Page 64 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

Chapter 12

"If you adjust that cravat one more time, I'm going to tie you to the bedpost with it."

The morning of the ball had dawned with unseasonable heat, as if nature itself had decided to add to the evening's anticipated drama. Arabella had woken early, too nervous to sleep, and found Lucien already awake beside her, staring at the canopy above their bed with the expression of a man contemplating his own execution.

"We could still claim illness," he'd suggested over breakfast.

"We're both claiming illness? What are the odds of that?"

"Food poisoning. Cookie's fish was suspicious last night."

"Cookie's fish was perfect, and you know it."

"Then we blame Thistle. He's probably eaten something toxic by now."

Thistle, hearing his name, had looked up from where he was systematically destroying what appeared to be one of Morrison's gloves, tail wagging with enthusiasm.

"The picture of health," Arabella had observed.

"My goodness."

The rest of the day had passed in a blur of preparation. Madame Phillipe had arrived for final adjustments to the gown, declaring that Arabella would "éclater comme un bijou"—shine like a jewel. Another woman had come from the village to arrange Arabella’s hair, armed with hot irons and enough pins to construct a small building. Even Lucien had submitted to additional grooming, his valet practically glowing with the opportunity to properly dress his master for society.

"You're fidgeting," Julian observed now, having arrived an hour ago to provide moral support and unhelpful commentary.

"I don't fidget," Lucien said, fidgeting.

"You're literally tapping your foot as we speak."

"That's... rhythmic thinking."

"That's nervous tapping."

"Gentlemen," Arabella interrupted, "you're not helping."

Arabella's threat, delivered while Jane attempted to secure the last of her hairpins, made Lucien pause with his hands halfway to his throat. They were in their chambers, his chambers, though she'd quite thoroughly colonized them over the past four days, preparing for the Desclaire ball with the sort of grim determination usually reserved for military campaigns.

"It's crooked," he said, but dropped his hands.

"It's perfect. You're nervous."

"I'm not nervous. I'm..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Alert."

"You're nervous," Julian said from his position by the fireplace, where he'd been offering unhelpful commentary for the past hour. "I haven't seen you this nervous since that incident with the Ambassador's daughter in Vienna."

"What incident?" Arabella asked, turning so quickly that Jane nearly stabbed her with a hairpin.

"Nothing," Lucien said quickly. "Julian is misremembering."

"I never misremember. She was completely besotted with you, used to leave poetry under your door."

"Bad poetry," Lucien corrected. "Truly awful poetry. She rhymed 'heart' with 'dart' in every single verse."

"But you kept them," Julian observed with a grin. "I saw them in your desk."

"I kept them as a reminder that attraction and literary talent are not necessarily linked."

"How romantic," Arabella said dryly. "Did you keep any of Cassandra's letters?"