Chapter 1

 

 

“Lady Arabella, I do believe your dog has just absconded with the Duchess of Marlborough’s finest silk slipper.”

The pronouncement, delivered with the sort of weary resignation one might employ when announcing a catastrophe over afternoon tea, caused Lady Arabella March to whirl about so quickly that her muslin skirts created a small meteorological event around her ankles. Her companion, Miss Penelope Finch, stood pointing toward the lower lawns with an expression that suggested she found the entire situation both appalling and delightfully amusing in equal measure.

“Oh, botheration,” Arabella muttered, a phrase that would have sent her mother into mild apoplexy had she heard it. “Not again. I specifically instructed Thistle to limit his thievery to items belonging to persons of no particular consequence.”

“How remarkably liberal of him to ignore your instructions entirely,” Penelope observed, adjusting her spectacles with the air of one preparing to witness a spectacular disaster. “Though I confess myself curious as to how you intended to communicate the subtle distinctions of social hierarchy to a creature whose primary interests appear to be mud, theft, and the systematic destruction of all that is decent in civilized society.”

Arabella was already moving, her cream-colored gown and her brown curls, catching the afternoon sunlight as she descended the terraced gardens with a speed that would have been deemed entirely inappropriate for a lady of quality, had anyone of importance been watching. Which, naturally, everyone was, because a summer fete was precisely the sort of event where everyone of importance gathered to watch everyone else and pretend they weren’t.

“Thistle!” she called, her voice carrying across the manicured lawns with admirable authority. “Thistle, you absolute scoundrel, return that slipper at once!”

The hound in question, a creature of indeterminate breeding whose coat appeared to be composed primarily of mud, enthusiasm, and what might charitably be called character, paused in his flight just long enough to look back at his mistress. The Duchess’s pearl-encrusted slipper dangled from his jaws like a trophy of war. His tail, that traitorous appendage, wagged with such vigor that his entire posterior participated in the celebration of his crime.

“I believe,” Penelope said, having caught up with admirable efficiency despite her claimed delicate constitution, “that your father’s dog has just made what military strategists would call a tactical decision.”

Indeed, Thistle had chosen that precise moment to alter his trajectory toward the ornamental lake that glittered at the edge of the estate like a sapphire set in emerald. The crowd of guests, bedecked in their summer finery, began to take notice. Parasols tilted at angles that suggested their holders were attempting to observe whilst maintaining plausible deniability. Conversations about the weather and Lady Nottington’s shocking choice of turquoise ribbons stuttered to a halt.

“He wouldn’t dare,” Arabella breathed, though she knew with the certainty of one who has loved difficult creatures that he absolutely would.

“My dear Arabella,” Penelope said, “I fear your optimism regarding the moral character of that beast has once again proven wildly misplaced.”

Thistle had reached the wooden dock that extended into the lake like an accusatory finger pointing toward aquatic doom. The structure, built more for aesthetic appeal than practical use, creaked ominously under the hound’s enthusiastic gallop. Several ladies gasped. One gentleman, Lord Nottington, if Arabella’s glance was accurate, raised his monocle with the expression of one who has just discovered that the afternoon’s entertainment has exceeded all reasonable expectations.

“The dock won’t hold,” Arabella said, her mind performing rapid calculations involving structural integrity, canine velocity, and the social consequences of allowing the Duchess of Marlborough’s slipper to meet a watery grave. “The wood is too thin, and Thistle is too… substantial.”

“Substantial,” Penelope repeated with a delicate snort. “How diplomatic. I believe the term you’re searching for is ‘constructed primarily of mud and poor decisions.'”

The crack that followed was audible even from their position thirty yards away. It was the sort of sound that announces that circumstances have moved from unfortunate to catastrophic with alarming efficiency. The dock, having endured as much enthusiasm as its delicate constitution could manage, surrendered to the inevitable. Thistle, still clutching his stolen treasure, disappeared through the splintered wood with a splash that sent a family of ducks into offended flight.

“Oh, for the love of…” Arabella didn’t finish the thought. She was already running, her kid slippers sliding slightly on the grass as she descended toward the lake. Behind her, she heard Penelope’s strangled cry of “Arabella, you cannot possibly…” but the rest was lost to the wind and her own determination.

The crowd’s collective gasp followed her like thunder after lightning. Lady Marchwood, her own mother, could be heard exclaiming something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer or possibly a curse, though distinguishing between the two was often difficult where her mother was concerned.

Thistle had surfaced, paddling with the determined incompetence of a creature who had never quite mastered the art of swimming but refused to let that stop him. The slipper, waterlogged and likely ruined beyond redemption, still remained clamped in his jaws. His eyes, visible above the water line, held the wild look of an animal who has just discovered that his life choices have led him to a place of significant regret.

“Hold on, you ridiculous creature!” Arabella called, having reached the ruined dock. She could hear footsteps behind her—multiple sets, suggesting that her dash toward disaster had attracted a following. The wooden planks beneath her feet groaned ominously, but she pressed forward, dropping to her knees at the edge where the dock had given way.

“Lady Arabella,” a man’s voice called from behind, Lord Nottington, she thought, or perhaps Sir Reginald Worthing. “I must insist you step back. The structure is most unsafe.”

“Yes, thank you for that remarkably astute observation,” Arabella replied without turning, her attention fixed on Thistle’s struggling form. “I had rather concluded that myself when it collapsed beneath my dog.”

She reached toward the water, calculating distances. Thistle was perhaps six feet from the dock’s edge, paddling in increasingly frantic circles. The slipper had begun to slip from his jaws, and his attempts to readjust his grip only resulted in him submerging his snout with distressing frequency.

“Someone should do something,” a lady’s voice declared from the safety of the lawn. Lady Nottington, by the sound of it, who had never done anything more strenuous than ring for tea in her entire decorative existence.

“Indeed,” Arabella muttered, making her decision. “Someone should.”

She stood, her hands moving to the buttons of her spencer with the efficiency of one who has already committed to a course of action and sees no purpose in prolonging the inevitable. The small jacket fell to the dock behind her.

“My goodness,” someone exclaimed. “She’s not actually going to…”

She was.

The water, when Arabella entered it with somewhat less grace than she might have preferred, was shocking in its coldness. The lake, fed by underground springs and shaded by ancient willows, maintained a temperature that seemed specifically designed to punish impulsive rescuers of wayward hounds. Her skirts, those traitors to mobility, immediately began absorbing water with the enthusiasm of items specifically designed for that purpose, which, she reflected grimly, they absolutely were not.

