me." He caught her hands, stilling them. "Is that better or worse?"
"I think," Arabella said carefully, "it means you were both trapped in something neither wanted. The fire was tragic, but it wasn't your fault. It was never your fault."
"I believed it was."
"And that belief kept you hidden away for two years." She cupped his scarred cheek. "But you're not hidden anymore."
"No," he agreed. "You rather dragged me into the light."
"Kicking and screaming."
"I didn't scream. I maintained masculine dignity throughout."
"You complained. Constantly."
"Strategic verbal resistance."
She laughed, and he pulled her close, burying his face in her hair.
"I meant what I said. At the ball."
"Which part?"
"All of it. But especially the end."
"The 'I love you' part?"
"That part." He pulled back to look at her. "I didn't expect to ever say those words. Didn't think I was capable of feeling them."
"And now?"
"Now I can't imagine not feeling them. You've ruined me completely."
"Good."
"Good?"
"Yes. Because you've ruined me too. I can't imagine life without you now. You and our criminal dog and our chaotic household and our midnight conversations and terrible morning tea..."
"My tea is not terrible."
"It's awful. You use twice the leaves necessary."
"I like it strong."
"You like it to have the consistency of tar."
"It builds character."
"It builds resistance to poison, maybe."
They bickered gently, the kind of comfortable disagreement that came from security rather than discord. Then, Lucien said, "we should write to your mother tomorrow. Tell her about tonight."
"She'll want all the details."
"Then we'll give them to her. Well, most of them. She doesn't need to know about the fountain incident."
"What fountain incident?"
"Julian may have pushed Lord Potts into a fountain on our way out."
"What? Why?"
"Potts made a comment about you. Something about lake-dwelling creatures and their natural habitats."
"And Julian pushed him into a fountain?"
"With remarkable efficiency. Then he said, 'now you're in your natural habitat too' and walked away."
"I love Julian."
"He's a good friend," Lucien agreed. "Even if he does make charts about my social interactions."
"The charts worked."
"The charts were colour-coded, Arabella. No man should colour-code another man's emotional responses."
"But did they work?"
"...Yes."
She laughed, curling closer to him. Outside, she could hear a storm building—not like the one that had first brought them together physically, but a gentle rain that pattered against the windows like applause.
"Are you happy?" she asked.
"Ridiculously so."
"Even though your life is no longer ordered and peaceful?"
"Especially because of that. Order is overrated."
They lay in comfortable silence for a moment, then Lucien said, "Cassandra won't give up, you know. Tonight was just her opening salvo."
"Then we'll be ready for whatever comes next."
"We?"
"Always we. That's what marriage means."
"I thought it meant joint ownership of a criminal dog."
"That too."
Thistle, hearing himself referenced, made a contented noise and somehow managed to claim even more of the bed.
"He's going to push us onto the floor eventually," Lucien observed.
"Probably."
"We should get a bigger bed."
"Or a smaller dog."
"That is insane."
"From the man who wanted to leave him in the lake?"
"I never wanted to leave him. I just wanted you to stop drowning."
"I wasn't drowning."
"You were definitely drowning."
"I was strategically navigating aquatic challenges."
"While unconscious?"
"I was only unconscious for a moment."
"The longest moment of my life."
The admission was quiet, serious. Arabella turned to look at him in the dim light.
"Really?"
"I thought I was watching another woman die. One I could have saved if I'd been faster."
"But you did save me."
"Barely."
"Completely."
"You saved yourself first. By being brave enough to jump."
"Dive."
"Fine. Dive. The point is, you acted while everyone else just watched."
"So did you."
"Eventually."
"Immediately. The dock had barely finished collapsing before you were in the water."
"It felt like hours."
"It was seconds."
"The longest seconds of my life, then."
She kissed him softly. "But you saved me."
"And you saved me right back."
"From what?"
"From myself. From isolation. From a life half-lived."
"That's quite a lot of saving."
"You're quite a woman."
"Your woman."
"Mine," he agreed, pulling her closer. "Completely, utterly, irrevocably mine."
"Yours," she confirmed. "And you're mine."
"A matched set."
"The Beast and the Lady."
"Former Beast."
"Reformed Beast."
She laughed, the sound muffled against his chest. "I love you, my reformed Beast."
"And I love you, my chaotic Lady."
