Page 79 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
“You suggested we disregard propriety selectively,” he said.
“That is not the same.”
“It is sufficiently similar.”
Arabella shook her head, though the motion lacked conviction. “You are taking liberties.”
“I am adapting.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but the knock at the door interrupted her before she could form the words.
“Your Grace.”
Maxwell’s attention shifted immediately. “Enter.”
The butler stepped inside, his composure as steady as ever, though there was a subtle tightness at the edges that suggested the interruption was not routine. “A visitor has arrived,” he said. “Lady Eleanor.”
Arabella felt the shift before she fully registered the words.
Her posture stilled, the ease of the morning dissolving as something sharper took its place. “Eleanor?” she repeated, her voice quieter now. “Here?”
“She has requested to see you at once, Your Grace.”
Arabella’s gaze moved instinctively to Maxwell, the question forming without words. There was a sudden, unwelcome awareness of everything that had not yet been explained, everything that had been left unspoken in the haste of what had already occurred.
“She will be furious,” Arabella said, more to herself than to him.
Maxwell rose, his movement measured, though not slow. “That is likely,” he said. “It does not alter what must be addressed.”
Arabella stood as well, though her hands tightened slightly at her sides. “I should have written more clearly,” she said. “I should have?—”
“You acted as you judged necessary,” Maxwell interrupted, not sharply, but with enough certainty to halt the spiral before it gathered momentum. “You will explain it now.”
She looked at him, searching for something in his expression that she could not quite name. “And if I cannot?”
“Then I will assist,” he said.
The answer was simple. It did not carry reassurance in the way she might have expected. It steadied her.
Arabella nodded once, drawing a breath that she forced into something more even. “Thank you.”
Maxwell inclined his head, then turned toward the door. “Have Lady Eleanor shown to the drawing room,” he instructed the butler. “We will join her shortly.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
The door closed behind him, leaving the room momentarily still.
Arabella did not move at once. She stood where she was, her thoughts shifting rapidly beneath the surface, though she forced them into order as best she could.
“She will not understand,” she said quietly.
“Then you will make her understand,” Maxwell replied.
She glanced at him again, then gave a small, resolute nod. “Yes,” she said nervously.
They did not delay further.
The walk to the drawing room felt shorter than it should have, the distance compressed by the anticipation that had already taken hold. Arabella became aware of her own breathing, of the sound of her steps against the floor, of the way her pulse had quickened without her consent.