The collective shriek from the assembled guests might have been gratifying under other circumstances. As it was, Arabella was rather too occupied with the immediate challenges of movement whilst wearing several pounds of waterlogged muslin to properly appreciate the sensation she was causing.

“Thistle,” she gasped, striking out toward him with movements that bore only a passing resemblance to swimming. “When we get out of this, if we get out of this, you and I are going to have a very serious discussion about the consequences of theft and the importance of sound construction.”

Thistle, for his part, had stopped paddling in circles and was now staring at his approaching mistress with the expression of one who cannot quite believe that his poor decisions have resulted in someone else’s even poorer decisions. The slipper, forgotten in his surprise, slipped from his jaws and began its descent toward the lake’s muddy bottom.

“Oh, now you drop it,” Arabella sputtered, having received a mouthful of lake water for her efforts. “How remarkably helpful of you.”

She reached for Thistle’s collar, a sturdy leather affair that had survived numerous escape attempts and one memorable incident involving a badger, just as her skirts decided to make their own bid for independence from the laws of physics. The weight of the water-soaked fabric pulled her down, and for one alarming moment, she found herself considering the possibility that she might actually drown in six feet of water at a garden gathering, which would be precisely the sort of death that would have people talking for decades.

It was at this precise moment, when Arabella was halfway between swimming and sinking, Thistle was discovering that his rescuer apparently needed rescuing herself, and the assembled guests were achieving new heights of scandalized observation, that everything changed.

The splash that followed was altogether different from her own entry into the water. It was decisive, powerful, and suggested that whoever had just entered the lake had done so with significantly more athletic capability than she had managed. Through the water streaming down her face and the hair that had escaped its carefully arranged confines to paste itself across her eyes, Arabella caught a glimpse of dark fabric and powerful movement cutting through the water toward her.

A hand, large, decidedly masculine, and surprisingly warm despite the cold water, closed around her upper arm with a grip that suggested its owner was not interested in negotiating the terms of rescue.

“Stop struggling,” a voice commanded, close enough that she could feel the breath against her ear. “You’re making this considerably more difficult than necessary.”

“I’m not struggling,” Arabella gasped, though she rather suspected she was. “I’m saving my dog.”

“Your dog,” the voice replied with a tone that suggested its owner found this priority system deeply flawed, “is paddling quite successfully toward shore. You, on the other hand, appear to be attempting to explore the lake bottom.”

Arabella turned her head, a mistake, as it resulted in another mouthful of lake water, and found herself looking at a face that seemed specifically designed to make her current circumstances even more mortifying than they already were. The man was perhaps thirty, with dark hair now plastered to his head and a jaw that suggested nature had been showing off when she carved it. But it was the scar that drew her attention—a pale line that ran from his left temple down across his cheek, disappearing beneath the waterlogged cravat at his throat.

She knew who he was, of course. Everyone knew who he was, though few had actually seen him. Lucien Harrow, the Earl of Blackthorn, who had returned from the Continent two years ago bearing scars and a reputation for being a recluse that had transformed him into something of a legend in the county. The Beast of Blackthorn, the gossips called him, though never to his face, and never when they thought anyone of importance might overhear.

“I don’t require rescuing,” she managed, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by her immediate need to cough up lake water. “I’m perfectly capable of…”

“Of drowning in full view of half the county’s finest families?” he interrupted, his arm sliding around her waist with an intimacy that would have been shocking under any circumstances that didn’t involve potential aquatic death. “How delightfully original. I’m certain it will make for fascinating conversation at every social gathering for the next decade.”

He was already moving them toward shore with powerful strokes that made her own efforts look like eager but unskilled motions of an enthusiastic novice. Arabella wanted to protest, to insist that she had been managing perfectly well, a lie of such magnitude that even she couldn’t quite commit to it, but speaking required breath, and breath was currently in rather short supply.

“Hold on to me,” he commanded when she attempted to contribute to their progress with movements that only succeeded in nearly dunking them both. “And for Heaven’s sake, stop helping.”

“I’m not…” she began, then promptly proved his point by tangling her legs in her own skirts and nearly capsizing them both.

His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her against him with a firmness that would have been scandalous in a ballroom and was positively indecent in a lake. She could feel the solid warmth of him through the cold water, the power in his movements as he propelled them toward the shore with an efficiency that suggested he had done this before, though hopefully under better circumstances.

“Your dog,” he said against her ear, his voice tight with what might have been exertion or possibly exasperation, “has already reached shore and is now shaking himself off on Lady Nottington. She appears to be having some sort of medical event.”

Arabella turned her head, carefully this time, and indeed, Thistle had achieved dry land and was demonstrating his joy through the traditional canine method of transferring as much water as possible onto the nearest expensive clothing. Lady Nottington’s cream silk gown, a confection that had likely cost more than most families saw in a year, was now decorated with lake water, mud, and what appeared to be pond weed.

“Oh dear,” Arabella said weakly.

“Quite,” the Earl replied, his tone suggesting that ‘oh dear’ was a significant understatement of the situation’s dire nature.

They had reached the shallows now, and Arabella became acutely aware of several things simultaneously. First, that her rescuer’s arm was still firmly around her waist. Second, that her gown, thoroughly soaked, had adopted a transparency that her modiste had definitely not intended. And third, that approximately fifty members of society’s finest were watching their emergence from the lake with expressions ranging from scandalized delight to delighted scandal.

“Can you stand?” the Earl asked, his voice lower now, meant only for her ears.

“Of course I can stand,” Arabella replied with as much dignity as one could muster whilst resembling a drowned rat in expensive clothing. She attempted to prove this assertion and immediately discovered that her skirts had other ideas. The waterlogged fabric wrapped around her legs like aquatic shackles, and she stumbled.

His arm tightened, holding her upright, and for a moment, brief but infinite, she was pressed against him from shoulder to hip. She could feel the heat of him through the cold, wet fabric, could see droplets of water catching in his dark eyelashes, could observe the way that scar pulled slightly when his jaw tightened.

“Carefully,” he murmured, and she wasn’t entirely certain he was talking about walking.

They emerged from the lake like some sort of mythological tragedy—Arabella suspected she looked less like a water nymph and more like something that had been dragged from the deep against its will. The Earl, annoyingly, managed to look merely disheveled rather than destroyed, though his dark coat would likely never recover from its aquatic adventure.

“Arabella!” Her mother’s voice cut through the shocked murmur of the crowd. Lady Honoria March approached at a speed that suggested she couldn’t decide whether to embrace her daughter or strangle her. “What on earth were you thinking?”

“I was thinking,” Arabella said, wringing water from her skirts with limited success, “that Thistle was drowning.”

