Page 5 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"Mama, it's not that serious..."

"Not that serious?" Lady Honoria's voice rose to a pitch. "You were in his arms, Arabella. Pressed against him. Soaking wet. Your gown was..." She paused, apparently unable to voice what Arabella's gown was. "Every person there saw it. By tomorrow, the story will have grown beyond all recognition. By the end of the week, they'll be saying heaven knows what about Lord Blackthorn and you."

"But nothing happened!" Arabella protested. "He rescued me from drowning."

"You weren't drowning," her mother and Penelope said in unison.

"From potential drowning," Arabella amended. "It was an act of kindness, nothing more."

"Kindness," her mother repeated, as if the word was foreign to her. "The Earl of Blackthorn, who hasn't shown his face at a social gathering in over a year, who refuses all invitations and speaks to no one, suddenly develops a sense of kindness that compels him to throw himself into a lake to rescue a young lady he's never met?"

"Perhaps he's simply a good man," Arabella suggested, though she had to admit her mother had a point. The Earl's reputation was legendary. His appearance at the fete had already been surprising enough, but his dramatic aquatic intervention was unprecedented.

"Men," her mother said with the authority of one who had been married for twenty-five years, "are never simply anything. Particularly not earls with mysterious pasts and facial scars that make them look like Gothic novel heroes."

"Mama!"

"What? I have eyes, Arabella. The man is disturbingly attractive if one likes that sort of brooding, dangerous aesthetic. Which, apparently, you do."

"I don't. I never said..."

"You didn't have to say anything," Penelope interjected helpfully. "The way you were looking at him when he carried you out of the water said everything quite eloquently."

"He didn't carry me," Arabella protested weakly.

"No? Then I am mistaken. You must have been floating."

The carriage proceeded through the countryside, carrying them away from the scene of Arabella's social destruction. Through the window, she could see the familiar landmarks of home approaching; the ancient oak that marked the boundary of their property and the stone wall that Papa had always said needed repair but never quite got around to fixing before his death last year.

Papa would have found the whole thing amusing, she thought. He would have laughed until he cried, then immediately set about turning it into one of his infamous dinner gathering stories. "Did I tell you about the time my Bella decided to have a swimming lesson at the Duchess's garden gathering?" he would have said, eyes twinkling with mirth.

But Papa was gone, and with him the laughter that had made their reduced circumstances bearable. Now there was only Mama's anxiety about their dwindling funds, the estate that needed more repairs than they could afford, and the pressing need for Arabella to make a good match before their money ran out entirely.

A good match that had almost certainly just drowned in the same lake where she'd attempted to rescue Thistle.

"What am I going to do?" she asked quietly, the reality of the situation finally settling upon her like a wet blanket.

Her mother reached across the carriage and took her hand. "We'll think of something. We always do. Perhaps... perhaps Lord Blackthorn will call tomorrow to inquire after your health."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because," her mother said carefully, "a gentleman who rescues a lady from drowning..."

"Potential drowning," Arabella corrected automatically.

"From whatever it was, has certain obligations. It would be improper for him not to call."

"The Earl of Blackthorn doesn't strike me as someone who particularly cares about propriety," Arabella observed, remembering the way he'd simply walked away after their rescue, as if saving drowning debutantes was something he did every Tuesday.

"No," her mother agreed thoughtfully. "He doesn't, does he? Which makes his intervention all the more interesting."

The carriage turned into their drive, the wheels crunching on gravel that needed refreshing but would have to wait another year. Marchwood House rose before them, smaller than the Hall they'd just left but still gracious in its proportions, still home despite the patches of damp in the east wing and the roof that leaked whenever it rained.

"Perhaps," Penelope said as they pulled to a stop, "this isn't the disaster you think it is. Perhaps it's an opportunity."

"An opportunity for what?" Arabella asked, accepting the footman's hand as she descended from the carriage, her skirts still unpleasantly damp and considerably heavier than they'd been that morning.

"I haven't the faintest idea," Penelope admitted cheerfully. "But any story that involves Lord Blackthorn, a lake, and a stolen slipper is bound to lead somewhere interesting."