Page 2 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"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."