“Thistle,” her mother repeated, as if the name itself was an accusation, “is a dog.”

“How remarkably observant of you, Mama. I had wondered why he insisted on walking on all fours.”

“Do not take that tone with me, young lady. You have just, in full view of everyone, thrown yourself into a lake!”

“Actually,” the Earl interjected, his voice cutting through the maternal tirade with the efficiency of someone accustomed to being obeyed, “she entered the water with reasonable caution given the circumstances. The throwing, such as it was, was entirely metaphorical.”

Lady Honoria March turned to look at him, and Arabella watched her mother’s expression undergo a fascinating transformation as she realized who had rescued her daughter. The Earl of Blackthorn was standing there, dripping lake water onto the manicured lawn, his scarred face set in an expression of polite disinterest that didn’t quite mask the irritation beneath.

“Lord Blackthorn,” her mother managed, dropping into a curtsey that was somewhat hampered by the fact that she was standing on soggy ground. “We are… that is, I am… your assistance…”

“Was both unnecessary and unwanted, I assure you,” he replied, though his eyes flickered briefly to Arabella as he said it. “Your daughter was managing admirably on her own.”

This was such a blatant lie that Arabella felt compelled to stare at him. He met her gaze with one eyebrow slightly raised, as if daring her to contradict him.

“Nevertheless,” Lady Honoria continued, rallying admirably, “we are most grateful for your… intervention.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said, in a tone that suggested he would very much like everyone to do exactly that. “If you’ll excuse me, I should retrieve my horse before he decides to follow the dog’s example and take up swimming.”

He bowed, a minimal inclination of his head that somehow managed to convey both perfect propriety and complete dismissal, and turned to leave. Arabella watched him go, noting the way his wet clothes clung to his broad shoulders, the way he moved with a controlled grace that suggested he was restraining himself from simply striding away from the entire mortifying scene.

“Well,” Penelope said, appearing at Arabella’s elbow with a timing that suggested she had been waiting for the most dramatic possible moment to make her entrance. “That was certainly educational. I had no idea that throwing oneself into a lake could be quite so… illuminating.”

“Penelope,” Arabella hissed, acutely aware that her gown was indeed clinging in ways that would have been considered educational in entirely inappropriate ways.

“I’m merely observing,” Penelope continued, her eyes sparkling with unholy glee behind her spectacles, “that Lord Blackthorn seems remarkably well-suited to aquatic rescue. One might almost think he practised.”

“One might also think,” Lady Honoria interjected with a tone that could have frozen the lake they’d just emerged from, “that this is neither the time nor the place for such observations. Arabella, we are leaving. Immediately.”

“But the fete…”

“It is over. For us.” Her mother’s tone brooked no argument. “Penelope, dear, would you be so kind as to collect Arabella’s… that is, would you…”

“I’ll gather her things,” Penelope said, taking pity on Lady Honoria’s inability to form coherent sentences in the face of social catastrophe. “Including the dog, I assume?”

“The dog,” Lady Honoria said with feeling, “may find his own way home. Or not. I find myself remarkably indifferent to his fate.”

Thistle, as if sensing he was being discussed, chose that moment to come, tail wagging with the enthusiasm of one who has had an absolutely splendid time and fails to understand why everyone else seems so tense. He was covered in mud, pond weed, and what appeared to be the remains of Lady Nottington’s dignity.

“Look,” he seemed to say with every wag of his disreputable tail, “I’ve had an adventure!”

“Yes,” Arabella said weakly, reaching down to grasp his collar before he could share his adventure with anyone else’s clothing. “We’ve all had quite enough adventure for one day.”

As she was led away by her mother, who had adopted the grim determination of a general conducting a strategic retreat, Arabella couldn’t help but glance back toward the lake. The Earl of Blackthorn was standing by his horse, a magnificent black stallion who was eyeing his waterlogged master with equine disapproval. As if sensing her gaze, he looked up, and their eyes met across the distance.

For a moment, neither moved. Then, deliberately, he raised his hand to his forehead in a mock salute; the gesture of a soldier acknowledging a fellow survivor of battle. Despite everything, her mortification, her mother’s horror, the fact that she could hear Lady Nottington having what sounded like a genuine fit of vapors, Arabella felt her lips twitch.

She raised her own hand in return, a brief wave that could have meant anything or nothing, and then allowed herself to be dragged away from what would undoubtedly be remembered as the most spectacular social disaster of the season, if not the decade.

Behind them, she could hear the crowd erupting into conversation like a dam bursting. By evening, she knew, the story would have been embellished beyond recognition. By tomorrow, it would be the talk of three counties. By the end of the week, she would be thoroughly ruined.

The thought should have horrified her. Instead, as she squished her way across the lawn with her mother maintaining a grip on her arm that suggested she feared Arabella might make another break for aquatic freedom, she found herself thinking about the warmth of the Earl’s arm around her waist, the way his voice had sounded against her ear, the unexpected kindness of his lie to her mother.

*

“You realize,” her mother said as they reached the carriages, “that this changes everything. Your season, your prospects, your…”

“My reputation,” Arabella finished. “Yes, Mama, I’m aware.”

“Are you?” Lady Honoria turned to face her daughter, and Arabella was surprised to see tears in her mother’s eyes. “Are you truly aware of what you’ve just done? Lord Nottington was preparing to offer for you. I had it on excellent authority from his mother. A respectable match, a good family, a secure future. And now…”

“And now,” Arabella said gently, “Lord Nottington will offer for someone who doesn’t throw herself into lakes to save drowning dogs.”

“Thistle wasn’t even drowning!” her mother exclaimed, gesturing wildly at the dog who was now attempting to make friends with their coachman. “Dogs can swim!”

“He was struggling,” Arabella protested, though she had to admit that Thistle’s current state of muddy enthusiasm suggested he had recovered remarkably well from his near-death experience.

“He was struggling,” her mother repeated flatly. “And so you decided to struggle with him. In front of everyone. With Lord Blackthorn.”

The way she said the Earl’s name, with a combination of awe, horror, and something that might have been speculation, made Arabella’s stomach perform an interesting maneuver that had nothing to do with lake water.

“He rescued me,” she said carefully.

“He touched you,” her mother corrected. “In public. While you were both soaking wet and everyone was watching.” She paused, seeming to wrestle with something. “The ton will have a field day with this. The Beast of Blackthorn and the Lady in the Lake. They’ll dine out on this story for years.”

“The Beast of…Mama, you can’t call him that!”

