The Duke’s Sinful Deal (Tempted by the Duke #3)

Chapter 1

“It is not too late to come with us.”

Arabella Barker turned. Blackmere Park, country seat of Langford, stirred behind them with the quiet bustle of departure. Her older sister, Eleanor, wore an expression that held the same gentle insistence she had worn all morning, as though repetition alone might sway her.

Arabella smiled, though her gaze drifted past her sister’s shoulder.

Across the gravel, her brother-in-law, James Montague, Duke of Langford, stood beside the carriage, his dark coat already dusted with rain.

He held her daughter, Samantha, with an ease that still felt new, though a year had passed since her birth.

“It truly is too late,” Arabella said, her tone soft. She folded her hands together at her waist to keep from fidgeting. “You have packed. You have planned. And you deserve it.”

Her older sister, Eleanor, drew her brows together. “That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

Arabella shifted her weight, stepping closer so that her voice would not carry to the waiting staff.

“You have not had a moment to yourselves since little Samantha arrived,” she said gently.

“Not a proper one. Not one that belongs only to you and James.” She tipped her head slightly, offering a brightness she did not entirely feel.

“You must take it now, before London claims you again.”

Eleanor studied her, searching, as she always did. It was a look Arabella had known since childhood. “And what will you do?”

Arabella laughed lightly, brushing an imaginary crease from her sleeve, then lifted her shoulders in a small, careless shrug. “I will be perfectly content.”

That did not fully ease Eleanor’s concern, but it softened it. Slightly.

“And Roderick will be here,” Eleanor added, as though securing the final piece in place. “He will see that you are not alone.”

Roderick Elkins was James’s cousin, the Duke of Wycliffe. Arabella had grown accustomed to Roderick always being around, as she was. It will be nice having a few hours to herself before Roderick returns to Broadmoor.

“We shall not even notice your absence,” Arabella replied, the words slipping out with practiced ease.

That earned her a sharp and knowing look, but Eleanor said nothing further. Instead, she reached forward, adjusting Arabella’s shawl with the same absent care she had shown her since they were girls. “One month,” she said. “No longer.”

“One month,” Arabella agreed.

“And then London.”

Arabella brightened at that, genuinely this time. “Yes. We shall all go together.”

“Okay, write to me,” Eleanor murmured.

“I will.”

Eleanor turned at last, allowing James to assist her into the carriage.

Arabella watched on as Samantha was passed gently between them, the door closed, and the driver called forward.

The carriage rolled away with a steady rhythm, wheels cutting through the earth, until the sound of it faded beyond the trees.

Arabella stood there for a moment longer, her hands still folded, her posture still carefully composed. Then she drew in a breath, turned on her heel, and stepped back inside.

“Well,” she said aloud, though no one had asked, “that is settled.”

The entrance hall felt larger without Eleanor’s presence. Or perhaps it had always been this size, and Arabella had simply never noticed.

Poppet appeared not long after, weaving between her steps with determined insistence. The small creature wound around her ankles until Arabella bent to scoop her up, pressing her cheek briefly against the cat’s soft fur.

“Well, you shall be of use,” she murmured, carrying her toward the morning room. “You may keep me company while I pretend to have a great many important things to do.”

Poppet blinked at her, clearly unimpressed.

The hours passed without incident. Arabella tried the pianoforte and abandoned it when the silence between notes felt too wide.

She selected a book and found herself reading the same line three times without comprehension.

She walked the gardens, spoke with the gardeners until she realized she had asked the same question twice, and then returned inside before the sky could darken too far.

By evening, the rain had begun.

It came steadily at first, then with greater insistence, tapping against the windows in a pattern that should have been soothing. Arabella stood beside the glass, watching as the last of the light dissolved into gray.

He will arrive soon, she told herself. Roderick is rarely late.

She said it again, a little more firmly.

The servants lit the lamps one by one, the soft glow pushing back the shadows but not quite banishing them. Arabella remained in the drawing room, her book open on her lap, though she had long since stopped pretending to read.

