Page 3 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"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."