“I can call him whatever I wish in the privacy of our own carriage,” Lady Honoria said, but there was something in her expression that Arabella couldn’t quite read. “Though I suppose… no, it’s impossible.”

“What’s impossible?”

Her mother looked at her for a long moment, and Arabella had the unsettling feeling of being assessed like a horse at market. “Nothing. Get in the carriage. We need to get you home before you catch your death of

cold. Though frankly, that might be preferable to what we’re going to face tomorrow.”

As Arabella climbed into the carriage, her wet skirts making the process both difficult and undignified, she caught sight of Penelope approaching with her spencer and reticule.

“Well,” her friend said, handing over the items with an expression of barely suppressed mirth, “you’ve certainly ensured that no one will be talking about Lady Nottington’s turquoise ribbons anymore.”

“Small mercies,” Arabella muttered, accepting her belongings.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Penelope continued, her eyes gleaming. “I thought the whole thing was rather romantic. The brooding Earl, the drowning damsel, the dramatic rescue…”

“The dog,” Arabella added dryly. “Don’t forget the dog.”

“How could anyone forget the dog?” Penelope gestured to where Thistle was now being forcibly loaded into the carriage by two footmen who looked as though they were reconsidering their career choices. “He’s the hero, really. Without him, you’d never have ended up in Lord Blackthorn’s arms.”

“I was not in his arms,” Arabella protested, though the heat rising to her cheeks suggested otherwise.

“No? My mistake. It must have been some other lady wrapped in his embrace whilst emerging from the lake like something from a Byron poem.”

“Byron would have made it much more elegant,” Arabella said, attempting to wring water from her hem with limited success. “Less dog, more dignity.”

“Dignity is overrated,” Penelope declared. “Besides, I noticed Lord Blackthorn didn’t seem particularly concerned about his dignity when he dived in after you.”

This was true, Arabella reflected as the carriage began to move. The Earl of Blackthorn, who was famous for avoiding society, who hadn’t been seen at a public gathering in over a year, who was rumored to refuse all invitations and speak to no one outside his immediate circle, had thrown himself into a lake to rescue her without a moment’s hesitation.

“He was probably just afraid of the scandal if I drowned,” she said, though even she didn’t believe it.

“Yes,” Penelope said dryly, “because being seen hauling a waterlogged debutante out of a lake whilst everyone watches is exactly the sort of thing one does to avoid scandal.”

The carriage hit a rut, jostling them and causing Thistle to bark with enthusiasm. He seemed to view the entire afternoon as a big adventure created specifically for his entertainment.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Lady Honoria said suddenly, having been ominously silent for several minutes.

“That I need a new gown?” Arabella suggested hopefully.

“That you need a husband,” her mother corrected. “Immediately. Before the gossip becomes completely unmanageable.”

“Mama, it’s not that serious…”

“Not that serious?” Lady Honoria’s voice rose to a pitch. “You were in his arms, Arabella. Pressed against him. Soaking wet. Your gown was…” She paused, apparently unable to voice what Arabella’s gown was. “Every person there saw it. By tomorrow, the story will have grown beyond all recognition. By the end of the week, they’ll be saying heaven knows what about Lord Blackthorn and you.”

“But nothing happened!” Arabella protested. “He rescued me from drowning.”

“You weren’t drowning,” her mother and Penelope said in unison.

“From potential drowning,” Arabella amended. “It was an act of kindness, nothing more.”

“Kindness,” her mother repeated, as if the word was foreign to her. “The Earl of Blackthorn, who hasn’t shown his face at a social gathering in over a year, who refuses all invitations and speaks to no one, suddenly develops a sense of kindness that compels him to throw himself into a lake to rescue a young lady he’s never met?”

“Perhaps he’s simply a good man,” Arabella suggested, though she had to admit her mother had a point. The Earl’s reputation was legendary. His appearance at the fete had already been surprising enough, but his dramatic aquatic intervention was unprecedented.

“Men,” her mother said with the authority of one who had been married for twenty-five years, “are never simply anything. Particularly not earls with mysterious pasts and facial scars that make them look like Gothic novel heroes.”

“Mama!”

“What? I have eyes, Arabella. The man is disturbingly attractive if one likes that sort of brooding, dangerous aesthetic. Which, apparently, you do.”

“I don’t. I never said…”

“You didn’t have to say anything,” Penelope interjected helpfully. “The way you were looking at him when he carried you out of the water said everything quite eloquently.”

“He didn’t carry me,” Arabella protested weakly.

“No? Then I am mistaken. You must have been floating.”

The carriage proceeded through the countryside, carrying them away from the scene of Arabella’s social destruction. Through the window, she could see the familiar landmarks of home approaching; the ancient oak that marked the boundary of their property and the stone wall that Papa had always said needed repair but never quite got around to fixing before his death last year.

Papa would have found the whole thing amusing, she thought. He would have laughed until he cried, then immediately set about turning it into one of his infamous dinner gathering stories. “Did I tell you about the time my Bella decided to have a swimming lesson at the Duchess’s garden gathering?” he would have said, eyes twinkling with mirth.

But Papa was gone, and with him the laughter that had made their reduced circumstances bearable. Now there was only Mama’s anxiety about their dwindling funds, the estate that needed more repairs than they could afford, and the pressing need for Arabella to make a good match before their money ran out entirely.

A good match that had almost certainly just drowned in the same lake where she’d attempted to rescue Thistle.

“What am I going to do?” she asked quietly, the reality of the situation finally settling upon her like a wet blanket.

Her mother reached across the carriage and took her hand. “We’ll think of something. We always do. Perhaps… perhaps Lord Blackthorn will call tomorrow to inquire after your health.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because,” her mother said carefully, “a gentleman who rescues a lady from drowning…”

“Potential drowning,” Arabella corrected automatically.

“From whatever it was, has certain obligations. It would be improper for him not to call.”

“The Earl of Blackthorn doesn’t strike me as someone who particularly cares about propriety,” Arabella observed, remembering the way he’d simply walked away after their rescue, as if saving drowning debutantes was something he did every Tuesday.

“No,” her mother agreed thoughtfully. “He doesn’t, does he? Which makes his intervention all the more interesting.”

The carriage turned into their drive, the wheels crunching on gravel that needed refreshing but would have to wait another year. Marchwood House rose before them, smaller than the Hall they’d just left but still gracious in its proportions, still home despite the patches of damp in the east wing and the roof that leaked whenever it rained.

“Perhaps,” Penelope said as they pulled to a stop, “this isn’t the disaster you think it is. Perhaps it’s an opportunity.”

