Page 45 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
He did not look at her as he fastened his cuffs. “I am returning to my room.”
The words settled heavily between them.
“Oh.”
She had not known what to expect. Had not allowed herself to consider what would follow once it was done. Now, faced with the quiet finality of it, she found herself uncertain how to respond.
Maxwell paused then, his hand resting briefly against the back of the chair as though considering something.
“This was always the arrangement,” he said. “It is… sufficient. Do not you think so as well?”
Arabella nodded, though the motion felt slower than it should have. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”
He turned then, his gaze meeting hers for a brief moment. There was nothing unkind in it. Nothing dismissive. But somehow still calculating.
“Rest,” he said, and then he was gone.
The door closed softly behind him, the sound barely more than a whisper, and yet it seemed to echo in the quiet that followed.
Arabella remained where she was, her hands still clutching the sheets as she stared at the space he had left behind.
She let out a slow breath, her gaze drifting toward the dim light of the room, her thoughts moving more slowly now, settling into sleep.
This was duty.What a husband and wife must do. It is expected.She reminded herself.And yet…
Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric, and she pulled the blankets up over her languid body.
That had not felt like duty at all.
CHAPTER 13
Laughter did not belong in his house.
Maxwell became aware of it before he was fully awake, the sound carrying faintly at first, then gathering into something far more insistent. It threaded through the walls, light and unrestrained, entirely at odds with the quiet order he had maintained for years.
He opened his eyes with a slight frown and furrowed brow.
For a moment, he remained still, listening. The voices were indistinct, overlapping one another in quick succession, punctuated by the higher, brighter notes of laughter that seemed to echo rather than fade. It was not the measured murmur of servants at their duties. It was something else.
Something far less contained.
Maxwell exhaled slowly and pushed himself upright, the lingering weight of sleep giving way to a sharper awareness. And with it, the memory of the previous night returned with unwelcome clarity.
The warmth of her. The way she had responded beneath him. The quiet sounds she had not quite managed to suppress.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood at once, discarding the thought as one might an unnecessary distraction. There was no reason for it to linger. The matter had been addressed. It had served its purpose.
And yet, as he reached for his shirt, he found himself moving with more urgency than usual.
The noise persisted.
Maxwell fastened his cuffs with practiced precision, his expression settling into something more familiar, more controlled. Whatever disruption had taken hold of his household, it would be resolved.
He stepped into the corridor, the sound growing clearer as he moved toward the staircase. Voices, several of them, layered over one another in a manner that suggested neither restraint nor concern for propriety.
He descended the stairs, his pace measured, though there was a distinct tension beneath the movement.
“Your Grace.”