Outside, the rain continued, washing away the dust of the evening's drama.
Inside, two people who had found each other through the most unlikely circumstances held each other close, their criminal dog snoring at their feet, their future stretching before them full of promise and probably more fountains.
It was, Arabella thought as sleep finally claimed her, a perfect ending to an imperfect evening.
Or perhaps, more accurately, another perfect beginning in their series of perfect beginnings.
After all, every day with Lucien felt like diving into that lake again—terrifying, exhilarating, and absolutely worth the risk.
***
The morning after the ball arrived with a deluge of calling cards, letters, and enough flowers to stock a hothouse. Morrison, displaying more animation than Arabella had ever seen, appeared in the breakfast room with a silver salver piled high with correspondence.
"It appears," he said with what might have been satisfaction, "that last evening was a success."
"Success?" Lucien looked at the pile with suspicion. "Or curiosity?"
"Perhaps both, my lord. Lady Potts has sent a particularly effusive note."
"Lady Potts? Lord Potts’ wife?"
"The very same. She writes that she has never been more entertained and hopes Lady Blackthorn will call upon her at her earliest convenience."
"That's... unexpected," Arabella said, taking the note.
"There's more," Morrison continued. "Lady Worthington has invited you both to a card gathering. Lord and Lady Ashby request your presence at a musicale. And..." he paused dramatically, "the Duchess of Marlborough has sent an invitation to her autumn house gathering."
"The Duchess?" Arabella nearly dropped her teacup. "The one whose slipper Thistle stole?"
"It would appear your dog has made you famous, my lady."
"Infamous, more likely."
"In society, the two are often interchangeable," Julian said, strolling in looking remarkably fresh for someone who had consumed vast quantities of champagne the night before. "Good morning, triumphant couple. I trust you slept well after your social conquest?"
"We slept excellently," Lucien said. "How's Potts?"
"Damp but recovering. His valet was most upset about the fountain incident."
"You pushed Lord Potts into a fountain?" Morrison asked, forgetting himself enough to show surprise.
"He made inappropriate comments about her ladyship. The fountain seemed the most immediate solution."
"Very good, sir."
"Morrison!" Lucien said. "You can't approve of fountain violence."
"I wouldn't dream of approving, my lord. I am merely observing that the Desclaire fountains are particularly well-placed for such... solutions."
"You're all insane," Lucien declared, but he was fighting a smile.
"Speaking of insane," Julian said, helping himself to breakfast, "Cassandra has fled to Bath."
"Bath?" Arabella repeated.
"Apparently, the embarrassment was too much. She left at dawn, according to my sources."
"You have sources?"
"I have sources everywhere. It's amazing what you can hear people discussing at a ball when they think nobody can hear them."
"That's disturbing."
"That's intelligence gathering. And speaking of intelligence, what are you going to do about all these invitations?"
Lucien looked at the pile with the expression of a man facing his doom. "Burn them?"
"You can't burn them," Arabella protested. "These people are trying to be kind."
"These people are trying to get close enough to observe us like exotic animals."
"Some of them, maybe. But not all." She picked up Lady Potts’ note. "This seems genuine."
"She wants to know about the lake incident."
"Everyone wants to know about the lake incident. We might as well control the narrative."
"The narrative is that you fell in love," Julian said through a mouthful of eggs. "Rather publicly and dramatically. Society adores a love story, especially one involving water rescue and criminal dogs."
"Thistle is not..." Arabella began, then stopped as the dog himself trotted in carrying what appeared to be Morrison's other glove.
"Oh, Heavens," Morrison said with resignation.
Thistle wagged his tail and dropped the glove at Morrison's feet like an offering.
"He's trying to return it," Arabella said. "That's progress!"
"That's theft with attempted restitution," Lucien corrected.
"It's still progress."
They were interrupted by Mrs. Fielding, who entered with an expression of barely suppressed excitement.
"My lady, the modiste has sent something."
"Madame Phillipe? But she already delivered the ball gown yesterday and there is nothing more I am expecting."
"This is something else." Mrs. Fielding gestured, and two footmen entered carrying an enormous box.
"What on earth?" Arabella opened it to find a complete morning dress in sapphire blue, along with a note.
"Pour la comtesse qui a conquis la bête," she read. "For the countess who conquered the beast."
"That is excessively direct," Lucien observed.