Page 65 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"Cassandra never wrote letters. She considered putting thoughts to paper beneath her."

"She preferred dramatic scenes?"

"She preferred an audience. Letters can't applaud."

Jane stepped back, surveying her work. "There, my lady. You're ready."

Arabella stood and turned to face the mirror, barely recognizing herself. Madame Phillipe's creation was everything promised—the midnight blue silk seemed to glow in the candlelight, the neckline was daring without being scandalous, and the way it moved when she walked suggested things that made her blush.

"Oh, Heavens," Lucien breathed.

She turned to find him staring at her with an expression that sent heat through her entire body.

"Is it too much?" she asked.

"It's..." He seemed to have lost the ability to form complete sentences. "You're..."

"I believe what my articulate friend is trying to say," Julian interjected, "is that you look magnificent and Cassandra is going to want to murder you on sight."

"That's reassuring."

Lucien crossed to her in two strides, his hands settling on her waist. "You don't have to do this. We can stay home, claim illness..."

"We're going," she said firmly. "We've practised, we're prepared, and I'm wearing a dress that cost more than most people see in a year. We're definitely going."

"Besides," Julian added, "I've already wagered fifty pounds that you'll make it through the evening without anyone getting pushed into a fountain."

"Why would anyone get pushed into a fountain?" Arabella asked.

"You haven't been to a Desclaire ball. Their fountains are strategically placed for maximum dramatic potential."

A knock came at the door, and Morrison entered. "The carriage is ready, my Lord."

"Excellent." Julian clapped his hands. "Let the games begin."

"This isn't a game," Lucien said.

"Everything with Cassandra is a game. The key is making sure you're playing the same one."

They made their way downstairs, where the household staff had assembled to see them off. Mrs. Fielding was actually smiling, Cookie had tears in her eyes, and even Morrison looked slightly less disapproving than usual.

"You look beautiful, my lady," Cookie said, then immediately looked mortified at having spoken out of turn.

"Thank you, Cookie. And thank you for keeping Thistle occupied tonight."

The dog in question was in the kitchen, having been bribed with treats to prevent him from attempting to join the festivities. They could hear him barking occasionally, but it sounded more celebratory than distressed.

"He'll be fine," Mrs. Fielding assured her. "We'll take good care of him."

"I'm more worried about him taking care of you," Lucien muttered.

*

The carriage ride to the Desclaire estate took forty minutes, during which Arabella's nerves grew progressively worse. Lucien held her hand, his thumb tracing soothing circles on her palm, while Julian kept up a steady stream of society gossip designed to distract her.

"Remember," Julian said as they approached the gates, "you're the Countess of Blackthorn. You outrank most of the people there."

"Rank doesn't matter to gossips," Arabella said.