Page 62 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"No time like the present."

Lucien stood reluctantly, offering her his hand with the expression of a man approaching the gallows. But when she stepped into his arms, something shifted. His hand at her waist was warm, certain and his other hand held hers with surprising gentleness.

"I don't hear music," he said.

"Imagine it," Julian suggested, then began humming a waltz.

They moved tentatively at first, finding their rhythm. But Lucien was a better dancer than he'd claimed, leading her with a confidence that made her feel like she was floating. When he spun her, her skirts flared, and she laughed from the sheer joy of it.

"There," Julian said, stopping his humming. "That's what you need. That look, right there."

"What look?" Arabella asked.

"Like you're the only two people in the world. Cassandra won't be able to compete with that."

"We're not performing for Cassandra," Lucien said.

"Aren't you? This whole ball is her production. You're just stealing the show."

Over the next three days, they practised. Not just dancing, but the entire performance of being a happily married couple. Which, Arabella reflected, shouldn't have required practice given that they were actually becoming happy. But society required a particular kind of happiness—visible, graceful, unassailable.

"Chin up," Julian instructed as they practised entering a room. "You're the Countess of Blackthorn, not a scullery maid."

"I've never been a countess before."

"No, but you've been Arabella March, who fell into a lake to save a dog. That takes more courage than any title."

"She actually dived into that lake," Lucien corrected.

"You two and that lake." Julian shook his head. "It's become mythic at this point."

"It's how we met," Arabella said.

"It's how you fell in love," Julian corrected. "You just didn't know it yet."

Lucien and Arabella exchanged glances, something unspoken passing between them.

"We're not..." Arabella began.

"Of course not," Julian said cheerfully. "You're just completely devoted to each other after a week of marriage. Perfectly normal. Not love at all."

***

The night before the ball, Arabella couldn't sleep. She stood at the window of Lucien's chambers—their chambers now, really—watching clouds chase across the moon.

"You're thinking too loudly again," Lucien murmured from the bed.

"I'm nervous."

"You? The woman who dived into a lake without hesitation is nervous about a ball?"

"The lake was simple. Save dog, accept consequences. This is... complicated."

He rose, coming to stand behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist. "We don't have to go."

"Yes, we do. I need to do this. For you."

"For me?"