“An opportunity for what?” Arabella asked, accepting the footman’s hand as she descended from the carriage, her skirts still unpleasantly damp and considerably heavier than they’d been that morning.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Penelope admitted cheerfully. “But any story that involves Lord Blackthorn, a lake, and a stolen slipper is bound to lead somewhere interesting.”

As if in agreement, Thistle leapt from the carriage and immediately began investigating a flower bed with the dedication of a dog who has learned nothing whatsoever from his recent aquatic adventure.

“Thistle,” Arabella called wearily. “Please don’t dig up the roses. We can’t afford to replace them.”

The dog paused, looked at her with an expression of wounded innocence that fooled no one, and then promptly stuck his nose into the exact rosebush she’d been trying to protect.

“I’m beginning to think,” she said to no one in particular, “that my life would be considerably simpler without that dog.”

“Simpler, perhaps,” Penelope agreed, gathering her own things to depart. “But then you’d never have met Lord Blackthorn. And wouldn’t that be a shame?”

She left before Arabella could formulate a suitable response, climbing into her own family’s carriage with a wave and a smile that suggested she was already composing the letters she would write about this afternoon’s events.

“Inside,” Lady Honoria commanded, ushering Arabella toward the house. “You need a hot bath and a complete change of clothes. And then we need to discuss damage control.”

“Damage control,” Arabella repeated, allowing herself to be herded through the familiar hallways of home. “You make it sound like a military campaign.”

“All of society is a military campaign,” her mother replied grimly. “And we’ve just given the enemy enough ammunition to destroy us completely.”

But as Arabella climbed the stairs to her room, leaving damp footprints on the threadbare carpet, she found herself thinking not of destruction but of creation. The Earl’s arms around her waist, his voice in her ear and the way he’d looked at her when he’d raised his hand in that mock salute—as if she was something unexpected, something worth acknowledging.

Perhaps Penelope was right. Mayhap this was an opportunity, though for what, she couldn’t begin to imagine.

Behind her, she could hear Thistle barking at something in the garden; probably the gardener, who had never quite forgiven the dog for the incident with the prize tulips. Some things, she reflected, never changed.

But as her maid rushed to help her out of her ruined gown, exclaiming over the state of her hair and the probable destruction of her best day dress, Arabella couldn’t shake the feeling that everything had changed. That the moment she’d entered that lake, she’d set something in motion that couldn’t be stopped.

As she sank into the blessed warmth of her bath, she found herself remembering the strength of the Earl’s arms, the unexpected gentle humor in his voice when he’d told her to stop helping, the way he’d lied to protect her reputation even as everyone watched it dissolve.

No, she thought, closing her eyes and sinking deeper into the water—intentionally this time. Things would never be the same.

And perhaps, just perhaps, that was exactly what she’d been hoping for all along.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

“We must be strategic,” Lady Honoria announced, having summoned Arabella from her bath before her hair was properly dry. “The situation, while dire, is not entirely without hope. I’ve sent word to your Aunt Prudence as well.”

The evening descended upon Marchwood House with the weight of impending doom, or at least that was how Lady Honoria described it while pacing the drawing room like a general planning a particularly hopeless campaign.

“Oh, Mama, no,” Arabella sank back against the settee, her expression one of weary resignation. “Not Aunt Prudence.”

“Your Aunt Prudence,” her mother continued, undeterred, “has connections. She knows everyone who matters and, more importantly, everyone who thinks they matter. If anyone can help us navigate this disaster, it’s her.”

Arabella pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, though the evening was warm. Her hair, still damp from the bath, hung in loose waves down her back; a style that would have been scandalous in public but seemed appropriate for what was essentially a council of war.

“Perhaps,” she suggested tentatively, “we’re overreacting. Perhaps people will be more understanding than we think.”

Her mother stopped pacing long enough to give her a look that suggested Arabella had taken leave of her senses. “Understanding? My dear child, society is many things, but understanding is not among them. By now, Lady Nottington has undoubtedly told her particular friend Mrs. Worthington, who will have told her daughter, who is betrothed to Sir Reginald’s nephew, who will mention it at his club, where it will be overheard by…”

“I understand the general principle of gossip, Mama.”

“Do you?” Her mother resumed her pacing. “Because if you did, you would never have…” She stopped herself, pressing her fingers to her temples. “No, that’s unfair. You were trying to save Thistle. It was… noble, in its way.”

“Papa would have done the same thing,” Arabella said quietly.

Her mother’s expression softened. “Indeed, he would have. Your father never met a creature in distress he didn’t feel compelled to rescue. It’s where you get it from, I suppose. That insufferable need to help.”

They sat in silence for a moment, both lost in memories of a man whose absence still felt like a wound that would not close—constantly noticed, impossible to ignore.

“The question now,” Lady Honoria said, with admirable determination, “is how we proceed. Lord Nottington is certainly out of the question.”

“Was he ever really in the question?” Arabella asked. “He’s perfectly pleasant, but he seems to believe that discussing the weather constitutes intellectual discourse.”

“He has four thousand a year and a lovely estate in Kent.”

“He also has a mother who believes that vegetables cause moral decay and insists on reading improving sermons aloud after dinner.”

“You could have reformed him,” her mother suggested without much conviction.

“I could have died of boredom first.”

A knock at the door interrupted what was promising to become a familiar argument. Their butler, Jameson, entered bearing a silver salver.

“A letter has arrived, my lady,” he announced with the gravity of one delivering news from the battlefield. “From Blackthorn Manor.”

The words hung in the air like an accusation. Or possibly a promise. Arabella couldn’t quite decide which.

Her mother snatched the letter with a speed that suggested she’d been expecting it, though her expression indicated she hadn’t quite decided whether it was salvation or damnation. The seal, black wax with an elaborate ‘B’, broke with a crack that sounded unnecessarily ominous.

“Well?” Arabella demanded when her mother had been silent for several seconds too long.

“He’s coming to call,” Lady Honoria said faintly. “Tomorrow. At three o’clock.”

“That’s… good, isn’t it?”

“I honestly haven’t the faintest idea.” Her mother handed her the letter with the air of one passing along a potentially explosive device. “His handwriting is appalling.”

The Earl’s script was indeed difficult; bold slashes of ink that suggested the writer had been in a considerable hurry or possibly a temper. But the message itself was brief and formally correct:

Lady March,

I trust Lady Arabella has suffered no ill effects from today’s unfortunate incident. With your permission, I shall call tomorrow at three o’clock to assure myself of her continued good health.

Blackthorn

“It’s perfectly proper,” Arabella observed, though something about the curt phrasing made her suspect the Earl had written it through gritted teeth.

