Page 57 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
There was no deference in the man’s tone. No challenge either. Only a steady resolve that did not yield under scrutiny.
“This is not how matters are addressed,” Maxwell said. The words came as they always did—measured, controlled. It would have been easier to shut it down. To remind them, plainly, where authority lay. He did not.
“It is when no one listens otherwise,” the man replied.
A murmur moved through the crowd, quiet but present.
Maxwell’s gaze swept over them, taking in the expressions, the set of their shoulders, the tension that held them in place.
“You have concerns,” he said. “They are brought through proper channels— not gathered like this.”
“We did,” another voice called. “And nothing changed.”
That, at least, he did not dismiss. The fault might not be theirs alone.
The steward cleared his throat quietly behind him.
Maxwell did not turn.
“What is it you believe will change now?” he asked.
The first man met his gaze. “That you will hear us, Your Grace.”
Maxwell held the silence for a moment longer than necessary. And, as he stood there, as he looked at them not as figures in a ledger but as men who expected an answer beyond enforcement, the response he would have given did not come as readily.
“You will speak,” he said at last. “One at a time.”
Of yields lost. Of terms that had not accounted for circumstance. Of pressure that had been applied without regard for the reality they faced.
Maxwell listened. He did not interrupt. He did not dismiss it either. When they were finished, the expectation returned, heavier now. He could enforce the terms. Heshould.
Finally, a break, and Maxwell drew in a slow breath. For a moment, he considered refusing outright. It would have been simpler. Cleaner. But it would also have been wrong. “The terms will be adjusted,” he said.
The words settled unevenly. “There will be a temporary allowance,” he continued. “Conditions will be reviewed at the end of the quarter. The revised terms will be met, or we will return to the original agreement.”
It was not generosity. It was structure—deliberate, measured, and more than he would have allowed before. The tension reared its head again.
Maxwell did not wait for their response. He turned, signaling the end of the discussion without dismissal.
As he mounted his horse once more, he was aware of the weight of what he had done.
It would cost him if they failed. He knew that before he had given the order, and yet. The decision was made. He would have to endure the consequences when they came.
The days that melted into one another at Broadmoor Hall, and Maxwell settled back into something resembling his country seat routine.
And yet, the silence did not return to what it had been.
Maxwell moved through the house, through the estate, through the responsibilities that had always defined his time there. The work was completed. The decisions made. The order maintained.
No voice carried down the corridor without invitation. No presence entered a room without permission. Maxwell paused one afternoon at the threshold of the drawing room, his gaze moving over the untouched furniture, the stillness that filled the space.
It was exactly as it should be.
He stood there a moment longer than necessary, as if expecting something to interrupt it, but nothing did.
* * *
Arabella did not remember lying down.
