Page 72 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
The carriage came to a stop, and the footman opened the door without delay. “Your Grace.”
Maxwell stepped down without pause, his gaze lifting almost at once to the front of the house. It stood as it always had, its structure unchanged, its façade as composed and orderly as any in the square. And yet, even before he crossed the threshold,there was a sense of difference that did not belong to the stone or the symmetry.
It was not the house that had altered.
“Welcome home, Your Grace,” the butler said, inclining his head as Maxwell entered.
Maxwell removed his gloves, his attention moving briefly over the entrance hall. It was arranged as expected. Nothing out of place. Nothing left unattended. But the air did not hold the same stillness it once had. There was a faint warmth to it, a subtle shift in atmosphere that suggested recent movement, recent occupation, something lived rather than maintained.
“Yes,” Maxwell said, though the word was quieter than usual. “Has everything proceeded without issue?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
There was nothing further to be said. Maxwell handed off his gloves and stepped forward, his stride measured as he moved deeper into the house. The corridor opened toward the drawing room, and though he did not intend to stop, his gaze caught on it briefly.
The door stood partially open, and that alone was enough to give him pause because he had never left it so.
Maxwell turned his head slightly, his attention lingering just long enough to register the shift before he continued on. It was not disorder. It was not neglect. It was something else entirely, something that did not require correction.
A soft sound reached him then, light and distinct against the quiet.
Poppet appeared from the adjoining corridor, her small form moving with quick certainty toward him. She did not hesitate, did not pause to assess, but came directly to his side, pressing herself against his leg with a soft insistence that demanded acknowledgment.
Maxwell let himself smile as he looked down at her. “Well,” he said, the word carrying a note of something quieter than surprise. “You have not forgotten me.”
Poppet responded by winding once more around his leg, her tail flicking with satisfaction. Maxwell exhaled faintly and bent, reaching down to rest his hand against her head. The motion was unpracticed, though not uncertain, his fingers moving once along the soft line of her back before stilling.
“Where is your master?” he asked, almost absently.
The question had scarcely left him when the sound of movement reached from above.
He straightened, his hand falling away as his gaze lifted toward the staircase.
Arabella appeared at the top of it, her steps quickening the moment she saw him. There was no hesitation in her approach, no measured composure such as might have been expected, only a clear and unguarded brightness that carried through the space before she reached him.
“You have returned!”
The words came easily, though her breath had not quite settled from her descent. She stopped a step or two from him, her expression open in a way that made the distance between them feel briefly unnecessary.
“I have,” Maxwell said.
It was a simple answer. It should have been sufficient. And yet, as he looked at her, as he took in the way she stood before him without reserve, he became aware of a shift in his own expression, subtle but present.
It was a faint tightening that he felt it, though he did not immediately correct it. Arabella’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer than expected, her head tilting slightly as though in consideration.
“You are frowning,” she said, not accusingly, but with a quiet certainty that suggested she had no doubt of it.
Maxwell’s brow shifted almost imperceptibly. “I am not.”
“Youare,” she repeated, stepping closer before he could consider the movement. Her hand lifted, light and unhesitating as it came to rest briefly against his cheek, her touch warm against the cooler line of his skin. “Here,” she added, almost thoughtfully. “Just at the corner.”
The contact was brief, no more than a moment, but it did not pass unnoticed.
“That is not a frown,” he said after a moment.
Arabella’s lips curved, though there was nothing mocking in it. “Then I shall call it something else,” she said. “But it does not look like displeasure.”
Maxwell regarded her, the faintest shift in his posture betraying something less rigid than before. “No,” he said, more quietly. “It is not.”