When dinner was announced, her concern only grew in Roderick’s absence. Still, there was no sign of him as she sat and ate alone.

By the time she returned to her chamber, the rain had turned relentless. Arabella stood at the edge of her bed, unpinning her hair with careful hands. “It is only the weather,” she murmured to herself. “That is what has delayed him, that is all.”

She donned her ivory nightdress, climbed into bed, and drew her blankets close as the storm carried on angrily. Time passed slowly before the drowned-out sound reached her. The clumsy clattering of a carriage.

Arabella’s eyes flew open. For a moment, she remained still, listening, uncertain whether she had imagined it. Then came the distinct crunch of wheels on gravel, unmistakable even through the rain.

Relief rose so quickly it startled her. “Roderick,” she breathed, already pushing the covers aside.

She did not wait for a maid. She did not pause to properly secure her shawl. Barefoot, she hurried from her chamber, down the corridor, her pulse quickening with each step. By the time she reached the entrance hall, she was nearly running.

Arabella reached the door before anyone else had, her hand closing around the handle without hesitation. “You are quite unforgivably late—

The door swung wide.

She stepped forward and stepped blindly into a brick wall.

The impact stole the breath from her. For a brief, disorienting moment, there was only the solid, unyielding presence of a man. He was broad and startlingly warm despite the rain that clung to and came down all around him

Arabella pitched backward.

Strong hands caught her before she could fall, one at her back, the other firm at her arm, holding her in place with effortless control.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, then she lifted her gaze. This was not Roderick.

The realization came sharply before the rest of him resolved into something far more unsettling.

The lamplight caught along the edge of a mask that concealed half his face, its dark line cutting across features she could not fully see.

Beneath it, the exposed skin bore the heartbreakingly deep scarring that traced downward along his cheek, his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his coat.

Arabella flinched, and the man released her at once, as if her reaction had burned him.

She stepped back quickly, gathering her shawl around her with unsteady hands, her heart still racing from the suddenness of it.

Rain lashed against the open doorway behind him, wind carrying it in sharp bursts across the floor.

But she did not invite him in. Instead, Arabella swallowed, her voice catching before she could steady it. “Sir… who are you?”

The question left her more sharply than she intended, but Arabella did not soften it.

She held her ground just inside the doorway, the wind tugging at her shawl, the rain striking the stone behind him in restless sheets.

The man did not answer at once. Instead, he gave a short, impatient scoff while water dripped steadily from the edge of his coat.

He had not crossed the threshold.

That, at least, steadied her.

“You may lower your defenses,” he said at last, his voice even, though there was something in it that resisted warmth entirely. “I was sent.”

“By whom?” Arabella pressed.

His gaze shifted, not quite meeting hers, and from within his coat he produced a folded letter. “Wycliffe,” he said, extending it toward her. “You may confirm it for yourself.”

Arabella hesitated only a moment before taking it. The paper was damp at the edges, the seal broken cleanly, the handwriting unmistakable. She stepped slightly back into the light of the hall, unfolding it with careful fingers.

My dear Miss Arabella,

An urgent matter requires my immediate attention, and I regret that I shall be delayed no less than a week. I would not leave you unattended, and so I have sent a friend I trust above all others to ensure your comfort and safety in my absence. You are in capable hands.

Yours,

Roderick

Arabella read it twice, as though the meaning might shift under closer inspection. It did not.

A week?

She lowered the letter slowly, her thoughts catching on that single detail while the rain continued its steady assault behind him. The man had not moved, though she could feel the weight of his presence pressing forward, waiting to be let out of the rain.

“Well?” he asked, the word clipped.

Arabella folded the letter with more care than necessary, buying herself a moment. “It seems,” she said, keeping her tone measured, “that your presence here is… unnecessary.”

His head tilted, just slightly. “Unnecessary? I highly doubt that.”

“I am quite capable of managing a household for a week,” she continued, lifting her chin a fraction. “I do not require supervision.”

