Page 8 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
“You have been exceedingly useful my sweet, Poppet,” she said, watching as the cat accepted her reward with calm entitlement.
“Miss Arabella.”
She looked up, startled only for a moment before recognizing the woman standing at the doorway. Mrs. Penbury now regarded her with a mixture of concern and curiosity. “I hope I am not intruding,” she said, stepping further inside without waiting for a full invitation. “I was quite troubled by your absence yesterday. It is not like you to decline without word.”
Arabella rose at once, smoothing her hands over her skirt, her expression brightening with practiced ease. “You are not intruding at all. I fear I was not feeling quite myself yesterday. Nothing of consequence, I assure you.”
Mrs. Penbury studied her, her gaze lingering just a moment too long. “I see,” she said. “And you are quite recovered now?”
“Entirely,” Arabella replied, her smile unwavering. “Though I thought it best to remain in and rest. The weather, as you see, has been less than forgiving.”
The explanation seemed to satisfy her well enough, though the curiosity did not entirely fade.
Arabella continued speaking, guiding the conversation with gentle ease, hoping that it would remain undisturbed, but it did not.
Footsteps approached, measured, and unmistakable. Arabella felt them before she heard them clearly, her posture tighteningjust slightly as the presence entered the room. She turned, the motion controlled, her expression composed.
He had not changed the shirt.
The fabric, once pristine, now bore the evidence of Poppet’s work in long, deliberate tears that ran down the front, the edges uneven where the claws had caught and dragged. It hung from him regardless, stretched across his frame as though the damage were of no consequence to its structure.
His expression, however, was another matter entirely.
Fury sat there plainly, contained but unmistakable, his gaze moving first to Arabella before flicking, briefly, to the guest who had no business witnessing this at all.
Arabella held his gaze and let herself smile.
For a brief moment, the room held its breath.
The shift in him was immediate. The fury did not disappear, but it sharpened, pulled inward, and contained beneath something far colder. His posture altered almost imperceptibly, his attention no longer fixed solely on Arabella but recalibrated to account for the presence of another.
Mrs. Penbury had gone very still.
Arabella stepped forward at once, her voice quick, controlled. “This is not what it seems,” she said, though she could not have clearly defined what it seemed like to an outside observer. A duke, improperly dressed. A young lady standing before him, far too composed for the circumstances.
Mrs. Penbury’s gaze flickered between them, her hands tightening around the handle of her reticule. “I had thought…” she began, her voice lowering, as though the walls themselves might carry her words elsewhere. “I had thought you had changed your ways aftereverythingthat happened, Your Grace.”
He did not react at all. He simply looked at the older woman, his expression now entirely devoid of warmth, stripped down to something controlled and deliberate. “You saw nothing, Mrs. Penbury,” he said with lethal control. There was no force in his tone, no raised volume. Yet the words settled into the space with unmistakable authority.
Mrs. Penbury swallowed, her composure wavering for the first time since she had entered. “Of course,” she said quickly, dipping her head. “Of course, Your Grace. I saw nothing at all.”
Arabella watched her carefully. The woman nodded once more, as though sealing the promise to herself, and then turned, her departure swift and uncharacteristically silent.
The door closed behind her.
Arabella turned back slowly, her pulse already beginning to climb in anticipation of what would come next.
The Duke remained where he stood, his gaze returning to her with the same measured intensity he had carried in the study that morning. If anything, the restraint made the space between them feel more dangerous.
“Where are they?” he asked.
Arabella blinked. “What?”
“My shirts. My cravats.” His voice remained level. “Where are they?”
“I do not know what you mean,” she said, though the words lacked conviction even as she spoke them.
He did not move closer this time. He did not need to. “You are not particularly skilled in the art of deception, Miss Barker,” he said.
