Page 53 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
The man held his gaze. “If there is no other choice. I know I must.”
Maxwell was silent. “Leave me at once. I will call upon you when I have made a decision.”
The house was silent again.
Maxwell closed the door to his chamber with the same measured precision he applied to all things, though the quiet that greeted him did not settle as it once had. The fire had been laid but not lit. The bed was turned down, untouched. Everything was in order.
He removed his coat and set it aside, his movements deliberate, controlled. There was nothing in the room that required his attention, nothing out of place to correct, nothing to occupy his mind beyond what he allowed.
And yet, as he crossed to the washstand and poured water into the basin, his thoughts did not remain where he directed them.
The memory did not come as a distraction, as it might have in another time, something to be dismissed in favor of more pressing concerns. It came instead with a clarity that made it difficult to ignore. The way she had looked at him, uncertain and steady all at once. The way she had asked him to stop, and the way she had trusted him when he did.
Maxwell had known hesitation. Had expected it. Had built his life around it. It had informed every decision he had made, every distance he had maintained.
She had not given it to him.
He set the pitcher down more firmly than necessary, the quiet sound echoing faintly in the stillness of the room.
“It was duty,” he said aloud. The water in the basin had gone cold. He had not realized how long he had been standing there.
They did not settle.
He turned away from the washstand, crossing the room in a few measured steps before stopping again, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. The memory remained exactly as it had been. He recalled the way her hand had tightened before she spoke, and not after.
Maxwell exhaled slowly, the breath controlled, and forced his attention elsewhere. There sat a blank page on his writing desk, different from the one in his study, and he knew he must write back to his wife.
He reached for pen and paper, though what he meant to say did not come as easily as he might have expected.
Your letter was received this morning.
A pause, brief but deliberate.
I found I read it more than once.
The line sat plainly on the page, neither embellished nor concealed.
You seem… well occupied.
He considered the phrasing, then let it remain.
I am glad for it.
The pen moved again, slower now.
It is a comfort to know you are not entirely alone in your time there.
Another pause.
Though I suspect you would not say so directly if it were otherwise.
He shifted slightly, his gaze lingering on the last line before continuing.
You wrote of small things.
Not a criticism. Not quite an observation either.
I find I prefer them to silence.
