Page 75 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"Never."

"Good," he said, surprising her. "I've had enough of peace. It's overrated."

"Like dignity?"

"Exactly like dignity."

They sat together, watching Thistle destroy the rug, drinking brandy, and reveling in their victory. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—gossip to weather, Cassandra's probable revenge attempts, the ongoing chaos of daily life with a criminal dog.

But tonight, they were together. The Beast had been vanquished, the lady had been victorious, and love, improbable, impossible, absolutely perfect love, had won the day.

"Bed?" Lucien suggested.

"Bed," Arabella agreed.

They made their way upstairs, Thistle following with the mangled bonnet like a trophy of war. At the door to their chambers, Lucien paused.

"What?" Arabella asked.

"I'm just... happy," he said, sounding slightly surprised. "Genuinely happy."

"Is that so unusual?"

"It's been years since I felt this way. I'd forgotten it was possible."

"And now?"

"Now I have you to remind me. Every day."

"Every day," she agreed.

They entered their chambers to find rose petals scattered on the bed and a bottle of champagne cooling in ice.

"The staff appears to have opinions about our evening," Lucien observed.

"Romantic opinions."

"Highly inappropriate opinions."

"Should we complain?"

"Definitely not."

Pushing Arabella gently but firmly against the wall, Lucien leaned in until their lips were a breath apart, his voice a wicked murmur. “It would be rather disheartening,” he said, “not to properly appreciate the efforts of those who dress you so exquisitely, don’t you think?”

His hands were already at work, fingers slipping with practised ease through the fastenings of her gown. Each movement was slow, reverent, as though unwrapping a gift he’d waited far too long to open. “Though personally,” he added, his breath tickling the shell of her ear, “I prefer what’s underneath.”

Arabella’s breath caught. “And what would you propose?” she asked, though her voice came out uneven, heat rising to her cheeks. “An excursion like our first?”

Lucien pulled back just enough to grin; openly, wickedly delighted. “On the contrary, my love,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Tonight, I’ll teach you more.”

With a low growl of approval, he slid the fabric from her shoulders, watching hungrily as each layer fell away. His hands never stopped—unhooking, tugging, baring inch after inch of silken skin, until she stood naked before him in the dim light. He took a moment to simply look, drinking her in as though committing every curve and hollow to memory.

“Mon Dieu,” he whispered, voice thick with awe. “You’re art.”

Before she could even respond, he bent down and swept her up, effortless, strong, hoisting her over his shoulder with a playful smack to her backside that made her squeak in surprise.

“Lucien!”