Page 26 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
“That is not a term I would use,” he said.
“It is the correct one,” Arabella replied, her tone softer now but no less certain. “A child born when none was expected. That is precisely what it means.”
Maxwell said nothing.
Arabella studied him, the faint change in him more visible now that she was looking for it. Not a smile, not warmth in any obvious sense, but something quieter. A loosening, perhaps. Or the absence of something that had been held too tightly before.
“Did your mother call you that?” she asked, and the question lingered.
Maxwell’s gaze shifted, not away from her, but inward, as though the answer required more effort than the question had suggested. “I would not know,” he said after a moment.
Arabella frowned slightly. “You do not remember?”
“No.”
Instead, she leaned back slightly, her hands easing in her lap as she let the silence settle again, though it no longer felt quite as rigid as before. “I think she might have,” she said after a moment, her tone lighter now. “It seems the sort of thing a mother would say.”
Maxwell did not respond, but she saw it again. That same quiet shift. Not resistance. Not quite acceptance either. Something in between.
The carriage began to slow.
The movement was gradual at first, the steady rhythm easing as the wheels turned onto smoother ground. Arabella glancedtoward the window again, catching sight of iron gates opening ahead, the estate beyond coming into view in careful lines of stone and trimmed hedges.
“This is your home,” she said.
“Yes.”
The gates closed behind them with a low, final sound.
Arabella straightened slightly, her attention drawn forward as the carriage came to a stop before the entrance. The house rose before them, large without being ostentatious, its symmetry precise, its windows reflecting the late afternoon light in muted gold.
She expected him to step down first.
And he did.
She expected him to offer his hand.
Once again, he did.
What she did not expect was what followed.
“Come,” he said.
Arabella blinked once, then placed her hand in his, allowing him to assist her from the carriage. The gravel shifted softly beneath her slippers as she steadied herself, her gaze lifting briefly to the house before returning to him.
He did not release her.
Instead, he turned toward the entrance, his grip firm but not restrictive as he guided her forward. The door opened before they reached it, a line of staff already assembled just within, their posture formal, their attention fixed.
“This is my wife,” Maxwell said.
The words were delivered without hesitation, his tone carrying easily through the entry hall.
Arabella felt it then.
Not the words themselves, but the weight of them. The way the staff straightened, the subtle shift in their attention as it turned fully toward her.
“Your Grace,” the butler said, bowing slightly.
