Page 55 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"So are you."

"Yes," he agreed simply. "I am."

They finally slept, wrapped around each other with Thistle standing guard. Outside, the night was clear and star-filled, the storm having passed. But inside Blackthorn Manor, another sort of storm was brewing; the kind that came from two damaged people learning to trust, to hope, to build something from the wreckage of their respective pasts.

***

The next few days fell into a pattern that should have been domestic but felt revolutionary. They woke together, broke their fast together, and spent their days in each other's company more often than not. The household adjusted with remarkable speed, as if they'd been waiting for their master to remember how to be happy.

"You're humming," Arabella observed on the fourth morning, finding Lucien in his study.

"I don't hum."

"You were definitely humming."

"Beasts don't hum."

"This one does. What were you humming?"

"I don't know. Something my mother used to sing."

She moved to perch on the arm of his chair, a liberty that would have been unthinkable a week ago. "Tell me about her."

"She was... light," he said after a moment. "Everything about her was light. She laughed easily, sang constantly, and never met a person she couldn't find something to love about."

"She sounds wonderful."

"She was. She would have liked you."

"Because I fell into a lake?"

"Because you saved the dog." He pulled her down into his lap, another new intimacy that made her pulse race. "She always said you could judge a person by how they treated animals."

"Then she would have loved Thistle."

"She would have adopted Thistle and probably taught him to steal better things."

"Better things?"

"Useful things. She trained her dog to fetch her spectacles."

"That's brilliant."

"That's dangerous. You're already looking speculative."

"Thistle could learn..."

"Thistle could learn to burn the house down. Let's not encourage him."

As if summoned, the dog appeared in the doorway, tail wagging and what looked suspiciously like one of Mrs. Fielding's best dish towels in his mouth.

"Speaking of theft," Lucien sighed.

"I shall handle it." Arabella slipped from his lap, already moving toward the dog. "Thistle, drop it."

Thistle considered this suggestion and apparently found it lacking. He ran away, towel flapping like a banner of victory.

"I should help," Lucien said, not moving.