Page 32 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"They're talking about you. Not gossip, mind you, just... interest. It's been a long time since there was a mistress at Blackthorn Manor."

"What do they say about Lord Blackthorn?"

"That he's a good master. Fair. Generous at Christmas. But distant. He keeps to himself, rarely leaves his study except for meals and his morning rides."

"A hermit in his own home."

"Yes, my lady. Though perhaps that will change now."

"I doubt it. He was very clear about wanting to maintain his isolation."

"Men often say things they don't mean, especially when they're frightened."

"You think Lord Blackthorn is frightened?"

"I think any man who's built walls that high must be protecting himself from something."

Before Arabella could respond, a knock came at the door. Jane went to answer it, returning with a surprised expression.

"His lordship asks if you would join him in his study for a nightcap."

"A nightcap?" Arabella repeated, surprised. "Now?"

"So it would seem, my lady."

Arabella looked down at her wrapper and nightgown. It was hardly appropriate attire for visiting her husband's study, but then again, nothing about their marriage was appropriate.

"Tell him I'll be there shortly."

Jane's eyes widened slightly, but she bobbed a curtsey and left to deliver the message.

Arabella looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was loose, falling in waves over her shoulders. Her wrapper was decent enough, a deep blue velvet that covered her from throat to floor, but there was something undeniably intimate about appearing before her husband in nightclothes.

"Well," she told her reflection, "you wanted honesty. This is certainly that."

The walk to the west wing felt longer in the darkness. The hallways were lit only by occasional candles, creating pools of light and shadow that made the portraits seem to watch her pass. She could hear Thistle padding along behind her, apparently deciding that where she went, he followed.

The study door was ajar, firelight spilling into the hallway. She knocked softly.

"Come."

Lord Blackthorn was standing by the fire, having changed from his flour-covered evening clothes into a burgundy dressing gown. He looked less formal, younger somehow, though the firelight made his scars more prominent.

"Thank you for coming," he said, gesturing to a chair by the fire. "I realised we never finished dinner."

"We were rather interrupted."

"Yes." He moved to a sideboard where crystal decanters glowed in the firelight. "Brandy? Or I have wine if you prefer."

"Brandy," she said, surprising herself. "It's been that sort of day."

He poured two generous measures and handed her one before taking the chair opposite. Thistle settled between them on the hearth rug, apparently deciding the fire was worth the risk of proximity to Lord Blackthorn.

"Your dog is dripping on my carpet," he observed.

"Our dog. And it's just water."

"Famous last words." But he made no move to banish Thistle.