Page 41 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
Maxwell did not answer at once.
He closed the door behind him with quiet precision, the faint click settling into the room like a mark of finality. In his hands, he carried a small tray, the glass catching the low light of the lamps as he crossed toward the table near the bed.
“It was always to be tonight,” he said at last.
His tone was even, not unkind, but it did nothing to quiet the flutter in her chest.
Arabella drew in a slow breath, turning slightly as she watched him set the tray down. Two glasses. A decanter. Nothing extravagant, nothing indulgent.
“For courage?” she asked, attempting lightness as she stepped closer.
“For steadiness,” he corrected. “No more than that.”
He poured a small measure into each glass, then handed one to her. Their fingers brushed briefly as she took it, and the contact, slight as it was, sent a ripple of awareness through her that she had not yet learned to manage.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
She took a sip, the warmth of the drink settling quickly, though it did little to calm her thoughts. The week had passed in a blur of movement, of new rooms and new faces, of decisions that had required her attention in ways that left little space for reflection. And now, with nothing left to distract her, everything she had managed to set aside returned at once.
“It has been a great deal,” Maxwell said, as though sensing the direction of her thoughts. “In a short time.”
Arabella glanced up at him, surprised by the observation. “It has,” she admitted.
He studied her for a moment, his gaze steady but not unkind. “How do you find the house?”
“The house?” she echoed, blinking once before gathering herself. “It is… large. And quiet. Though I suppose that is to be expected.”
“Are you lacking anything?”
The question caught her off guard.
“Not at all!” She said quickly, then paused, considering. “At least, I do not think so. Everything has been arranged with great care.”
Maxwell inclined his head slightly, as though noting the answer. “If that changes, you will inform me.”
“I will.”
The conversation settled into something unexpected after that. It was not strained, not as she had feared it might be, but neither was it easy. There was a carefulness to it, a sense that both of them were navigating something uncertain without quite naming it.
Arabella found herself watching him as he spoke, noticing details she had not allowed herself to dwell on before. The steadiness of his voice. The deliberate nature of his movements. The way he seemed to consider each word before offering it, as though nothing was ever given without thought.
Gwen had said he had once been charming, but Arabella had not believed it then. Now, as he asked her about her day, about the small arrangements she had begun to make within the house, she caught a glimpse of something beneath the restraint. Not charm as Gwen had described it, not the easy warmth that might draw a room, but with more intention.
It unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
“You are still tense,” he said.
Arabella startled slightly, realizing too late that she had been holding herself far too rigidly. “I am not fully—” she began, then stopped, letting out a small breath. “But perhaps a little.”
“That is to be expected.”
She gave a faint, uncertain smile. “You say that as though you are not affected in the least.”
Maxwell regarded her for a moment. “I am,” he said simply.
The honesty of it stilled her.
Before she could find a response, he set his glass aside and extended a hand toward her.
