Page 6 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

As if in agreement, Thistle leapt from the carriage and immediately began investigating a flower bed with the dedication of a dog who has learned nothing whatsoever from his recent aquatic adventure.

"Thistle," Arabella called wearily. "Please don't dig up the roses. We can't afford to replace them."

The dog paused, looked at her with an expression of wounded innocence that fooled no one, and then promptly stuck his nose into the exact rosebush she'd been trying to protect.

"I'm beginning to think," she said to no one in particular, "that my life would be considerably simpler without that dog."

"Simpler, perhaps," Penelope agreed, gathering her own things to depart. "But then you'd never have met Lord Blackthorn. And wouldn't that be a shame?"

She left before Arabella could formulate a suitable response, climbing into her own family's carriage with a wave and a smile that suggested she was already composing the letters she would write about this afternoon's events.

"Inside," Lady Honoria commanded, ushering Arabella toward the house. "You need a hot bath and a complete change of clothes. And then we need to discuss damage control."

"Damage control," Arabella repeated, allowing herself to be herded through the familiar hallways of home. "You make it sound like a military campaign."

"All of society is a military campaign," her mother replied grimly. "And we've just given the enemy enough ammunition to destroy us completely."

But as Arabella climbed the stairs to her room, leaving damp footprints on the threadbare carpet, she found herself thinking not of destruction but of creation. The Earl's arms around her waist, his voice in her ear and the way he'd looked at her when he'd raised his hand in that mock salute—as if she was something unexpected, something worth acknowledging.

Perhaps Penelope was right. Mayhap this was an opportunity, though for what, she couldn't begin to imagine.

Behind her, she could hear Thistle barking at something in the garden; probably the gardener, who had never quite forgiven the dog for the incident with the prize tulips. Some things, she reflected, never changed.

But as her maid rushed to help her out of her ruined gown, exclaiming over the state of her hair and the probable destruction of her best day dress, Arabella couldn't shake the feeling that everything had changed. That the moment she'd entered that lake, she'd set something in motion that couldn't be stopped.

As she sank into the blessed warmth of her bath, she found herself remembering the strength of the Earl's arms, the unexpected gentle humor in his voice when he'd told her to stop helping, the way he'd lied to protect her reputation even as everyone watched it dissolve.

No, she thought, closing her eyes and sinking deeper into the water—intentionally this time. Things would never be the same.

And perhaps, just perhaps, that was exactly what she'd been hoping for all along.

Chapter 2

"We must be strategic," Lady Honoria announced, having summoned Arabella from her bath before her hair was properly dry. "The situation, while dire, is not entirely without hope. I've sent word to your Aunt Prudence as well."

The evening descended upon Marchwood House with the weight of impending doom, or at least that was how Lady Honoria described it while pacing the drawing room like a general planning a particularly hopeless campaign.

"Oh, Mama, no," Arabella sank back against the settee, her expression one of weary resignation. "Not Aunt Prudence."

"Your Aunt Prudence," her mother continued, undeterred, "has connections. She knows everyone who matters and, more importantly, everyone who thinks they matter. If anyone can help us navigate this disaster, it's her."

Arabella pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, though the evening was warm. Her hair, still damp from the bath, hung in loose waves down her back; a style that would have been scandalous in public but seemed appropriate for what was essentially a council of war.

"Perhaps," she suggested tentatively, "we're overreacting. Perhaps people will be more understanding than we think."

Her mother stopped pacing long enough to give her a look that suggested Arabella had taken leave of her senses. "Understanding? My dear child, society is many things, but understanding is not among them. By now, Lady Nottington has undoubtedly told her particular friend Mrs. Worthington, who will have told her daughter, who is betrothed to Sir Reginald's nephew, who will mention it at his club, where it will be overheard by..."

"I understand the general principle of gossip, Mama."

"Do you?" Her mother resumed her pacing. "Because if you did, you would never have..." She stopped herself, pressing her fingers to her temples. "No, that's unfair. You were trying to save Thistle. It was... noble, in its way."

"Papa would have done the same thing," Arabella said quietly.

Her mother's expression softened. "Indeed, he would have. Your father never met a creature in distress he didn't feel compelled to rescue. It's where you get it from, I suppose. That insufferable need to help."

They sat in silence for a moment, both lost in memories of a man whose absence still felt like a wound that would not close—constantly noticed, impossible to ignore.

"The question now," Lady Honoria said, with admirable determination, "is how we proceed. Lord Nottington is certainly out of the question."