Page 62 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
“It was not unexpected,” he said, more to himself than to the man across from him.
The valet glanced up briefly. “Your Grace?”
“Nothing,” Maxwell replied.
The man inclined his head and returned his attention elsewhere.
Maxwell exhaled slowly, his hand resting briefly against the edge of the seat before stilling again. The thought should have remained contained, no more significant than any other obligation fulfilled. It had been a matter of duty. A necessary step taken with appropriate restraint.
And yet, it had not remained so.
He found himself recalling not only the action but the details surrounding it. The way she had watched him, not with fear, but with attention. The way her questions had not been hesitant, but deliberate. The way she had not withdrawn from him entirely, even when she might have.
It did not fit within the expectations he had long since accepted as fixed.
“We will reach the posting inn before nightfall,” the valet said, consulting the small notebook he carried. “The horses will be changed there.”
Maxwell inclined his head. “Ensure there is no delay.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
The carriage continued its steady progress, the road gradually narrowing as they moved farther from the open stretch of land and toward a small cluster of buildings in the distance.Smoke rose faintly from chimneys, the suggestion of habitation interrupting the otherwise quiet landscape.
Maxwell’s gaze followed it for a moment before shifting again back to Arabella—though not as she was now, but as she had been that evening.
The memory came without invitation.
Not in full, but in fragments. The warmth of her beneath his hands. The unguarded sound of her breath when she had forgotten to restrain it. The faint flush that had risen along her skin, visible even in low light, deepening with each passing moment until there had been nothing composed about her at all.
His jaw set slightly.
There had been hesitation at first. Uncertainty. And then— submission. She had given herself to him.
The recollection did not linger long, but it did not pass without effect.
His fingers tightened slightly against the leather of the seat.
“You may wish to send word ahead, Your Grace,” the valet said, as though sensing the direction of his thoughts without fully understanding them. “To inform the London house of your expected arrival.”
Maxwell’s gaze jumped to him. “It is already done.”
The valet inclined his head, accepting the decision without further comment.
The carriage slowed slightly as they approached the inn, the sound of voices and movement growing more distinct. A stable hand stepped forward as they drew to a stop, already reaching for the reins as the door was opened.
“Your Grace,” the man said, stepping back.
Maxwell descended without hesitation, his boots meeting the ground with a quiet firmness. The air was cooler here, carrying the scent of hay and damp earth, the low murmur of conversation drifting from within the building.
“Ensure the horses are changed efficiently,” he said.
“At once, Your Grace.”
The valet followed, remaining a step behind as Maxwell moved toward the entrance. The door opened before he reached it, a young boy stepping aside quickly to allow him passage.
Inside, the space was warm, the fire already lit despite the hour. A few travelers occupied the tables, their voices low, their attention only briefly drawn toward his arrival before returning to their own concerns.
“Refreshments?” the innkeeper asked, appearing at once.
