Page 61 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
—Your husband
He considered it only long enough to confirm that it required nothing further. No explanation. No adjustment.
It was folded at once.
By the time the steward entered, summoned without ceremony, the letter was already sealed.
“This is to be delivered immediately,” Maxwell said, placing it into his hand. “It is not to arrive after I do.”
The steward inclined his head. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Maxwell did not respond. He had already turned away, the decision made before the ink had fully dried.
As the wheels of his carriage began to move, the estate receding behind him, he did not look back.
One of the stable hands had stepped too close to the wheel, then corrected himself quickly.
That was the only thing Maxwell had noticed about his departure from Broadmoor Hall, and then the estate was out of sight.
And yet, as the road stretched ahead, his thoughts did not remain with what he had left.
They turned, instead, toward what waited for him in London.
And as the carriage carried him forward, the distance between what had been duty and what was becoming something else narrowed, whether he chose to acknowledge it or not.
The rhythm of the wheels was steady, the motion familiar enough to allow his mind to move where it would without interruption. Fields stretched on either side of the road, early spring still uneven in its progress. Some patches of green had begun to take hold, while others remained stubbornly dull beneath the lingering chill.
“The driver has chosen the southern route, Your Grace,” his valet said from the opposite seat, glancing briefly out the window. “The roads are said to be clearer that way.”
Maxwell inclined his head slightly. “It is the more efficient choice.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The man did not speak again at once, though Maxwell was aware of his attention lingering, as though he expected further instruction or commentary.
There was none.
Maxwell returned his gaze to the window, though he was not truly observing the landscape. His thoughts had already moved elsewhere, settling with a persistence that had not been present on previous journeys.
He had left the estate in order. The matter of the tenants had been addressed, though not in the manner he would have chosen before. The adjustment to their terms remained a calculated risk, one that would require review upon his return. It had not been a careless decision, nor an impulsive one. It had been measured.
And yet, it had not been purely strategic either.
Maxwell’s expression did not change, though the distinction lingered longer than he preferred.
“We shall return within the week, Your Grace,” the valet asked after a moment, his tone careful.
“Good.”
The valet inclined his head. “Very good, Your Grace.”
Silence returned, though it did not settle as fully as before. Maxwell adjusted his gloves, though there was no need to do so.
The memory came again, unwelcome in its clarity.
Arabella had stood in the doorway— composed, but not untouched by it. He remembered the way she had looked at him. The way she asked him to stop. The way she had expected him to listen.
Maxwell’s jaw tightened, though his gaze did not shift from the passing landscape.
