Chapter 2
Poppet’s insistence came first, a steady kneading against her shoulder that pulled Arabella from sleep in small, persistent waves. The cat’s paws pressed and released through the thin fabric of her nightdress, a familiar rhythm that might have been comforting on any other morning.
For a brief, reckless moment, she considered turning onto her side, pulling the covers over her head, and refusing the day entirely. If she remained here, still and unseen, perhaps she would not have to face him again. The thought lingered just long enough to tempt her.
Poppet protested with a soft chirp, but settled beside her as Arabella swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
“You are not helping,” she murmured, though her hand returned briefly to smooth the cat’s fur.
She dressed with thoughtfulness, selecting a morning gown of pale blue that Eleanor had insisted suited her.
The fabric was soft, the cut modest, the color light enough to lift her spirits if she allowed it.
By the time she finished pinning her hair, her reflection showed none of the reluctance she had felt upon waking.
That, at least, was a skill she had perfected.
As she descended the staircase, she steadied her thoughts with a quieter, more reasonable consideration.
The previous evening had been poorly managed by both of them.
He had been abrupt, yes, but she had not been entirely blameless in her response.
It had been late, the weather unforgiving, the circumstances unfamiliar.
It was hardly surprising that tempers had frayed.
Thankfully, by the time she reached the dining room, her composure had flexed into something almost hopeful. The room, however, was empty.
Arabella paused just inside the threshold, her gaze moving over the neatly arranged table, the untouched place settings, the quiet stillness that seemed to echo more loudly for the absence of another presence. She stepped further inside, her brow knitting slightly.
“Miss Arabella.”
She turned at the butler’s voice, relief flickering briefly before she noted the subtle tension in his posture. His hands were clasped more tightly than usual, and though his expression remained carefully neutral, his eyes did not quite meet hers.
“The Duke of Northwood has requested that you join him in the study for breakfast,” he said. “He is already there.”
Arabella felt the words settle in her chest before she fully understood them. “The study?”
“Yes, miss.”
“And do you know why he has chosen the study?”
The butler inclined his head, though his gaze dropped almost immediately afterward. “He has not indicated to me, miss.”
Arabella drew in a slow breath, smoothing her hands lightly over the front of her gown. “Very well,” she said, her voice steady.
The corridor to the study felt longer than she remembered.
The house was not unfamiliar to her, yet the knowledge of who waited at the end of it altered the space in subtle ways.
She paused just outside the door, her hand resting briefly against the wood as she gathered herself, then lifted her chin and stepped inside.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said, inclining her head politely as she entered.
He did not rise, nor did he return the greeting. “Sit,” he said, his tone as even as it had been the night before.
Arabella stopped where she stood.
The study was dim, the heavy curtains drawn across the tall windows, allowing only a thin line of light to press through at the edges. The air felt close, the space smaller than it ought to have been. It was not how James kept the room, and the difference struck her immediately.
“I cannot,” she said, already turning toward the nearest window.
His gaze followed her, though he did not move.
Arabella reached for the curtain and drew it back with a firm motion. Light spilled into the room at once, soft but sufficient to change its character. The shadows retreated, revealing the polished surface of the desk, the ordered stacks of papers, the breakfast laid out between them.
“Miss Barker.”
She moved to the next window without turning. “How are we to eat in near darkness?” she asked, her tone light but edged with something more deliberate.
“Leave it,” he said.
She hesitated, her hand still on the fabric, then allowed it to fall. The curtain remained partially open, enough to let the morning in without fully exposing the room. It was a compromise, though she did not acknowledge it as such.
When she turned back, she approached the table with measured steps, aware of him in a way that felt entirely different in daylight.
The mask remained, the scars no less visible where they were not concealed, his posture unchanged.
If anything, the light made the contrast sharper rather than easing it.
She took her seat at last, folding her hands briefly in her lap before reaching for the teapot. “You must try the preserves,” she said, allowing a note of brightness into her voice. “The cook prepares them fresh, and they are quite remarkable. I find they improve even the most ordinary morning.”
He did not respond.
Arabella poured the tea anyway, her movements precise, practiced. “And the bread is always better when it is still warm. I imagine the kitchen has only just—”
“You do not need to do this,” he said through gritted teeth. The interruption was quiet, but it cut cleanly through her words.
Arabella paused, the teapot still in her hand, before setting it down with care. “Do what, exactly?” she asked, lifting her gaze to meet his.
“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the table, toward her, toward the careful arrangement she had imposed upon the moment. “Conversation. Hospitality. Whatever it is you believe this to be.”
Arabella held his gaze a moment longer, then straightened slightly in her chair. “It is called manners,” she said, her tone measured. “I was under the impression they were expected of all guests within this house.”
He did not take the bait, but simply looked at her, his expression unchanged, as though her words had neither struck nor missed, but passed through without consequence at all.
Arabella reached for her cup, more to occupy her hands than from any real desire to drink, and took a small, steadying sip as she considered how best to proceed.
