Page 74 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
The moment might have extended, but a movement at the doorway drew Maxwell’s attention.
He stepped aside without quite thinking, the motion instinctive though unfamiliar in its timing.
A footman entered, carrying a large box with careful precision. He paused just inside, awaiting instruction.
“A delivery for you, Your Grace,” the man said plainly.
Maxwell inclined his head. “Set it there.”
The footman moved forward, placing the box upon the table between them before withdrawing as quietly as he had entered.
Everything shifted again, though not with tension. Something quieter. Anticipatory.
Maxwell looked at the box, then at Arabella.
“It was acquired on the journey,” he said, his tone even, though not entirely without hesitation.
He did not elaborate further, but instead remained where he stood, his gaze resting on the box as though it required a greater degree of attention than it warranted. It was as though the act of presenting it carried more consequence than the object itself.
Arabella, however, did not share his hesitation.
She stepped closer to the table, her curiosity neither concealed nor exaggerated. Her fingers came to rest lightly against the edge of the lid, to readThe Duchess of Northwoodalong the ribbon before she glanced up at him. “It is for me?” she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
“Yes, it is,” Maxwell said lightly, his eyes following every single movement she made.
She drew a small breath, almost imperceptible, before beginning to unwrap it. There was nothing hurried in her movements. She took care with the paper, loosening the folds rather than tearing through them, as though the act itself held value beyond its purpose. Maxwell’s attention was more fixed than he would have expected, noting the steadiness of her hands, the way her focus settled fully on the task before her.
The lid lifted.
There was a brief pause, the kind that followed discovery rather than anticipation.
Arabella did not speak immediately. Her gaze moved over the contents, her expression shifting not with surprise, but with a quiet appreciation that deepened as she reached inside. The fabric caught the light as she drew it free, the rich green revealing itself fully as it unfolded in her hands.
It was darker than most would have chosen, though not somber. There was depth to it, a richness that lent itself to presence rather than ornament, the cut refined without excess. It was not a frivolous gown. It was one meant to be seen.
Arabella let the material fall more fully into view, her fingers brushing along its surface as though to confirm what she saw.
“It is beautiful,” she said, the words soft, though entirely certain.
Maxwell inclined his head slightly. “It seemed appropriate.”
She looked up at him then, her expression open in a way that held no restraint. “Appropriate?” she repeated, a hint of warmth entering her voice. “What a curious word to use,” she mused with a light chuckle.
“It is suitable,” he amended. “I had it designed for you, as your position requires it.”
Her gaze did not leave his. “You had this dress made for me?”
“I did.”
Arabella studied him for a moment longer, as though weighing the intention behind the gesture rather than the gesture itself. Then, slowly, her expression softened further. “Thank you, Your Grace. I shall wear it with the proper seriousness it deserves,” she said lightly, and the surplus of gratitude beneath it was unmistakable.
Maxwell did not respond at once. He found, unexpectedly, that the acknowledgment settled more firmly than he had anticipated.
Maxwell’s gaze shifted slightly, as though something had occurred to him. “You received my last letter.”
It was not quite a question.
Arabella’s brows lifted, just enough to suggest she recognized the distinction. “I did.”
