Page 34 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"But you didn't want a wife at all."

"No," he agreed. "I didn't. And yet here you are, in my study at midnight, covered in dog water and flour residue, listening to my tragic history."

"The flour adds character."

"Everything adds character with you, doesn't it?"

"Would you prefer I be characterless?"

"I'd prefer..." He stopped again, shaking his head. "I don't know what I'd prefer anymore."

The admission hung between them, vulnerable and unexpected. Arabella set down her brandy and leaned forward.

"Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe not knowing means you're open to possibilities."

"I haven't been open to possibilities in years."

"Then perhaps it's time to start."

He looked at her then, firelight playing across his features, and she saw something shift in his expression; a softening, perhaps, or maybe just exhaustion breaking through his carefully maintained walls.

"You should go to bed," he said quietly. "It's been a long day."

"For both of us."

"Yes." He stood, and she did as well, while Thistle was grumbling at the disturbance. "Arabella..."

It was the second time he'd used her name without the title, and something about the way he said it made her pause.

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For listening. For not... judging."

"Thank you for telling me."

They stood there, closer than they'd been since the lake, close enough that she could smell the sandalwood and brandy, see the way his pulse beat at his throat. For a moment, she thought he might...

But then he stepped back, the moment breaking like a soap bubble.

"Goodnight, Lady Blackthorn."

The title was back, the wall rebuilt. But weaker now, she thought. Definitely weaker.

"Goodnight, Lord Blackthorn."

She left him standing by the fire, a solitary figure surrounded by books and shadows and the weight of untold stories.

The walk back to her rooms seemed shorter, or perhaps she was simply lost in thought. Jane had left candles burning, and the rooms felt welcoming despite their unfamiliarity.

Arabella climbed into the large bed, Thistle settling at her feet with a contented sigh. Through the windows, she could see stars; more than were ever visible in London, a vast tapestry of light against the darkness.

This was her wedding night. Not what she'd imagined in her girlish dreams, certainly. No passionate embraces, no whispered endearments, no consummation of vows. Just two damaged people sharing brandy and truths in a fire-lit study.

And yet, she thought as sleep began to claim her, there had been something there. In the way he'd said her name, in the vulnerability of his confession, in that moment by the fire when the air had seemed to thicken between them.

They were married strangers, bound by scandal and propriety rather than love. But strangers could become friends, and friends could become... something more. Maybe.

Time would tell.