Chapter 11
Maxwell did not look away from Arabella at once. “Enter.”
The door opened to admit the butler, who stepped inside with the same composed efficiency he carried in all things, though there was a faint tightness to his posture that had not been present earlier. He held a letter upon a small silver tray.
“Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head, “this was delivered this morning. It appears to have been delayed in the post. It is addressed to the Duke and Duchess of Northwood.”
Maxwell rose, crossing the room with unhurried steps as he took the letter. The seal was unremarkable, though the hand was familiar enough to place it among the many social obligations he had long since learned to ignore.
“To us both?” Arabella repeated, rising as well, her curiosity unguarded as she moved closer. “How intriguing…”
Maxwell broke the seal and unfolded the paper, his gaze moving swiftly across the lines before he spoke.
“A garden party,” he said. “Hosted at Westbrook House. This afternoon.”
Arabella’s face brightened at once. “This afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“How fortunate that it was delayed,” she said, her hands coming together lightly. “We might have missed it entirely.”
Maxwell lowered the paper slightly, studying her expression. There was no hesitation there, no calculation, only a clear and immediate delight that stood in quiet contrast to his own reaction.
“We discussed this,” he said.
“We did,” she agreed, her tone softening just enough to suggest she understood the weight of what she asked. “And we agreed to attend to what is necessary. This seems… necessary.”
Maxwell glanced once more at the invitation, then folded it carefully. “Very well,” he said. “We will go.”
Arabella’s smile widened, though she did not speak further on it. She did not need to. The satisfaction was evident enough.
The gardens of Westbrook House were already filled by the time they arrived.
Maxwell stepped down from the carriage first, the low hum of conversation carrying across the trimmed lawns, punctuated by the occasional rise of laughter that seemed to belong to another world entirely.
The afternoon light stretched across the grounds, catching on the pale fabrics and bright ribbons of the assembled guests, rendering the entire scene almost too composed, too carefully arranged.
He turned, offering his hand without looking directly at her. Arabella placed hers in his, her grip light but steady as she descended beside him.
“It is lovely,” she said, her gaze already moving over the gathering with open interest. “Do you not think so?”
“It is a garden,” Maxwell replied.
She glanced at him, as though weighing that answer, then let out a small breath that might have been amusement. “Are you determined not to enjoy this afternoon already?”
“I know I must endure it,” he corrected.
Arabella said nothing further, though the slight curve of her lips suggested she had more to say on the matter.
Instead, she turned toward the path that led into the heart of the gathering, her posture straight, her expression composed in a way that suited the setting more naturally than he had anticipated.
Maxwell followed at her side, aware almost immediately of the shift that moved through the crowd as they entered.
It was subtle, the kind of change that would go unnoticed by those unaccustomed to watching for it.
Conversations faltered, if only for a breath.
Eyes lingered a fraction too long. Fans paused mid-motion before resuming their steady rhythm.
He had seen it before.
He would see it again.
Arabella, however, did not appear to notice.
“Lady Pembroke,” she said warmly as they approached a small group near a cluster of white roses. “How kind of you to host such a gathering.”
The older woman inclined her head, her smile polite, though her gaze flickered briefly toward Maxwell before returning to Arabella. “Your Grace,” she said. “We are delighted you both could attend.”
Arabella answered with easy grace, her tone light, her manner entirely at ease as she moved through the expected pleasantries. Maxwell remained beside her for a moment longer, then stepped back, allowing the conversation to continue without his presence.
It was not long before she was drawn further into the gathering.
“Arabella!” a young woman called, her voice bright as she approached, her expression open with recognition. “You must introduce me properly now that you are a married lady.”
Arabella turned at once. “Miss Odell,” she said, her smile widening. “And Miss Harding. How good it is to see you!”
Introductions followed, quick and fluid, the kind that required little thought from those accustomed to them.
Jane Odell and Cissie Harding had once belonged to the wider circle of young ladies Arabella encountered each Season, but somewhere over the years, acquaintance had softened into genuine friendship.
London felt easier with them in it, and judging by the warmth of their greeting, the feeling was mutual.
Maxwell inclined his head as required, offering the briefest acknowledgment before stepping away once more as their conversation took on a life of its own.