“Perfectly proper and perfectly vague,” her mother corrected. “Is he calling out of duty? Guilt? Or…” She paused, clearly wrestling with a thought too dangerous to voice.

“Or what, Mama?”

“Nothing. It’s impossible.” But Lady Honoria was looking at her daughter with that calculating expression again, the one that suggested she was revising battle plans in light of new intelligence.

“Mama,” Arabella said in a warning tone. “Whatever you’re thinking…”

“I’m thinking that the Earl of Blackthorn is unmarried, wealthy, and has just compromised you in front of half the county.”

“He rescued me!”

“The distinction, I fear, will be lost on the gossips.” Her mother stood, decision apparently made. “Tomorrow, you will wear your blue morning gown. It brings out your eyes and suggests innocence without appearing to try too hard.”

“I rather think that ship has sailed,” Arabella muttered. “Possibly drowned.”

“Nonsense. We shall be perfectly charming, perfectly proper, and perfectly vague about the entire incident. If Lord Blackthorn mentions it, we shall be grateful for his assistance. If he doesn’t, we shall discuss the weather.”

“The weather,” Arabella repeated flatly.

“The weather is a perfectly acceptable topic of conversation. Safe, neutral, and unlikely to result in anyone throwing themselves into any bodies of water.”

Before Arabella could formulate a response to this piece of maternal wisdom, another knock came at the door. Jameson reappeared, this time bearing an expression of deep disapproval.

“Forgive the continued interruptions, my lady, but there appears to be a… situation in the kitchen.”

“A situation?” Lady Honoria’s voice suggested she’d had quite enough situations for one day.

“The dog, my lady. He has… that is to say, he appears to have… liberated a joint of beef that the Cook was preparing for tomorrow’s dinner.”

“Liberated,” Arabella repeated, already rising. “You mean stolen.”

“I prefer to think of it as a redistribution of resources,” Jameson said with the faintest hint of a smile. “Though the Cook is using rather more colorful terminology.”

The sounds now emanating from the kitchen seemed to support this assessment. Arabella could hear the Cook’s voice rising in volume and creativity, punctuated by Thistle’s enthusiastic barking.

“I shall handle it,” she sighed, moving toward the door.

“The blue gown,” her mother called after her. “And for heaven’s sake, do something about that dog before tomorrow. The last thing we need is for him to steal something from Lord Blackthorn.”

The kitchen, when Arabella arrived, resembled a battlefield where the casualties were primarily dignity and several pounds of excellent beef. Thistle sat in the corner, tail wagging despite the fact that he was clearly in disgrace, while the Cook stood in the center of the room wielding a rolling pin like a weapon of war.

“That beast,” the Cook declared upon seeing Arabella, “is a threat to civilized society and decent kitchens everywhere.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Winters,” Arabella said, though she had to suppress a smile at the sight of Thistle, who had somehow managed to get gravy on his ears. “He’s had rather an exciting day.”

“Exciting?” Cook’s voice rose to new heights. “That’s what we’re calling theft and destruction now, is it? Exciting?”

“He did nearly drown,” Arabella offered weakly.

“Pity he didn’t,” the Cook muttered, though Arabella knew she didn’t mean it. Just last week, she’d seen the woman giving Thistle food when she thought no one was looking.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Arabella promised. “I’ll help with tomorrow’s dinner myself if necessary.”

“You?” The Cook looked scandalized. “In my kitchen? After what happened the last time you tried to help?”

The last time had involved an incident with a soup that they’d all agreed never to discuss again.

“Fair point,” Arabella conceded. “But I’ll find some way to make amends. Perhaps I could go to the village tomorrow morning and…”

“You’ll do no such thing,” her mother’s voice came from behind her. Apparently, the situation had warranted personal intervention from the general herself. “Tomorrow, you will do nothing that might generate additional gossip. You will stay home, you will prepare for Lord Blackthorn’s visit, and you will not, under any circumstances, allow that dog anywhere near him.”

Thistle, as if understanding he was being discussed, barked helpfully.

“He’s expressing his opinions,” Arabella said.

“His opinions are not required,” her mother replied firmly. “Mrs. Winters, I apologise for the disruption. We’ll manage with a simple roast fowl for tomorrow if necessary.”

“No need, my lady,” the Cook said, though she continued to eye Thistle with deep suspicion. “I’ve got a ham in the larder that will do nicely. Though I’ll be locking it up tighter than the crown jewels.”

The crisis was over, or at least postponed and Arabella was ushered back to the drawing room where her mother resumed her strategic planning.

“Now then,” Lady Honoria said, consulting a list she’d apparently been composing. “Tomorrow’s visit. We’ll receive him in the morning room; it gets the best light and doesn’t show the water damage quite as badly as the formal drawing room. Jameson will serve tea; the good china, not the set with the chipped saucers. You’ll sit on the settee by the window, it’s the most flattering angle, and I’ll ensure the conversation remains appropriate.”

“You’re going to chaperone?”

“Of course I’m going to chaperone. An unchaperoned visit from Lord Blackthorn after today’s events? We might as well announce your betrothal in the papers.”

“Betrothal?” Arabella’s voice rose to a pitch that would have impressed the Cook. “Mama, he’s coming to inquire after my health, not propose marriage.”

“Men like Lord Blackthorn don’t make social calls, Arabella. He hasn’t been seen in polite society for over a year. The fact that he’s coming here, tomorrow, after what happened today… it means something.”

“It means he feels guilty.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he feels something else entirely.” Her mother’s expression grew thoughtful. “You should know there are… stories about him.”

“Stories?”

“About why he stays away from society. About how he got those scars.” Lady Honoria paused, clearly debating how much to share. “They say there was a fire at his estate on the Continent. A woman died—some say she was his mistress, others say she was his betrothed. He tried to save her but he couldn’t and the scars are from that night.”

Arabella felt something shift in her chest; a combination of sympathy and curiosity that she didn’t quite know what to do with. “How tragic.”

“Yes. And it explains why he’s been so reclusive since his return. But it doesn’t explain why he was at the fete today, or why he threw himself into that lake after you.”

“He was probably just…”

“Being heroic, yes, you’ve said that before. But men who’ve shut themselves away from the world don’t suddenly develop heroic impulses for strangers.” Her mother stood, apparently having made some sort of decision. “Tomorrow, we’ll see what Lord Blackthorn wants. But Arabella, you must be careful.”

“Careful?”

“A man with that much tragedy in his past, who’s chosen isolation over society… he’s not some simple country squire you can manage with smiles and small talk. If he’s interested in you, and I’m not saying he is, but if he is, you need to decide what you want before he makes any sort of declaration.”

