Page 23 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
The silence that followed was quieter, less charged, though no less present. Roderick moved away from the desk, his steps slower now, pausing briefly near the door before reaching for the handle.
Maxwell remained where he was, one hand resting against the sideboard, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, as the fire behind him settled into a steady, low burn.
CHAPTER 8
“Hold still, if you please.”
Arabella did, though her fingers tightened briefly against the edge of the dressing table as Gwen adjusted the fall of her sleeve. The room smelled faintly of lavender and starch, the morning light slipping through the tall windows in thin, pale ribbons that caught against the ivory of her gown. Somewhere beyond the door, footsteps passed in the corridor, steady and purposeful, the house already awake in a way that made the day feel far more real than she had allowed herself to consider.
“It sits well,” Gwen said at last, stepping back to assess her. “You need not fidget.”
“I am not fidgeting,” Arabella replied, though she smoothed her skirts again, more out of habit than necessity.
Gwen’s mouth curved. “You are about to be married. You may fidget if you like.”
Arabella let out a small breath, her gaze lifting briefly to the mirror. The reflection did not look unfamiliar, but it did not feel entirely like her either. The veil softened the line of her shoulders, the simplicity of the gown leaving little to distract from the fact of what the day required.
“It will be quick,” she said, more to herself than to Gwen. “That is something, at least.”
“It will be proper,” Gwen corrected gently. “And witnessed.”
Arabella glanced toward her. “By how many?”
“A handful,” Gwen said. “Victor, myself, the vicar, and two witnesses. That is all.”
Arabella nodded once. The simplicity steadied her more than anything grander might have. “Good,” she said.
Gwen studied her for a moment, then reached forward to adjust the veil once more, her touch light. “If you wish to delay?—”
“I do not,” Arabella said, perhaps more quickly than intended. She softened slightly. “There is no reason to.”
Gwen held her gaze, then inclined her head. “Very well.”
* * *
The chapel stood just beyond the edge of the property, small and well-kept, its stone pale against the morning sky. The path leading to it was lined with low hedges, still damp with dew, the scent of earth and early spring lingering in the air. Arabella stepped carefully as they approached, lifting her skirts just enough to avoid the damp grass, her slippers brushing lightly against the gravel.
Maxwell was already there.
He stood near the front, his posture straight, one hand resting loosely behind his back, the other at his side. He did not turn immediately when she entered, though the sound of the door closing behind her was enough to draw his attention a moment later.
Their gazes met briefly.
Then the vicar cleared his throat.
“Shall we begin?”
Arabella moved forward, her steps measured, the quiet of the chapel wrapping around her as she reached his side. The space was small enough that she could hear the faint shift of fabric as Gwen took her place behind them, the soft murmur of the witnesses settling into stillness.
“Dearly beloved?—”
The words passed, familiar and expected. Arabella listened, though she could not have repeated them afterward. The cadence of it carried her through, each moment following the next without pause, without hesitation. When she placed her hand in Maxwell’s, she felt the warmth of his palm, steady and firm, his grip neither tightening nor withdrawing.
“Do you?—”
“I do,” she said.
His voice followed, equally measured. “I do.”
