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.
“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 tightening just 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 after everything that 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.
Arabella lifted her chin, irritation rising to meet the steadiness of his tone. “And you are remarkably calm for a man who has been compromised in a most public way.”
His gaze flickered briefly to the torn fabric, then returned to her. “The matron will obey,” he said. “That is not my concern.”
Arabella’s breath caught slightly. “You do not know her,” she said, more sharply than before. “She will speak. If not today, then tomorrow. And once she does—”
She stopped. Eleanor. James. Broadmoor. Their name.
The consequences of what had seemed, only moments before, a clever and harmless act now unfolded in her mind with alarming clarity.
Arabella’s expression shifted, the frustration giving way to something more urgent. “We cannot allow that,” she said, her voice lower now, more deliberate. “We have to act!”
His brows drew together slightly. “Act?”
She took a step closer without realizing it, her thoughts moving faster than she could fully arrange them. “We will have to marry. It is the only way to halt the scandal.”
The words hung there.
Even to her own ears, they sounded abrupt. Impossible. And yet, once spoken, they did not feel uncertain.
He studied her in silence, something unreadable passing through his expression. There was no immediate dismissal, no sharp rejection, which unsettled her more than if he had laughed.
“You are serious,” he said.
“I am,” she replied, her voice steadier now. “I will not allow scandal to touch my sister. Or her family. If there is even a chance that the woman speaks, we must be ahead of it.”
He considered her for a moment longer, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Very well.”
The ease of his agreement startled her, but it did not end there.
“I require an heir,” he said, as though adding a final condition to a negotiation already in motion.
Arabella blinked, caught briefly off guard by the bluntness of it. “That is… to be expected,” she said, though her tone faltered only slightly.
“And you understand what that entails?”
She met his gaze, lifting her chin with quiet resolve. “I do.”
“Do you, truly?” he asked with a note that suggested he was testing the truth of it rather than accepting it.
“Of course I do,” she repeated, more firmly.
There was a brief pause, and then he said, “Prove it.”
Arabella’s breath caught again, though she did not step back. For a moment, she wondered whether he meant to unsettle her, to force her into retreat, to reveal the limits of her conviction.
Instead, she stepped forward.
The decision came before she could question it. She lifted her hand, her gaze steady as she closed the distance between them, intending something simple, something that would end the matter quickly.
His hand caught her wrist before she could reach him, firm but not rough. “No. Not that,” he said.
Arabella stilled, her pulse quickening. “Then what?” she asked.
His gaze dropped briefly to her hand, then returned to her face. “Touch me,” he said quietly.
Arabella hesitated only a fraction of a second before she did as he asked.
Her fingers moved, uncertain at first, then steadier, coming to rest against the front of his shirt.
The fabric was roughened where it had torn, but beneath it she could feel the unmistakable strength she had already sensed once before.
Her hand moved, tracing upward only slightly before she stilled again, acutely aware of every small shift in his breathing, the tension that seemed to gather and hold beneath her touch.
He exhaled, the sound low, controlled. “That will do,” he said.
Arabella withdrew her hand at once, though the sensation lingered longer than it should have.
He stepped back, the space between them returning as though it had never been crossed at all. “You will prepare,” he continued, his voice once again composed, measured. “We leave for London tomorrow.”
Arabella simply nodded as he turned to leave. Her thoughts had not yet caught up with the speed of what had just been decided. Her mind raced ahead to consequences she could no longer undo.
And beneath it all, quieter but no less insistent, was a single, disorienting realization.
This had been her idea.