Page 5 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
Arabella reached for the curtain and drew it back with a firm motion. Light spilled into the room at once, soft but sufficient to change its character. The shadows retreated, revealing the polished surface of the desk, the ordered stacks of papers, the breakfast laid out between them.
“Miss Barker.”
She moved to the next window without turning. “How are we to eat in near darkness?” she asked, her tone light but edged with something more deliberate.
“Leave it,” he said.
She hesitated, her hand still on the fabric, then allowed it to fall. The curtain remained partially open, enough to let the morning in without fully exposing the room. It was a compromise, though she did not acknowledge it as such.
When she turned back, she approached the table with measured steps, aware of him in a way that felt entirely different in daylight. The mask remained, the scars no less visible where they were not concealed, his posture unchanged. If anything, the light made the contrast sharper rather than easing it.
She took her seat at last, folding her hands briefly in her lap before reaching for the teapot. “You must try the preserves,” she said, allowing a note of brightness into her voice. “The cook prepares them fresh, and they are quite remarkable. I find they improve even the most ordinary morning.”
He did not respond.
Arabella poured the tea anyway, her movements precise, practiced. “And the bread is always better when it is still warm. I imagine the kitchen has only just?—”
“You do not need to do this,” he said through gritted teeth. The interruption was quiet, but it cut cleanly through her words.
Arabella paused, the teapot still in her hand, before setting it down with care. “Do what, exactly?” she asked, lifting her gaze to meet his.
“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the table, toward her, toward the careful arrangement she had imposed upon the moment. “Conversation. Hospitality. Whatever it is you believe this to be.”
Arabella held his gaze a moment longer, then straightened slightly in her chair. “It is called manners,” she said, her tone measured. “I was under the impression they were expected of all guests within this house.”
He did not take the bait, but simply looked at her, his expression unchanged, as though her words had neither struck nor missed, but passed through without consequence at all.
Arabella reached for her cup, more to occupy her hands than from any real desire to drink, and took a small, steadying sip as she considered how best to proceed.
The Duke set his cup down with a quiet, deliberate motion, as though he had already measured the moment and found it sufficient. “I take my responsibilities seriously,” he said, his tone even, though there was something in it that suggested the matter had already been decided long before she entered the room. “Wycliffe would not have sent me otherwise.”
Arabella lowered her cup carefully, folding her hands together to still the small, restless movement in her fingers. “Your responsibility,” she repeated, “should be entirely unrelated to me. I have managed on my own for quite some time.”
“I do not doubt it,” he replied, his gaze steady. “That does not alter the arrangement.”
She tilted her head slightly, studying him with open skepticism. “An arrangement? I do not recall making an arrangement.”
“One that was made for your benefit regardless,” he said. “I will remain until Wycliffe returns.”
Arabella felt the faintest tightening in her chest, though she kept her expression composed. “And if I prefer that you do not?”
He did not hesitate. “You will endure the inconvenience.”
That earned him a look, sharp enough that she did not attempt to soften it. “You are remarkably certain of your welcome for a man who was not invited.”
“And you are remarkably determined to dismiss assistance you have already been given,” he returned.
The exchange settled between them with a strange, restrained energy. It was not raised voices or overt challenge, but something quieter that pressed just beneath the surface, waiting.
After a moment, he leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze shifting briefly toward the window she had opened. “It is not an ideal arrangement,” he added, as though conceding a point she had not yet made. “I am aware of that.”
Arabella arched a brow. “That is a generous admission.”
“You are not family. I am not your guardian. The situation is quite unconventional.”
“And yet you are insisting upon it,” she said.
“Of course I do.”
