Page 7 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
Her pulse had not yet settled, her thoughts tangled between irritation and something far less welcome. She lifted a hand to her chin without meaning to, her fingers hovering there as though to confirm what had already passed.
Furious.
But as she sat alone in the quiet of the study, the light shifting slowly across the floor, Arabella found that anger was not the only thing left behind in his absence.
CHAPTER 3
By the next morning, Arabella had decided, with complete clarity, that the Duke of Northwood would not find his stay at Langford Estate agreeable.
The decision came to her not in a single dramatic moment, but in the quiet space between waking and rising, when Poppet once again demanded her attention and the memory of his voice returned far too easily. The warmth of it, the certainty, the way he had spoken as though her defiance were already anticipated. Arabella sat up with a small, resolute breath, smoothing her hand over the coverlet as though it were a matter of simple order.
“If he wishes for prudence,” she murmured, glancing down at Poppet, who blinked up at her with mild curiosity, “then he shall have it. In the most inconvenient form imaginable.”
The opportunity presented itself sooner than she expected.
She learned of it in passing, from a maid who mentioned—without particular importance—that His Grace had requested hot water for his bath and was not to be disturbed. Arabella paused in the corridor, the words settling into place with quiet precision, and then turned on her heel with sudden purpose.
“Come along,” she whispered, though she had not called Poppet. The cat appeared regardless, slipping after her with silent enthusiasm as Arabella made her way toward the guest wing.
The door to his chamber was unlatched.
Arabella hesitated only a moment before slipping inside, her gaze moving quickly over the space. It was neat. Almost unnervingly so. There were no scattered belongings, no careless signs of habitation. What he had brought with him was limited, but of unmistakable quality. The fabric of his coat draped over a chair caught the light in a way that spoke of careful tailoring, the boots placed beside it polished to a quiet shine.
It was a room occupied by a man who took up space without needing to clutter it.
Her attention shifted to the bed.
Laid neatly across it was the outfit he intended to wear that day, arranged with the same deliberate precision as everything else. Arabella stepped closer, reaching out before she quite considered the motion, her fingers brushing the sleeve of the shirt.
The fabric was fine. Softer than she expected.
She lifted it, holding it briefly in front of her, and the size of it struck her at once. The breadth of the shoulders, the length of the sleeves. Without thinking, she brought it against herself, the edge of the fabric resting lightly against her bodice.
He was large.
The thought came unbidden, followed too quickly by the memory of the night before. The solidity of him when she had collided into his chest. The way his arms had closed around her with effortless certainty.
Arabella stilled, then lowered the shirt at once, as though the thought itself had weight. “That is quite enough,” she said under her breath, placing it back where she had found it with deliberate care.
Poppet, however, had no such restraint.
The cat had leapt onto the bed with quiet enthusiasm, her small paws already at work against the fabric Arabella had just set down. A faint ripping sound followed, soft but distinct, as her claws caught and dragged.
“Well,” she said, watching as Poppet continued her industrious work, “I should not interfere with such dedication.”
While Poppet attended to her task with admirable focus, Arabella turned her attention elsewhere, moving quickly now. She located his shirts first, folded with careful precision in the wardrobe, then the cravats, each one arranged in neat succession. She gathered them without hesitation, folding them over her arm as she moved about the room.
He would not require all of them.
In fact, he would require none of them at all.
By the time she slipped back into the corridor, her arms were full, though her steps remained light. She moved through the house with quiet efficiency, tucking his belongings into places where they would not be easily discovered. A drawer in the morning room. A cabinet in the far hall. Beneath a stack of linens that no one would disturb until the end of the week.
When she was finished, she paused, considering the symmetry of it.
The only shirt remaining would be the one upon his bed.
She returned to the drawing room, and Poppet followed shortly after, as though aware that her efforts deserved recognition. Arabella knelt beside the low table, retrieving a small dish of treats and offering them with quiet approval.
