Page 11 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"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.