Page 37 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"This from a man who probably has to duck through doorways."

"Only some doorways. The Tudor parts of the house were built for smaller people. More your size, actually."

"Are you calling me Tudor-sized?"

"I'm calling you appropriately historical."

Despite herself, Arabella laughed. These past three days had been full of such moments; unexpected exchanges that suggested her husband possessed a dry wit he deployed when she least expected it. It made the formal dinners less awkward, the strange reality of their situation more bearable.

They worked together for the next hour, Arabella directing and Lucien reaching the books she couldn't. Their hands brushed once as they both reached for the same volume, and the contact sent an unexpected jolt through her. He jerked back as if burned, and they spent the next several minutes carefully avoiding any possibility of touching.

"Poetry here?" he asked, holding a stack of volumes.

"Yes, and then plays below."

"Very logical. Though I notice you've put Byron with the romantics rather than the reprobates."

"Is there a reprobate section?"

"There should be. We could include my ancestor's memoirs."

"The one who was pushed down the stairs?"

"The very same. His journals are quite scandalous. I keep them locked away to protect innocent minds."

"I'm hardly innocent."

The words hung in the air, taking on a meaning she hadn't intended. His eyes darkened, and suddenly the library felt much smaller, the air thicker.

"No," he said quietly, "I suppose you're not. You're a married woman now."

"In name only," she reminded him, though the words came out breathier than intended.

"Yes." He turned back to the shelves abruptly. "Where do you want the histories?"

The moment passed, but the awareness remained. She could feel him in the room like a physical presence, could catch his scent, sandalwood and leather and something uniquely him, whenever he moved past her. Three days of marriage, and already the careful boundaries they'd established seemed to be blurring.

Thistle came into the library, effectively breaking the tension by tracking mud across the rug and attempting to befriend a stack of newly sorted books.

"Your dog," Lucien said with resignation.

"Our dog."

"He's only ours when he's behaving."

"So never, then?"

"Precisely."

A footman appeared in the doorway, looking harried. "My lord, there's a... situation in the kitchen."

"Let me guess," Lucien said dryly. "The dog?"

"The Cook says to tell you that if 'that beast' steals one more roast, she's giving notice."

"She says that daily."

"Yes, my lord, but this time she's written it down."