Page 76 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
“And do you wish to attend?”
Arabella’s lips curved slightly. “I believe I must,” she said. “It seems an event of some importance, and as you said… the guest list is always curated.”
Maxwell nodded once. “Then we shall attend.”
She tilted her head. “We?”
“You are my wife,” he said. “You will not go alone, Arabella.”
There was no hesitation in the statement, and her expression immediately softened. “I am happy I did not have to force you,” she joked.
Maxwell laughed then and shook his head as he started in on his dinner. Their conversation moved on, but remained centered in a way that felt less deliberate than before, their attention returning to one another without effort. Maxwell became aware of it gradually, not in the words themselves, but in the distance between them.
The small, unthinking touches.
The way her hand brushed his sleeve when she reached for something just beyond her place. The way his own fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary when he passed her a roll. The absence of distance, not only in proximity, but in attention.
He had lived for years with silence as a constant. It had never troubled him. It had never required examination.
Now, it felt altered.
Not unwelcome. Not intrusive. Simply… different.
Arabella laughed softly at something he said, her hand coming to rest briefly against his arm as she did. The contact was light, unconsidered, and held long enough to register before she drew it back.
Maxwell did not move immediately after.
When he did, it was only to shift slightly closer.
The realization came not as a disruption, but as something already in motion. He was aware of her in a way that extended beyond conversation, beyond obligation. And as her gaze returned to him, steady and unguarded, he found that the restraint he had maintained before felt less certain in its necessity.
“You are looking at me as though you have forgotten something,” she said, her tone soft but observant.
“On the contrary,” Maxwell replied. “I believe I am remembering.”
She did not ask what, and the silence that followed was heated more than he had expected it to be.
Once their meal concluded, Arabella rose, “Good night, husband. I am so glad you arrived back home safely.”
Home.
Maxwell stood and bowed his head slightly, “Goodnight, Arabella.” His voice was rough as his mind raced between propriety and impropriety, and possibility, and he watched her leave the dim lit drawing room. He could not remember at whichpoint he let the urge to keep her close to him take over, but it did, nonetheless.
“Wait,” he heard himself say.
She turned silently toward him with that same openness that had greeted him at the door, “Yes?”
Maxwell blinked in surprise before he recovered, dropping his napkin upon the table and closing the distance between them.
Duty remained. He knew that. And the terms had not changed either.
Still, as he reached for her, as she came to him without hesitation, there was a moment, brief but undeniable, in which the distinction between what was required and what was chosen blurred entirely.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” he asked in the diminished space between them.
His eyes dropped as her mouth parted slightly before her tongue pulled in her bottom lip, and he growled lowly in response. “I?—”
“Stay with me tonight, please?” he corrected, and his hand curled around hers.
