Chapter 13
Laughter did not belong in his house.
Maxwell became aware of it before he was fully awake, the sound carrying faintly at first, then gathering into something far more insistent. It threaded through the walls, light and unrestrained, entirely at odds with the quiet order he had maintained for years.
He opened his eyes with a slight frown and furrowed brow.
For a moment, he remained still, listening. The voices were indistinct, overlapping one another in quick succession, punctuated by the higher, brighter notes of laughter that seemed to echo rather than fade. It was not the measured murmur of servants at their duties. It was something else.
Something far less contained.
Maxwell exhaled slowly and pushed himself upright, the lingering weight of sleep giving way to a sharper awareness. And with it, the memory of the previous night returned with unwelcome clarity.
The warmth of her. The way she had responded beneath him. The quiet sounds she had not quite managed to suppress.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood at once, discarding the thought as one might an unnecessary distraction. There was no reason for it to linger. The matter had been addressed. It had served its purpose.
And yet, as he reached for his shirt, he found himself moving with more urgency than usual.
The noise persisted.
Maxwell fastened his cuffs with practiced precision, his expression settling into something more familiar, more controlled. Whatever disruption had taken hold of his household, it would be resolved.
He stepped into the corridor, the sound growing clearer as he moved toward the staircase. Voices, several of them, layered over one another in a manner that suggested neither restraint nor concern for propriety.
He descended the stairs, his pace measured, though there was a distinct tension beneath the movement.
“Your Grace.”
The steward approached from the far end of the hall, his posture composed, though his timing was less than ideal.
Maxwell slowed. “What is it?”
“A message for you, sir, from the steward at Broadmoor Hall,” the man said, inclining his head. “He requested your presence at once. Some tenancy issues have befallen the estate. I have gone ahead and made arrangements for you, Your Grace. The carriage is standing by to arrive before midday.”
Maxwell regarded him briefly, the information settling into place with little resistance. “Does Her Grace know?”
“No, Your Grace. The letter only came this morning. It was addressed to me with just a short note at the end—
Maxwell took the note that the man extended toward him and read quickly. “Yes, I see. I will have to leave at once.”
There was a pause, as though the steward considered whether to say more, then thought better of it. “Very good, Your Grace. I will prepare your luggage. The carriage will be here at midday.”
Maxwell inclined his head once, then continued on without further comment.
Christ, I need to tell her.
The closer he came to the drawing room, the more pronounced the disturbance became.
Laughter, again. A lighter voice rising above the others, followed by another, and then a third, all speaking in quick succession, their words overlapping in a way that made it difficult to distinguish one from the next.
He reached the doorway and stopped.
For a moment, he simply observed. Arabella sat near the center of the room, her posture relaxed in a way he had not yet seen within his house.
There was color in her expression, a brightness that seemed to animate every movement.
Across from her sat Gwen, her attention divided between the conversation and the small child in Jane’s arms.
Jane held the boy with visible care, her hands positioned as though she feared the slightest misstep might cause harm. “I am quite certain I am not doing this correctly,” she was saying, her voice carrying a hint of nervous laughter.
“You are doing perfectly well,” Gwen replied, though her tone held a note of gentle amusement. “He is far sturdier than he appears.”
Cissie, meanwhile, had positioned herself near the settee, her focus entirely claimed by Poppet, who lay stretched along the cushion with evident satisfaction.
“She prefers this spot,” Gwen continued, leaning slightly to demonstrate. “Just behind the ear. Like so.”
Poppet responded with an immediate, pleased purr.
Arabella laughed.
It was a lovely and unguarded sound.
Maxwell stepped into the room then, and the effect was immediate.
Arabella turned first. The shift in her expression was unmistakable, the color rising swiftly to her cheeks as her gaze met his. For a brief moment, she held his eyes, then looked away, her composure altered in a way that did not escape him.
The memory of the previous night settled more firmly into place.
