Page 170 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

Lucien’s mouth quirked. “Everything he shouldn’t.”

“Perfect,” she said with a fond sigh. “You’ve changed, you know. The infamous Beast of Blackthorn, now praising criminal behaviour and bad manners.”

He smiled faintly, looking uncharacteristically content. “The Beast is retired. I’m just Lucien now.”

“Just Lucien,” she echoed teasingly, “who happens to own a burned-down manor miraculously rebuilt from the ashes?”

“Just Lucien,” he corrected softly, “who happens to be hopelessly in love with his wife.”

Arabella’s expression softened. “That Lucien,” she said, brushing her thumb along his jaw, “is my favourite.”

He arched a brow. “Better than the Beast?”

“The Beast had his charms,” she admitted, lips curving.

“Such as?”

“Brooding,” she said thoughtfully. “A touch of danger. The dramatic scarring. The way he glared at anyone who dared to breathe too loudly.”

He grinned. “I still have the scars.”

“More now,” she countered. “But they’re not battle scars anymore.”

He tilted his head. “No?”

“Love scars,” she said softly.

Lucien’s smile gentled. “Same thing for us, isn’t it?”

Arabella nodded. “Everything’s the same thing for us.”

“Chaos and happiness?” he suggested.

“Crime and family?” she added.

For a while they stood together, watching their guests mingle across the garden—the sunlight glinting off the newly polished windows of the rebuilt house, their daughter sleeping peacefully in Arabella’s arms, and Thistle now proudly wearing Morrison’s wig as though it were a crown.

Lucien slipped an arm around her waist. “No regrets?”

She leaned against him, her eyes still on their child. “Never.”

“Not even about the fires?” he murmured.

“Especially not about the fires,” she said. “They brought us together. They tested us. And we passed.”

Lucien smiled. He looked down at her, at the peaceful mess of their world, and whispered, “Like our life.”

Arabella met his gaze with a tired, radiant smile. “Exactly like our life.”

Matilda stirred, opening eyes that were already showing signs of her father's dark intensity.

"She's awake," Lucien said unnecessarily.

“She’s judging us,” Arabella said finally, her voice somewhere between amusement and mild despair as she glanced down at the bundled infant in her arms. The baby’s tiny brows were furrowed in what looked suspiciously like disapproval.

Lucien leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, watching both of them with a lazy grin. “She’s three months old,” he reminded her, as if logic could possibly apply in their household.

Arabella turned the baby slightly, so that the full effect of that unimpressed stare was visible. “She’s still judging. Look at that expression.”