The Duke set his cup down with a quiet, deliberate motion, as though he had already measured the moment and found it sufficient.
“I take my responsibilities seriously,” he said, his tone even, though there was something in it that suggested the matter had already been decided long before she entered the room.
“Wycliffe would not have sent me otherwise.”
Arabella lowered her cup carefully, folding her hands together to still the small, restless movement in her fingers. “Your responsibility,” she repeated, “should be entirely unrelated to me. I have managed on my own for quite some time.”
“I do not doubt it,” he replied, his gaze steady. “That does not alter the arrangement.”
She tilted her head slightly, studying him with open skepticism. “An arrangement? I do not recall making an arrangement.”
“One that was made for your benefit regardless,” he said. “I will remain until Wycliffe returns.”
Arabella felt the faintest tightening in her chest, though she kept her expression composed. “And if I prefer that you do not?”
He did not hesitate. “You will endure the inconvenience.”
That earned him a look, sharp enough that she did not attempt to soften it. “You are remarkably certain of your welcome for a man who was not invited.”
“And you are remarkably determined to dismiss assistance you have already been given,” he returned.
The exchange settled between them with a strange, restrained energy. It was not raised voices or overt challenge, but something quieter that pressed just beneath the surface, waiting.
After a moment, he leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze shifting briefly toward the window she had opened. “It is not an ideal arrangement,” he added, as though conceding a point she had not yet made. “I am aware of that.”
Arabella arched a brow. “That is a generous admission.”
“You are not family. I am not your guardian. The situation is quite unconventional.”
“And yet you are insisting upon it,” she said.
“Of course I do.”
The certainty in it left little room for argument, which only sharpened her irritation. She reached for a piece of bread, more to give herself something to do than out of hunger, though she did not eat it.
“Then perhaps you might explain how this is to proceed,” she said, her tone light but edged. “If we are to share a house without acknowledgment of one another’s existence.”
His gaze returned to her, direct and unyielding. “We will not share it,” he said. “Not in any meaningful sense.”
Arabella stilled.
“This,” he continued, gesturing faintly between them, “is the last time we will be alone together. If there is a matter that requires my attention, you will send word. Otherwise, you will conduct yourself as you have been, and I will do the same.”
The words were delivered without emphasis, but their meaning settled firmly.
Arabella let out a soft breath, though it carried more frustration than relief. “How very considerate of you,” she said. “To spare me your company.”
“That is not the intent,” he replied.
“No?” She set the bread down untouched. “It sounds very much like it.”
“It is appropriate,” he said simply.
Arabella leaned back slightly, her fingers curling lightly against the edge of the table.
She understood the logic well enough. Too well, in fact.
The arrangement was improper. A man, unrelated to her, resides under the same roof.
It would not take much for the wrong eyes to turn toward it, to question, to speculate.
Still, understanding it did not soften the way it felt. It sounded very much like instruction. Like quiet obedience expected without question.
“I have an engagement this afternoon,” she said, after a brief pause. “A tea. I intend to attend it.”
He did not look surprised. “You will not.”
Arabella blinked, the words landing with more force than she expected. “I beg your pardon?”
“You will not attend,” he repeated, his tone unchanged.
“What a thoroughly unreasonable declaration,” she said, her composure slipping just enough to sharpen her voice. “I have already accepted the invitation. The lady hosting will notice my absence.”
“She may,” he said. “And she may also notice your circumstances, should you attend.”
Arabella’s brows drew together. “My circumstances?”
“We are in the countryside,” he said, his voice steady, measured. “There is less scrutiny than in London, but not none. A household does not go unobserved entirely. If it becomes known that you are residing here with a man who is neither kin nor chaperone, it will invite questions.”
The words settled with uncomfortable clarity. Arabella looked down briefly, her fingers tracing the edge of her napkin as she considered it. He was not wrong. “That does not mean I must remain hidden,” she said, though her voice had lost some of its earlier edge.
“It means you must be cautious,” he replied.
She drew in a slow breath, holding it a moment before releasing it again. Agreement came reluctantly.
I will not make this easy for him. Arabella thought defiantly as she fell quiet then. If he intended to impose order upon her days, then he would find those days far less accommodating than he expected. She did not notice the movement until it was already upon her.
His hand lifted, quick but controlled, his fingers brushing lightly beneath her chin as he tilted her face upward.
The contact was brief. Yet it sent a strange, immediate warmth through her, sharp enough that her breath faltered before she could steady it.
Her gaze met his without preparation, caught in the quiet intensity of his attention.
“I can see it,” he said, his voice lower now, quieter in a way that felt more dangerous than before. “You intend to defy me.”
Arabella did not answer. The place where he had touched her seemed to linger, a faint heat that refused to fade even as his hand dropped away.
“Do not,” he said, and his words were not raised. They did not need to be.
He straightened, turning away from her without waiting for a response, and crossed the room with the same measured certainty he had carried since the night before. The door opened, then closed behind him with a soft, final sound.
Arabella remained where she was.
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.