Maxwell felt, with quiet certainty, that he understood the cause.
Jane’s reaction followed, her posture stiffening slightly as she adjusted her hold on the child, her gaze lowering in clear deference. Cissie, too, drew back a fraction, her hand still resting against Poppet’s fur, though her attention jumped at once.
Only Gwen remained unchanged.
“Your Grace,” she said, her tone warm but composed. “You join us at last.”
Maxwell inclined his head. “Mrs. Whitcombe.”
“You must forgive us,” she continued, glancing briefly at the others. “We have imposed upon your household rather early in the day.”
“It appears so,” he said.
There was no censure in his tone, though the observation stood plainly enough.
Arabella shifted slightly in her seat, her hands folding together in her lap as she gathered herself. “I invited them,” she said, her voice steady despite the color that still lingered in her cheeks. “I hope you do not mind.”
Maxwell’s gaze rested on her for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. “I do not at all,” he said.
Relief flickered briefly across her expression before she could conceal it.
Gwen’s lips curved faintly. “You are most gracious, Your Grace. You will join us?”
Maxwell nodded stiffly. The room was warmer than the rest of the house. And yet, he found that he did not immediately refuse.
“I will stand,” he said.
“Of course,” Gwen replied easily.
Arabella glanced at him once more, her gaze lingering for a fraction longer this time before she turned back to her companions, the conversation resuming with only a slight hesitation.
Maxwell remained where he was, observing.
She moved differently among them. As though she had not spent the past days navigating unfamiliar ground. As though she had not lain beneath him the night before, her breath unsteady, her composure altered in ways he had not anticipated.
The contrast unsettled him.
Maxwell’s gaze swept the room once more before returning, inevitably, to her. He had come to inform her of his departure. Within the next few hours.
His gaze settled on her again, more deliberate now.
And as her laughter rose once more, softer this time, something in his expression sharpened almost imperceptibly as he considered how, precisely, he intended to tell her.
* * *
Arabella had not expected him to stay.
When Gwen gestured lightly toward the empty chair beside her and said, “Will you sit, Your Grace? Or do you wish to make us all uneasy standing so?”
Arabella had prepared herself for a polite refusal, something brief and distant that would allow him to retreat once more into the quiet order he preferred.
But he sat.
The motion was unhurried, deliberate, as though he had weighed the decision and found no sufficient reason to deny it.
Arabella felt the shift immediately, though she did not let it show.
She kept her hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture composed, even as her attention sharpened in a way she could not quite control.
“Well,” Gwen said, a hint of amusement threading through her voice, “this is a rare honor. We must make the most of it.”
Jane let out a small, nervous laugh, adjusting her hold on William as she glanced briefly toward Maxwell before lowering her gaze again. “We would not wish to disappoint,” she said.
Cissie, still half-turned toward Poppet, added, “Though I fear we may be poor company compared to your usual engagements, Your Grace.”
Maxwell regarded them for a moment, his expression steady, before replying, “You assume I have more engaging alternatives.”
The remark was dry, but there was a faint shift in his tone that softened it, just enough to draw a quiet smile from Gwen.
“Oh, I think you do,” she said. “You simply choose not to indulge them.”
Arabella glanced at him then, curious despite herself.
He inclined his head slightly, neither confirming nor denying the observation.
The conversation moved on, and to Arabella’s growing surprise, he did not withdraw from it. He did not dominate it either. Instead, he contributed in measured intervals, his words chosen with care, his tone controlled but not entirely devoid of warmth.
Jane spoke of Bath again, her voice gaining confidence as she described the promenades and the endless parade of hopeful introductions. “One begins to feel rather like a display piece,” she said, smiling faintly. “Presented and assessed in equal measure.”
“And yet you endured it,” Maxwell replied.
Jane blinked, then laughed, the sound more genuine this time. “I had little choice.”
“There is always a choice,” he said.
Arabella felt herself watching him more closely.
