Page 25 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"I'm not sad, Lady Blackthorn."

The use of her new title felt like a wall being erected between them. Arabella set down her teacup with care.

"Of course not. The Beast of Blackthorn doesn't feel such human emotions."

His jaw tightened. "Don't call me that."

"Why? Everyone else does."

"You're not everyone else. You're my wife."

"In name only, as you've made abundantly clear."

They stared at each other across the tea service, the air between them charged with something that wasn't quite anger but wasn't far from it.

"Perhaps," Mrs. Fielding suggested from the doorway where she'd been hovering, "her ladyship would like to see her chambers now?"

"Yes," Lord Blackthorn said immediately. "That would be... practical."

That word again. Arabella was beginning to hate it.

The walk to the east wing took them through what felt like miles of corridor, past more disapproving ancestors and rooms shrouded in covers. The house felt like a museum; perfectly preserved but lifeless.

"This was my mother's wing," Lord Blackthorn said as they climbed yet another staircase. "She had it redecorated shortly after her marriage. It hasn't been touched since."

"When did she pass?"

"Twelve years ago. Consumption."

"I'm sorry."

"As I said, it was a long time ago."

But something in his voice suggested that time hadn't dulled all the edges of that loss.

The suite, when they reached it, was a revelation. Unlike the oppressive grandeur of the public rooms, these chambers had been decorated by someone who understood that people actually had to live in them. The sitting room was done in soft greens and golds, with comfortable-looking furniture arranged around a fireplace. Books lined one wall, and windows overlooked the rose gardens.

"It's lovely," Arabella said, meaning it.

"My mother had good taste. Better than my grandmother's, certainly."

"No blue damask?"

"She threatened to burn it all once. My father talked her out of it, but only just."

Through a connecting door lay the bedroom, dominated by a four-poster bed hung with ivory silk. Another door presumably led to a dressing room. Everything was clean, aired, and welcoming despite its long abandonment.

"I shall leave you to settle in," Lord Blackthorn said, already backing toward the door. "Dinner is at eight. We keep country hours here."

"Do...Do we dine together?"

He paused. "Would you prefer to dine separately?"

"No, I just... I don't know what the rules are. For our arrangement."

"There are no rules, Lady Blackthorn. We make them as we go."

"That sounds rather uncertain."