Page 16 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
“Now. Sleep,” he said firmly, and then turned away from her again.
This time, when he returned to the bed, the distance between them was smaller. Not so much that it would draw attention, but enough that she noticed it immediately, the shift subtle yet undeniable.
She lay still, considering it.He had not refused her entirely, but had just adjusted.The thought settled into place more easily than she expected.
Slowly, cautiously, Arabella shifted once more, her movements far more deliberate this time. She extended her foot again, just slightly, testing the space, the boundary he had not clearly defined.
He did not tense or move away.
The warmth remained.
Arabella let out a quiet breath, the tension in her shoulders easing just enough for her to settle back against the pillow. “Perhaps I misjudged you,” she murmured, though the words were too soft to carry.
No response came.
The room grew quieter, the fire dimming as the night deepened around them, and sleep finally began to come.
CHAPTER 6
Maxwell had never found London particularly welcoming.
It had once been different. He remembered that much with unwelcome clarity. The easy movement through crowded rooms, the expectation of conversation, the quiet certainty that his presence would be received rather than avoided. That version of himself felt distant now, like a story told about another man entirely.
As the carriage rolled through the familiar streets, the sounds of the city pressing in around them, he felt none of that former ease return.
Beside him, Arabella had grown quieter.
It was not silence, not entirely. She still spoke when a thought came to her, still asked questions that seemed to arrive without effort. But there was a shift in her now, after their night together.There was something more contained than the restless energy she had carried the day before. Whether it was the approach of London or the weight of what awaited them there, he could not say.
He did not ask.
The carriage slowed at last, drawing to a stop before the residence of the Duke and Duchess of Greystone. Maxwell stepped down first, his movements precise and controlled, then turned only enough to ensure she followed without incident.
Arabella gathered her skirts, descending carefully, though she did not take his offered hand. He noted it, but did not comment.
The house stood as expected, its facade orderly, well-kept, the subtle signs of rank evident without ostentation. A servant opened the door before they reached it, ushering them inside with practiced efficiency.
The warmth of the interior met them at once.
Maxwell paused only long enough to remove his gloves before turning to her. “You will remain here,” he said, and it was not phrased as a suggestion.
Arabella looked at him, her expression composed, though there was a flicker of something beneath it that he did not attempt to interpret. “And you?” she asked.
“I will secure the license,” he replied. “Arrangements will be made. You will be informed when necessary.”
The clarity of it left little room for discussion.
“And until then?” she pressed, though her tone remained even.
“You will be here,” he said again. “It is appropriate.”
She studied him for a moment, as though weighing whether to challenge the simplicity of his answer. Whatever thought followed, she did not voice it.
“Very well,” she said at last.
Maxwell inclined his head slightly, a gesture that acknowledged the agreement without softening it. “I will see you at the wedding.”
There was a pause then, brief but noticeable.