There was something different in him now. Not entirely unfamiliar, but not what she had come to expect either. The restraint remained, the careful control, but beneath it she caught glimpses of the charming Maxwell Collins that Gwen had once told her of.
Her husband’s charm was not overt. Not practiced in the way she imagined it might once have been. But it was there, subtle and precise, appearing only when he chose to allow it.
Cissie, encouraged by the ease that had begun to settle over the group, ventured a question of her own. “And you, Your Grace? Do you attend such gatherings often?”
“Rarely,” he said.
“And yet you are here with us…”
He glanced, briefly, toward Arabella. “Circumstances change.”
The simplicity of the answer drew a quiet smile from Gwen, though she said nothing.
Arabella felt the weight of that glance longer than she ought.
By the time he rose, the initial tension had softened, Jane’s laughter no longer edged with uncertainty, Cissie’s posture less guarded. Even Poppet seemed content, stretched lazily across the cushion as though she had orchestrated the entire affair.
“You will excuse me,” Maxwell said.
Gwen inclined her head. “Of course.”
Arabella looked up at him, something unspoken catching briefly in her expression, though she did not voice it. He gave no sign of noticing as he stepped away, the quiet order of his presence withdrawing with him as he left the room.
The laughter resumed, though it carried a different tone now.
“He is not at all what I expected,” Jane said after a moment, her voice hushed despite the absence of anyone to overhear.
“No,” Cissie agreed. “Nor I.”
Gwen’s gaze settled on Arabella, thoughtful. “And you?”
“I am still deciding,” she said thoughtfully.
It was some time later when she found him again.
The house had quieted once more, the echo of voices fading into something more familiar. Arabella moved through the corridor with measured steps, though her thoughts were anything but steady. She found him where she expected, in his study, the door partially open.
He looked up as she entered.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Arabella crossed the room slowly, her gaze fixed on him in a way she did not attempt to disguise. There was something different in the way she looked at him now, more deliberate, as though she were attempting to reconcile what she had seen with what she thought she knew.
“You surprised me,” she said at last.
Maxwell leaned back slightly in his chair. “In what way?”
“You stayed,” she said. “And you spoke. Quite well, I might add.”
A faint shift touched his expression, something that might have been amusement. “I am capable of it.”
“So I have learned,” she replied. “Though I cannot help but notice that you have not extended such efforts toward me.”
The words left her before she could temper them, and for a brief moment, she considered retreating from them entirely.
Maxwell did not allow it.
A low chuckle escaped him, unexpected enough that Arabella felt it more than she heard it.
“Is that what you would prefer?” he asked.
Her breath caught, just slightly.
“No,” she said quickly. “I merely observe.”
“And yet you raise the matter?”
Her gaze faltered, then steadied. “It is difficult not to.”
He studied her for a moment longer, the amusement fading into something more measured. “You are flushed,” he said.
“I am not,” she returned, though the warmth in her cheeks betrayed her at once.
He did not press her further.
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but it was no longer light. Something had shifted again, the earlier ease giving way to something more uncertain, more aware.
Maxwell rose.
“I leave within the next few hours, Arabella,” he said.
The words landed cleanly, without preamble.
Arabella stilled.
“For how long?” she asked.
“About a week. Should not take longer than that.”
She nodded, once. “I see— All will be well here.”
He watched her, his gaze steady, as though waiting for something more. “Good.”
She said nothing, but the question lingered all the same. He knew it. She knew he knew it. Their arrangement. Their understanding. The quiet expectation that had settled between them after that first night.
Arabella drew in a slow breath, her hands folding together once more as though to contain the thought before it could form into words.
Maxwell stepped closer.
“You need not ask,” he said quietly.
Her gaze lifted to his, and the space between them felt smaller than it had any right to be.
“I was not going to,” she replied.
“No,” he said. “You were not.”
The tension held.
And neither of them moved to break it.