“Mama, you’re being ridiculously premature. He’s making one call out of courtesy.”

“Perhaps,” her mother agreed. “But wear the blue gown anyway.”

 

***

 

Later that evening, as Arabella prepared for bed, she found herself standing at her window, looking out toward the lake that was just visible in the distance, silvered by moonlight. Somewhere beyond that, past the village and the woods, lay Blackthorn Manor; that mysterious estate where the Earl lived in self-imposed exile.

What had driven him to the fete today? He’d been on horseback, she remembered, not in a carriage with family or friends. A solitary figure who’d chosen, for reasons unknown, to attend a social gathering for the first time in over a year.

And then he’d seen her—ridiculous, impulsive, water-logged —and dived in without hesitation.

Her mother was right about one thing: it didn’t make sense. Nothing about the Earl of Blackthorn’s behavior today had made sense. Which meant either he was simply prone to inexplicable acts of charity, or…

“Or what?” she asked her reflection in the window glass.

Her reflection, unhelpfully, offered no answers.

A scratching at her door interrupted her musings. She opened it to find Thistle, still slightly damp and smelling distinctly of lake despite multiple attempts at bathing him, wagging his tail hopefully.

“You,” she said severely, “are the author of all my troubles.”

Thistle’s tail wagged harder, taking this as a compliment.

“If you hadn’t stolen that slipper…”

More wagging.

“And then fallen through that dock…”

Enthusiastic whole-body wagging now.

“None of this would have happened.”

Thistle barked once, quietly, and then sat, fixing her with the liquid brown eyes that had gotten him out of more trouble than any dog deserved.

“Oh, all right,” she sighed, stepping aside to let him in. “But you’re sleeping on the floor.”

Five minutes later, Thistle was sprawled across the foot of her bed, snoring contentedly and occasionally twitching as he dreamed what were probably dreams of theft and lakes and successful liberation of beef joints.

Arabella lay awake, staring at the canopy above her bed and trying not to think about tomorrow, about Lord Blackthorn coming to call, and about what he might say, what she might say or what any of it might mean.

She thought instead about the moment in the lake and the way he’d looked at her afterward, as if she was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

Tomorrow, he would come to their modest morning room with its slightly faded wallpaper and carefully mended cushions. He would drink tea from their good china and make polite conversation while her mother watched them both like a hawk. It would be proper, formal, and probably excruciating.

But perhaps, if she was very lucky, she might see something in his expression; some hint of the man who’d thrown propriety to the wind and dived into a lake to rescue a ridiculous girl and her even more ridiculous dog.

The thought shouldn’t have made her smile; yet, it did.

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

 

Arabella woke to find Thistle had somehow migrated during the night and was now occupying approximately three-quarters of the bed, leaving her clinging to the edge like a shipwreck survivor on a very comfortable raft.

“This,” she informed the ceiling, “is a metaphor for my entire life.”

Thistle opened one eye, evaluated whether this statement required his attention, decided it didn’t, and resumed snoring.

A knock at the door was followed by her maid, Jane, entering with a tea tray and an expression that suggested she’d already heard several versions of yesterday’s events.

“Good morning, milady,” Jane said, setting down the tray with careful precision. “Your mother requests your presence in her chambers at your earliest convenience. She also asked me to remind you about the blue gown.”

“The blue gown,” Arabella repeated, sitting up and displacing Thistle, who grumbled but relocated to the warm spot she’d vacated. “Yes, I’ve been thoroughly briefed on the strategic importance of the blue gown.”

Jane’s lips twitched. “Shall I prepare it, milady?”

“I suppose you must. Though I fail to see how a gown with lace is going to salvage my reputation.”

“Gowns with lace have salvaged more reputations than you might think,” Jane said sagely. “There’s something about the lace that suggests innocence and good breeding.”

“Neither of which I demonstrated yesterday when I flung myself into a lake.”

“You were rescuing a dog,” Jane said, beginning to lay out the various components of Arabella’s armor for the coming battle. “It shows a good heart.”

“It shows a complete absence of common sense.”

“Well,” Jane said philosophically, “that too.”

The morning proceeded with military precision. Arabella had a bath again, her hair was arranged in a style that suggested she was a delicate flower who would never dream of aquatic adventures, and she was wrapped into the blue gown with its strategic lace. The overall effect, when she examined herself in the mirror, was of someone trying very hard to appear as though they weren’t trying at all.

“Perfect,” her mother declared, having come to inspect the troops. “You look exactly like a young lady who might accidentally fall into a lake but would never do so on purpose.”

“That’s quite specific.”

“I’ve given this considerable thought.” Lady Honoria circled her daughter, making minute adjustments to ribbons and lace. “Now, remember; we’re grateful for his assistance, sorry for any inconvenience, and utterly vague about everything else.”

“Grateful, sorry, vague,” Arabella repeated. “It sounds like a rather uninspiring saying.”

“It’s gotten many a young lady through a difficult social situation.” Her mother paused. “Also, I’ve locked Thistle in the stables.”

“Mama!”

“It’s for his own good. And ours. The last thing we need is for him to develop an opinion about Lord Blackthorn while the man is here.”

“Thistle has opinions about everyone.”

“Yes, and he expresses them with alarming enthusiasm. The stable is the safest place for him.”

From somewhere outside came the sound of aggrieved barking, suggesting that Thistle had discovered his imprisonment and had several opinions about that as well.

“He’ll never forgive me,” Arabella said.

“He’ll forgive you the moment you give him a biscuit. Dogs are wonderfully simple that way.” Her mother checked the small watch pinned to her bodice. “Two hours until his visit. I suggest we use the time to practice conversation.”

“Practice conversation?”

“Yes. I shall be Lord Blackthorn, and you’ll be yourself, only more restrained.”

What followed was perhaps the most excruciating hour of Arabella’s life. Her mother, adopting what she apparently believed was a masculine growl, interrogated her on everything from the weather to her views on agricultural reform.

“And what are your thoughts on the current political situation, Lady Arabella?” her mother rumbled in her false baritone.

“I try not to have thoughts on politics, Lord Blackthorn. I find they give me a headache.”

“No!” Her mother dropped her voice. “You can’t claim to be thoughtless. It makes you sound like a foolish person.”

“You just told me to be vague!”

“Vague, not vacant. There’s a difference.”

They were saved from further theatrical endeavors by Jameson, who approached as though unveiling a great and terrible omen.

“Lord Blackthorn’s carriage has been sighted approaching, my lady.”

