Page 113 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
He had known this would come.
From the moment they had agreed to the terms of their marriage, he had understood its limits. There had never been any question of permanence. No expectation that she would remain beyond what was required. When the time came, and she asked to leave, he had resolved that he would not prevent it.
He had intended to give her that freedom.
He had not anticipated the weight of it.
Then the understanding settled with an unwelcome clarity.
He missed her, and the plainness of the fact irritated him almost as much as the fact itself.
Not distantly. Not abstractly. Not as one misses convenience or temporary comfort. It was immediate. Present. In the absence of her voice. In the stillness of rooms that had once been disrupted by her presence without warning or apology.
He had expected the quiet to return as it always had.
It had not.
Maxwell moved to the window, though he did not look at anything in particular. The grounds stretched beyond, dark and undisturbed, the estate as still as the house behind him. It was exactly as he had designed it.
It no longer felt the same.
Time passed. He did not mark it.
He did not return to his bed. When he finally did, it was not to sleep. The restlessness followed him there, persistent and unyielding. Every attempt at stillness gave way to another memory, another fragment of her that refused to be dismissed.
By the time the first light edged through the curtains, he abandoned the effort entirely.
Sleep would not come.
He rose, the movement abrupt after hours of restraint, and reached for his coat without thought. There was no destination at first—only the need to move, to escape a space that felt too empty to remain within.
It was only when he found himself standing outside her door that he understood where he had come.
Maxwell did not hesitate.
He opened it.
The room beyond was dim, the early light not yet strong enough to fully reveal it. For a moment, nothing appeared out of place. The bed was made. The curtains remained drawn. No disturbance.
Then—
Movement.
Slight. Near the far side of the room. Something shifting where there should be none.
Maxwell did not pause to consider it.
He crossed the space in two strides, his hand closing around the figure before it could fully react. The intruder struggled immediately—a sharp intake of breath breaking the silence—but it was brief. Maxwell forced him back, pinning him with a grip that allowed no room for resistance.
“Do not move,” he said, his voice low and controlled.
The boy—because he was little more than that—went still at once.
Up close, the fear was unmistakable. His breathing uneven. His eyes wide, fixed on Maxwell’s face, taking in what little the light revealed. Whatever resolve had brought him into the room vanished almost immediately.
“Please,” he managed. “I meant no harm—I swear it?—”
“You broke into this house,” Maxwell said. “You will explain yourself.”
