Page 19 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

Arabella remained at the window long after he'd gone, wondering what thoughts had brought him to her gate in the darkness, what words might have been said if distance and propriety hadn't stood between them.

Tomorrow, those distances would be eliminated by law, even as they maintained them by choice. Separate rooms, separate lives, together apart.

"Come on, Thistle," she said finally, moving away from the window. "We should try to sleep. Tomorrow, we become residents of Blackthorn Manor."

***

The wedding day dawned gray and misty, as if nature itself was uncertain about the proceedings. Arabella woke to Jane fussing over her, having arrived before dawn to ensure everything was perfect.

"It's your wedding day, milady," Jane said, her excitement enough for both of them. "You must eat something."

"I'm not hungry."

"Nevertheless." A tray appeared bearing tea and toast, though the thought of eating made Arabella's stomach twist most uncomfortably.

Her mother arrived shortly after, already dressed in her best purple silk, looking simultaneously pleased and anxious.

"How are you, my dear?"

"Terrified," Arabella admitted.

"Good. I'd be worried if you weren't. Terror is perfectly appropriate for one's wedding day. It shows you understand the magnitude of what you're doing."

"That's not particularly comforting, Mama."

"It's not meant to be comforting. It's meant to be true." Her mother sat beside her, taking her hand. "Arabella, you can still change your mind."

"Can I? Really? After all the arrangements, the license, the expectations?"

"You can always change your mind. Right up until the moment you say 'I do.' Your father would never forgive me if I let you go through with this if you're truly unwilling."

Arabella squeezed her mother's hand. "I'm not unwilling. I'm just... uncertain."

"Uncertainty can be overcome. Unwillingness cannot."

The morning progressed with relentless efficiency. Arabella was bathed, perfumed, and wrestled into her wedding dress; not the elaborate creation she might have imagined in her girlhood dreams, but a simple gown of cream silk that had been her mother's and hastily altered to fit. The lace from the infamous blue gown had been repurposed as trimming, which seemed oddly appropriate.

"You look beautiful," Penelope declared, having arrived to serve as witness and moral support. "Ethereal. Bridal. Slightly terrified, but that adds character."

"I don't feel beautiful. I feel like I might be sick."

"That's also traditional. Here." Penelope produced the silver flask from her gift basket. "Courage."

Arabella took a small sip of what turned out to be excellent brandy. "Where did you get this?"

"My father's study. What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

"Penelope Finch, you're corrupting me on my wedding day."

"Someone has to. You're marrying the Beast of Blackthorn. A little corruption seems appropriate."

*

The carriage ride to the church was silent except for the clip of horses' hooves and Thistle's occasional whine. He'd been relegated to riding with the servants, much to his vocal displeasure.

The church itself was nearly empty. Lord Blackthorn had been true to his word about keeping things small. Only the necessary witnesses were present: Penelope, Arabella's mother, and surprisingly, a well-dressed gentleman Arabella didn't recognize, presumably there for the Earl.

Lord Blackthorn himself stood at the altar, dressed entirely in black except for his white cravat, looking like he was attending a funeral rather than his own wedding. When he turned to watch her approach, his expression was unreadable, the scar more pronounced in the dim church light.