She had avoided looking at him directly until then. It had been easier to focus on the letter, on the rain, on anything but the stark line of that mask and what lay beneath it. But as the words left her, she forced herself to meet his gaze.

His mouth curved into a grimace before it smoothed, and he said, almost conversationally, “Then I shall sleep outside.”

The words struck her a second too late. “Wait, what?” she asked, the composure she had gathered slipping.

“In the rain,” he added, his tone unchanged. “As you prefer to manage the household without assistance.”

Arabella blinked, heat rising swiftly to her face. The impropriety of it, the sheer inhospitable absurdity of the situation, pressed in on her all at once.

“I did not say—” she began, then stopped herself. “That is not—You cannot—”

He said nothing, only waited as the rain intensified, as if to underscore the point.

With a small, frustrated sound, Arabella stepped aside. “You may come in,” she said, the words tight. “I will not have it said that Broadmoor turned a guest away and into a storm.”

He did not thank her, but simply stepped past her, his presence filling the space as he crossed the threshold at last. Water traced faint marks across the stone where he walked, his movements unhurried, assured, as though the house were already his to command.

Arabella turned quickly, her irritation rising to meet him. “Stop.”

He had barely taken two steps into the hall, but he still paused, though he did not turn fully toward her.

“You have not introduced yourself,” she said, drawing her shawl closer about her shoulders as though it might lend her authority. “Who are you? And a better question, who are you to James and Roderick?”

There was a brief silence. Then, with a visible tightening of his posture, he lifted a hand to the bridge of his nose, pressing there as if the effort of answering her required restraint. “Northwood,” he said, but that was all he gave away.

“Is that all?” she asked, incredulous. “You arrive unannounced, speak in half sentences, and expect to be received without question? Who are you?”

He turned to her fully then, and his attention fixed entirely on her. It was deliberate, assessing, and it moved unapologetically from her face to the loose fall of her hair, to the thin fabric of her night gown, to the shawl she clutched too tightly at her throat.

Arabella’s breath caught, though she refused to step back. “You are exceedingly rude,” she said, the words sharper now.

Something flickered in his expression, but he moved one step forward, then another, closing the distance between them with quiet certainty. Arabella felt the shift in the air as he came near, the warmth of him cutting through the lingering chill of the open door behind her.

“Come any closer, and I will scream, sir,” she threatened, with a shaky breath.

He leaned in close enough that she could feel the brush of his breath near her ear. “Am I to be lectured in manners,” he murmured, his voice low, controlled, “from an unmarried lady in her night gown?”

The words struck deeper than they should have. Heat surged to her face, sharp and immediate, her fingers tightening instinctively in the fabric of her shawl. For a moment, she could not find a response—could not separate the indignation from the sudden, humiliating awareness of how she must appear.

He stepped back before she could gather herself. The space between them returned, though it felt charged.

“Miss Arabella—”

The butler’s voice cut through the tension, measured but strained. Arabella turned sharply, relief and embarrassment colliding as he approached. His gaze moved at once to the man beside her, and whatever composure he had carried faltered.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing quickly.

Arabella stilled as the title settled with unsettling clarity. The Duke of Northwood?

The butler straightened, though the unease remained evident in the set of his shoulders. “If you would allow me,” he added, gesturing toward the corridor. “I shall see His Grace to the chamber prepared for the Duke of Wycliffe.”

Arabella did not protest as he gently urged her toward the staircase. She allowed herself to be guided, her thoughts moving too quickly to settle on any one thing. The house felt smaller now with the knowledge of who walked within it.

By the time she reached her chamber, the storm had not lessened. It pressed against the windows with renewed force, as though the night itself had deepened around the house.

Arabella stood for a moment beside her bed, her pulse still uneven, her thoughts refusing to quiet. Then she drew the blankets back and slipped beneath them, staring up at the dim canopy above.

“I will have him gone,” she said softly into the dark.