“Already?” Lady Honoria consulted her watch again. “He’s fifteen minutes early.”

“A sign of eagerness?” Arabella suggested.

“Or a desire to get this over with as quickly as possible,” her mother countered, but she was already moving toward the morning room with the determination of a general taking the field.

The morning room was indeed their best room, positioned to catch the light in a way that made the slightly worn furniture less obvious and the water stain on the far wall nearly invisible. Fresh flowers had been arranged; not too many, which would suggest they were trying too hard, but enough to indicate they were a household that appreciated beauty.

“Sit,” her mother commanded, pointing to the settee by the window. “No, not like that. You look like you’re about to be executed. Relax. But not too much. Casual elegance, Arabella. Think of casual elegance.”

Arabella had no idea what casual elegance looked like, but she attempted to arrange herself in a way that suggested she sat in morning rooms awaiting potentially reputation-destroying visits from scarred earls all the time.

The sound of wheels on gravel sent her heart rate accelerating in a most unexpectedly elegant manner. Through the window, she caught a glimpse of a black carriage—expensive, understated, with the Blackthorn arms on the door. The horses were matched grays, beautiful animals that probably cost more than their entire household budget for a year.

“Remember,” her mother hissed, “grateful, sorry, vague.”

“Grateful, sorry, vague,” Arabella repeated, though the words seemed to be sticking in her suddenly dry throat.

Jameson’s voice could be heard in the hallway, followed by footsteps; firm, measured, definitely masculine. Arabella found herself holding her breath.

“The Earl of Blackthorn,” Jameson announced, and then there he was, filling the doorway of their morning room with an almost overwhelming presence.

He was dressed formally but not ostentatiously; a dark blue coat that had been tailored within an inch of its life, buff breeches and boots polished to a gleam. His cravat was simply tied but pristine white. The overall effect was of controlled elegance, though Arabella noticed his hair was slightly windswept, as if he’d ridden alongside the carriage rather than in it.

The scar was more visible in daylight, she noticed. It carved its path down the left side of his face with brutal honesty, pulling slightly at his eye and giving him a perpetual look of sardonic inquiry. Rather than detracting from his appearance, it added something; a suggestion of danger, of stories untold.

“Lord Blackthorn,” Lady Honoria said, dropping into a curtsey that was precisely calibrated to show respect without servility. “How kind of you to call.”

“Lady March.” He bowed, then turned to Arabella. “Lady Arabella. I trust you’ve recovered from yesterday’s aquatic adventure?”

There was something in the way he said “aquatic adventure” that suggested he found the entire situation slightly absurd, which, Arabella supposed, it was.

“Quite recovered, thank you,” she said, managing her own curtsey without tangling her skirts. “Though I fear the same cannot be said for my dignity.”

“Dignity,” he said, with what appeared to be amusement in his voice? “is highly overrated. I’ve found that the most interesting people are frequently those with the least attachment to it.”

“Then I must be absolutely fascinating,” Arabella said before she could stop herself.

Her mother made a small noise that might have been horror or possibly a suppressed laugh. Lord Blackthorn’s expression shifted minutely and the corner of his mouth that wasn’t affected by the scar twitched upward.

“Indeed,” he said, and there was definitely amusement there now. “Though I might suggest that future displays of fascinating behaviour should avoid bodies of water. They seem not to agree with you.”

“On the contrary,” Arabella replied, finding her tongue despite her mother’s increasingly frantic eye signals, “I thought we got along swimmingly.”

“Arabella,” her mother said in a warning tone.

“I apologise,” Arabella said quickly. “I have an unfortunate tendency toward wordplay when nervous.”

“Are you nervous?” Lord Blackthorn asked, accepting the seat her mother indicated; a chair positioned at a respectable distance from the settee but close enough for conversation.

“Shouldn’t I be? You’re rather imposing.”

“Arabella!” Her mother’s voice reached the sharpness she employed only in the face of true household disorder.

“It’s quite all right, Lady March,” the Earl said, and Arabella could have sworn he was trying not to smile. “I’ve been called worse things than imposing. Though usually not to my face.”

“How cowardly of them,” Arabella observed.

“How practical of them,” he countered. “I’m told I can be quite intimidating when irritated.”

“And are you frequently irritated?”

“That depends entirely on whether dogs are stealing footwear and ladies are falling into lakes.”

“Then you must have been in quite a temper yesterday.”

“Enraged,” he agreed dryly. “I barely managed to contain myself.”

Jameson appeared with the tea service, providing a welcome interruption to what was becoming an increasingly inappropriate exchange of banter. Lady Honoria seized upon the ritual of tea service like a drowning woman clutching a rope, which, given yesterday’s events, was perhaps an unfortunate comparison.

“How do you take your tea, Lord Blackthorn?” she asked with determined normalcy.

“Black, no sugar,” he replied, which somehow didn’t surprise Arabella at all.

“How austere,” she commented, accepting her own cup liberally dosed with sugar and milk.

“I find that too much sweetness can mask the true flavour of things,” he said, and something in his tone made her wonder if they were still talking about tea.

“Perhaps,” she said, meeting his gaze over her teacup, “but a little sweetness can make even bitter things palatable.”

“Speaking of bitter things,” her mother interjected with the determination of one steering a conversation away from dangerous waters, “I understand you’ve been making improvements to Blackthorn Manor. The new stables are said to be quite magnificent.”

“They’re functional,” Lord Blackthorn replied, though his eyes remained on Arabella. “I prefer function to magnificence.”

“How disappointing,” Arabella said. “I confess, I expected imposing pillars and a profusion of gilt ornaments.”

“The horses complained. They found it ostentatious.”

“Horses are notably conservative in their tastes.”

“Unlike dogs, who appear to have no taste whatsoever.”

“Thistle has excellent taste,” Arabella protested. “Did you see the quality of that slipper he liberated?”

“I was rather more focused on the quality of the lady who dived in after him.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, shifting the atmosphere in the room from light banter to something else entirely. Arabella felt heat rise to her cheeks and quickly looked down at her tea.

“That was kindly said,” her mother managed after a pause that had grown slightly too long.

“It was honestly said,” the Earl corrected. “Though I stand by my initial assessment that the dog should have been left to his own devices.”

“You don’t mean that,” Arabella said, looking up at him.

“Don’t I?”

“No. Because you dived in after us both, which suggests that despite your protests, you’re actually quite heroic.”

“Or quite foolish,” he countered. “The two are often confused.”

“In my experience,” Arabella said, “they’re often the same thing.”

“May I ask you something, Lady Arabella?”

“Yes.”

“Will you marry me?”