Page 44 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"No," he admitted. "But then, I haven't had a better idea since I met you. I've just been stumbling from one moment to the next, trying to keep up."

"Poor Beast," she jested. "Brought low by a lady and her criminal dog."

"Speaking of which, where is Thistle?"

"Probably in the kitchen, destroying the treaty you so carefully negotiated."

"Wonderful. The Cook will murder us both."

"At least we'll die happy."

He looked down at her, something soft and vulnerable in his expression. "Are you? Happy?"

"In this moment? Yes."

"And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow can take care of itself."

Lightning flashed again, illuminating them in stark relief; two bodies intertwined, boundaries dissolved, carefully constructed walls in ruins. Tomorrow would bring complications, she knew. Cassandra's visit, society's gossip, the reality of a marriage that had suddenly become very real indeed.

But for now, she was content to lie in her husband's arms, listening to his heartbeat and the storm, and marvel at how thoroughly her life had changed in less than a week.

"Arabella?" he said softly.

"Mmm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being brave enough to fall into that lake."

She smiled against his chest. "It was Thistle's fault, really."

"Then remind me to give that dog an entire roast tomorrow."

"The Cook will have an apoplexy."

"Worth it."

They fell asleep like that, wrapped around each other while the storm raged on, unaware that Morrison had already instructed the staff that the rose suite would no longer be needed, that Mrs. Fielding was having a quiet glass of wine in celebration, and that somewhere in the kitchen, Thistle was indeed demolishing the careful treaty, though Cookie was laughing too hard to care.

***

Morning arrived with embarrassing brightness, streaming through the windows Lucien had forgotten to curtain the night before. Arabella woke slowly, aware first of warmth, then of the solid presence beside her, and of the delicious soreness that reminded her of exactly what had transpired.

"Stop thinking so loudly," Lucien murmured against her hair.

"I'm not thinking."

"Liar. I can practically hear your thoughts."

She turned in his arms to face him. In the morning light, he looked younger, more relaxed. The scar was still prominent, would always be, but it no longer seemed like a barrier between the world and him.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"That I should probably be panicking."