“She has not changed,” Jane was saying, her tone teasing as Maxwell moved out of earshot. “Marriage has not subdued you in the slightest.”
“Should it have?” Arabella returned, laughter threading through her words.
Maxwell did not linger. He moved toward the edge of the gathering, where the crowd thinned and the air felt less constrained, his gaze sweeping the grounds without settling on any one point.
It was there that he found Roderick, standing with a glass in hand, his attention divided between the crowd and whatever private thoughts occupied him.
“You came,” Roderick said, his brows lifting slightly as Maxwell approached.
“I was invited,” Maxwell replied.
“That has never been sufficient reason before.”
Maxwell did not answer that.
Roderick’s gaze flicked past him, toward the center of the gathering where Arabella stood among her companions, her expression animated as she spoke. “She looks well,” he said.
“She is,” Maxwell replied.
“And you?” Roderick asked.
Maxwell’s expression remained unchanged. “I am here.”
Roderick let out a quiet breath, something almost resembling a laugh. “A glowing endorsement of married life.”
“It serves its purpose.”
Roderick studied him for a moment, then glanced again toward Arabella. “You have chosen well,” he said.
Maxwell’s gaze followed his, settling briefly on her. She moved easily among the others, her presence drawing attention without demanding it, her laughter unguarded in a way that felt entirely at odds with the careful restraint of the surrounding company.
“She is… suited to this,” he said.
Roderick’s lips curved faintly. “And are you saying that you are not?”
Maxwell eyed his friend skeptically. “You know very well how I feel on this subject.”
“Yes, yes,” Roderick agreed. “I know, but you should know that I find you changed, partially, to the joys of marriage in ways that I have not observed in you previously.”
There was a brief pause before Maxwell spoke again, his tone more measured, completely ignoring his friend’s comment. “Why did she not marry before now?”
Roderick’s brows rose slightly, though his expression did not immediately shift. “You ask that now?”
“I find it most inconsistent,” Maxwell said. “That a fair woman, of moderate wealth and peerage, has not been even pursued before this arrangement. She conducts herself properly. She draws attention without seeking it. It does not align.”
Roderick’s mouth twitched, a hint of amusement breaking through. “You make her sound like a strategic acquisition.”
Maxwell did not respond.
Roderick took a slow sip of his drink before answering. “From what I know,” he said, “she had her share of interest. More than her share, if we are to be precise.”
Maxwell’s gaze sharpened slightly. “And yet—”
“And yet,” Roderick interrupted, “she did not choose any of them.”
“Why not?”
Roderick glanced at him, the amusement fading into something more thoughtful. “Because she was interested in someone else.”
Maxwell stiffened. Someone else…
Roderick nodded, his gaze drifting once more toward Arabella. “That is just what I was told, but you know how the ton is… itching for a tale and wholly uninterested in the truth.”
Maxwell followed his line of sight again, his attention settling more firmly now. Arabella stood with her companions still, her expression bright, her posture relaxed, as though she belonged entirely to the world around her.
“In whom were the rumors about then? I never caught wind.” Maxwell asked, his voice quieter now.
Roderick let out a slow breath, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly as though he recognized something in the question itself.
“That,” he said, “is a far more interesting matter, my friend but of course you would not have heard… you rarely make an appearance in society.”
Roderick took another slow sip of his drink, though his gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond the rim of the glass, as though measuring how much he ought to say.
“She was encouraged otherwise, of course,” he added after a moment. “Her half-sister Charlotte, made certain of that.”
Maxwell’s attention sharpened, though his posture did not change. “Encouraged,” he repeated. “In what way?”
Roderick lowered the glass slightly, his expression shifting as though he had only just recalled the nature of his audience. “It is not a story worth repeating,” he said, too quickly. “Not now anyway.”
Maxwell did not move. “You have already begun it.”
Roderick exhaled, a quiet sound that carried more caution than reluctance. “There were… efforts,” he said carefully. “To guide her toward more suitable matches. Away from whatever… inclination she had formed.”
Maxwell’s gaze remained steady. “And you find that understandable?”
“I do,” Roderick replied. “Given the circumstances.”