Page 3 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
A week?
She lowered the letter slowly, her thoughts catching on that single detail while the rain continued its steady assault behindhim. The man had not moved, though she could feel the weight of his presence pressing forward, waiting to be let out of the rain.
“Well?” he asked, the word clipped.
Arabella folded the letter with more care than necessary, buying herself a moment. “It seems,” she said, keeping her tone measured, “that your presence here is… unnecessary.”
His head tilted, just slightly. “Unnecessary? I highly doubt that.”
“I am quite capable of managing a household for a week,” she continued, lifting her chin a fraction. “I do not require supervision.”
She had avoided looking at him directly until then. It had been easier to focus on the letter, on the rain, on anything but the stark line of that mask and what lay beneath it. But as the words left her, she forced herself to meet his gaze.
His mouth curved into a grimace before it smoothed, and he said, almost conversationally, “Then I shall sleep outside.”
The words struck her a second too late. “Wait, what?” she asked, the composure she had gathered slipping.
“In the rain,” he added, his tone unchanged. “As you prefer to manage the household without assistance.”
Arabella blinked, heat rising swiftly to her face. The impropriety of it, the sheer inhospitable absurdity of the situation, pressed in on her all at once.
“I did not say—” she began, then stopped herself. “That is not—You cannot?—”
He said nothing, only waited as the rain intensified, as if to underscore the point.
With a small, frustrated sound, Arabella stepped aside. “You may come in,” she said, the words tight. “I will not have it said that Broadmoor turned a guest away and into a storm.”
He did not thank her, but simply stepped past her, his presence filling the space as he crossed the threshold at last. Water traced faint marks across the stone where he walked, his movements unhurried, assured, as though the house were already his to command.
Arabella turned quickly, her irritation rising to meet him. “Stop.”
He had barely taken two steps into the hall, but he still paused, though he did not turn fully toward her.
“You have not introduced yourself,” she said, drawing her shawl closer about her shoulders as though it might lend her authority. “Who are you? And a better question, who are you to James and Roderick?”
There was a brief silence. Then, with a visible tightening of his posture, he lifted a hand to the bridge of his nose, pressing there as if the effort of answering her required restraint. “Northwood,” he said, but that was all he gave away.
“Is that all?” she asked, incredulous. “You arrive unannounced, speak in half sentences, and expect to be received without question? Who are you?”
He turned to her fully then, and his attention fixed entirely on her. It was deliberate, assessing, and it moved unapologetically from her face to the loose fall of her hair, to the thin fabric of her night gown, to the shawl she clutched too tightly at her throat.
Arabella’s breath caught, though she refused to step back. “You are exceedingly rude,” she said, the words sharper now.
Something flickered in his expression, but he moved one step forward, then another, closing the distance between them with quiet certainty. Arabella felt the shift in the air as he came near, the warmth of him cutting through the lingering chill of the open door behind her.
“Come any closer, and I will scream, sir,” she threatened, with a shaky breath.
He leaned in close enough that she could feel the brush of his breath near her ear. “Am I to be lectured in manners,” he murmured, his voice low, controlled, “from an unmarried lady in her night gown?”
The words struck deeper than they should have. Heat surged to her face, sharp and immediate, her fingers tightening instinctively in the fabric of her shawl. For a moment, she could not find a response—could not separate the indignation from the sudden, humiliating awareness of how she must appear.
He stepped back before she could gather herself. The space between them returned, though it felt charged.
“Miss Arabella?—”
The butler’s voice cut through the tension, measured but strained. Arabella turned sharply, relief and embarrassment colliding as he approached. His gaze moved at once to the man beside her, and whatever composure he had carried faltered.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing quickly.
