Page 9 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
Arabella lifted her chin, irritation rising to meet the steadiness of his tone. “And you are remarkably calm for a man who has been compromised in a most public way.”
His gaze flickered briefly to the torn fabric, then returned to her. “The matron will obey,” he said. “That is not my concern.”
Arabella’s breath caught slightly. “You do not know her,” she said, more sharply than before. “She will speak. If not today, then tomorrow. And once she does?—”
She stopped.Eleanor. James. Broadmoor. Their name.
The consequences of what had seemed, only moments before, a clever and harmless act now unfolded in her mind with alarming clarity.
Arabella’s expression shifted, the frustration giving way to something more urgent. “We cannot allow that,” she said, her voice lower now, more deliberate. “We have to act!”
His brows drew together slightly. “Act?”
She took a step closer without realizing it, her thoughts moving faster than she could fully arrange them. “We will have to marry. It is the only way to halt the scandal.”
The words hung there.
Even to her own ears, they sounded abrupt. Impossible. And yet, once spoken, they did not feel uncertain.
He studied her in silence, something unreadable passing through his expression. There was no immediate dismissal, no sharp rejection, which unsettled her more than if he had laughed.
“You are serious,” he said.
“I am,” she replied, her voice steadier now. “I will not allow scandal to touch my sister. Or her family. If there is even a chance that the woman speaks, we must be ahead of it.”
He considered her for a moment longer, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Very well.”
The ease of his agreement startled her, but it did not end there.
“I require an heir,” he said, as though adding a final condition to a negotiation already in motion.
Arabella blinked, caught briefly off guard by the bluntness of it. “That is… to be expected,” she said, though her tone faltered only slightly.
“And you understand what that entails?”
She met his gaze, lifting her chin with quiet resolve. “I do.”
“Do you, truly?” he asked with a note that suggested he was testing the truth of it rather than accepting it.
“Of course I do,” she repeated, more firmly.
There was a brief pause, and then he said, “Prove it.”
Arabella’s breath caught again, though she did not step back. For a moment, she wondered whether he meant to unsettle her, to force her into retreat, to reveal the limits of her conviction.
Instead, she stepped forward.
The decision came before she could question it. She lifted her hand, her gaze steady as she closed the distance between them, intending something simple, something that would end the matter quickly.
His hand caught her wrist before she could reach him, firm but not rough. “No. Not that,” he said.
Arabella stilled, her pulse quickening. “Then what?” she asked.
His gaze dropped briefly to her hand, then returned to her face. “Touch me,” he said quietly.
Arabella hesitated only a fraction of a second before she did as he asked. Her fingers moved, uncertain at first, then steadier, coming to rest against the front of his shirt. The fabric was roughened where it had torn, but beneath it she could feel the unmistakable strength she had already sensed once before.
Her hand moved, tracing upward only slightly before she stilled again, acutely aware of every small shift in his breathing, the tension that seemed to gather and hold beneath her touch.
