Page 18 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"Then we proceed as planned," she said. "Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock, simple ceremony, practical marriage."

"Arabella..." It was the first time he'd used her name without the title, and something about the way he said it made her chest tighten.

"Yes?"

But whatever he'd been about to say was lost as Jameson appeared to announce that the dressmaker had arrived for the final fitting. Lord Blackthorn took his leave with his usual formal bow, and Arabella was left wondering what words had died unspoken.

Penelope arrived that evening, full of barely suppressed excitement and carrying an enormous basket.

"Wedding gifts," she announced, sweeping into Arabella's room without ceremony. "Well, wedding gift, singular, but I couldn't fit everything into one package."

"Pen, you didn't need to..."

"Hush. My dearest friend is marrying the mysterious Earl of Blackthorn after a whirlwind acquaintance involving lakes and stolen slippers. If that doesn't deserve presents, nothing does."

She began unpacking the basket, revealing an assortment of items that ranged from practical to absurd. Books, obviously. Handkerchiefs embroidered with tiny dogs that looked suspiciously like Thistle. A bottle of lavender oil for calming nerves. A small silver flask for when the lavender doesn't work. And finally, wrapped in tissue paper, a nightgown of such exquisite silk and scandalous design that Arabella felt herself blushing.

"Penelope!"

"What? You're getting married. These things are expected."

"We're having separate bedchambers."

"Separate bedrooms that presumably have doors. Which can be opened."

"It's not that kind of marriage."

Penelope settled onto the bed beside her, suddenly serious. "Bella, are you certain about this?"

"No," Arabella admitted. "But what choice do I have? We both know what would happen if I refused. The scandal, the gossip, the complete loss of any prospect!"

"You could weather it. You're stronger than you think."

"But my mother isn't. And our situation... Pen, we're barely managing as it is. Without a good marriage, without some kind of security, I don't know how much longer we can maintain even this."

Penelope took her hand. "So you're sacrificing yourself."

"It's not a sacrifice. Lord Blackthorn is wealthy, titled, and has promised to honour my conditions. It could be much worse."

"It could also be much better. You could have love."

"Love is a luxury I can't afford."

"That," Penelope said firmly, "is the saddest thing you've ever said."

Later that night, Arabella stood at her window for what would be the last time as an unmarried woman. Tomorrow, she would become the Countess of Blackthorn, wife to a man she barely knew, mistress of an estate she'd never seen, bound for life to someone who viewed their union as a practical solution to mutual problems.

Thistle padded over and leaned against her legs, offering silent comfort.

"What have I agreed to?" she asked him softly.

He wagged his tail, apparently finding nothing objectionable in the arrangement as long as he was included.

"At least one of us is confident about tomorrow."

A movement in the garden below caught her eye. A figure on horseback, barely visible in the moonlight. As she watched, the rider paused at their gate, looking up toward the house. Even in the darkness, she knew who it was. The broad shoulders, the way he sat on his horse, the patient stillness—Lord Blackthorn had come to... what? Ensure she hadn't fled? Have second thoughts of his own?

For a long moment, they regarded each other across the distance; she at her window, he on his horse, both poised on the edge of an irrevocable decision. Then, slowly, he raised his hand to his hat in a gesture of acknowledgment before turning his horse and disappearing into the night.