Page 36 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

Below it, in fresher ink, a new inscription:

"To Arabella—who is already doing both. L."

She traced the letters with one finger, feeling something warm in her chest. They were strangers, indeed. Married for all the wrong reasons, certainly. But perhaps, just perhaps, they might find something right in all this wrongness.

She climbed back into bed, the book still clutched in her hands, and fell asleep thinking not of what she'd lost but of what she might, possibly, or impossibly, find.

Outside, the stars continued their silent vigil, and somewhere in the west wing, a lonely earl sat by his fire, wondering if he'd just made everything better or infinitely more complicated.

Time, as they both knew, would tell.

Chapter 8

"My lady, you cannot possibly be serious about rearranging the entire library."

Mrs. Fielding's tone suggested that Arabella had proposed something on par with burning the house down. It was their third morning at Blackthorn Manor, and Arabella was discovering that being mistress of an imposing estate came with rather more resistance than she'd anticipated.

"I'm merely suggesting," Arabella said, maintaining her composure despite the urge to throw something, "that organizing books by subject rather than by the colour of their spines might be more practical."

"The late Countess arranged them thus," Mrs. Fielding replied, as if this settled the matter entirely.

"The late Countess has been dead for twelve years."

"Yes, my lady."

The housekeeper's expression suggested that death was no excuse for having one's decorating choices questioned. Arabella was formulating a response when Lord Blackthorn's voice came from the doorway.

"Is there a problem?"

He stood there in riding clothes, having clearly just returned from his morning ride. His hair was windswept, his boots muddy, and there was color in his cheeks that made him look younger, less burdened. Arabella found herself staring at the way his riding coat stretched across his shoulders and had to force herself to look away.

"Lady Blackthorn wishes to rearrange the library," Mrs. Fielding said in the tone one might use to report a murder.

"Does she?" His eyes found Arabella's, and she thought she saw amusement there. "How revolutionary. Books arranged for use rather than aesthetics. Whatever will people think?"

"My lord," Mrs. Fielding began, but he held up a hand.

"Lady Blackthorn is mistress of this house. If she wishes to rearrange the library, the breakfast room, or the entire estate, that is her prerogative."

The housekeeper's mouth opened and closed several times. Finally, she managed, "of course, my Lord. I'll have the footmen assist immediately."

She swept out, dignity intact but clearly ruffled. Arabella looked at her husband, surprised by his support.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. You'll be the one dealing with her wounded sensibilities for the next week." He moved into the library, surveying the admittedly bizarre color-coding system. "Though I confess, I never understood my mother's logic here either. Why should Byron be separated from Wordsworth simply because their spines are different shades?"

"Exactly!" Arabella said, warming to the subject. "And poor Shakespeare is scattered across three shelves because some volumes are red and others are blue."

"A tragedy." He pulled off his riding gloves, and Arabella found herself watching his hands—strong, capable, bearing small scars that suggested a man who didn't just direct labor but participated in it. "Would you like help?"

"You want to help me rearrange the library?"

"I want to see Mrs. Fielding's face when she discovers the master of the house moving furniture like a common footman." That almost-smile played at his lips. "Also, I have nothing else to do this morning, and watching you attempt to reach the higher shelves promises to be entertaining."

"I'm not that short."

"You're not that tall either."