Chapter 18 #2
It was darker than most would have chosen, though not somber. There was depth to it, a richness that lent itself to presence rather than ornament, the cut refined without excess. It was not a frivolous gown. It was one meant to be seen.
Arabella let the material fall more fully into view, her fingers brushing along its surface as though to confirm what she saw.
“It is beautiful,” she said, the words soft, though entirely certain.
Maxwell inclined his head slightly. “It seemed appropriate.”
She looked up at him then, her expression open in a way that held no restraint. “Appropriate?” she repeated, a hint of warmth entering her voice. “What a curious word to use,” she mused with a light chuckle.
“It is suitable,” he amended. “I had it designed for you, as your position requires it.”
Her gaze did not leave his. “You had this dress made for me?”
“I did.”
Arabella studied him for a moment longer, as though weighing the intention behind the gesture rather than the gesture itself.
Then, slowly, her expression softened further.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I shall wear it with the proper seriousness it deserves,” she said lightly, and the surplus of gratitude beneath it was unmistakable.
Maxwell did not respond at once. He found, unexpectedly, that the acknowledgment settled more firmly than he had anticipated.
Maxwell’s gaze shifted slightly, as though something had occurred to him. “You received my last letter.”
It was not quite a question.
Arabella’s brows lifted, just enough to suggest she recognized the distinction. “I did.”
He waited.
She let the silence stretch a moment longer than necessary, then reached—deliberately—for the concealed seam at her waist. From it, she drew a folded page, already softened at the edges from handling.
“You are not in the habit of writing so concisely,” she said, holding it between her fingers rather than returning it. “I was not certain whether to be reassured or offended.”
Maxwell’s expression did not shift, though something in his gaze sharpened. “And which did you decide?”
Arabella tilted her head slightly, considering him. “I have not decided yet.”
The answer lingered between them, lighter in tone than in meaning.
She refolded the letter with care, but did not immediately return it to its place.
Another knock at the door interrupted the moment. “Dinner is served, Your Grace.”
Maxwell glanced toward the doorway, and the footman disappeared at once; then his gaze fell back to Arabella. “We should—”
She did not allow him to finish. Instead, she turned toward him with a small, knowing look, one that carried a quiet mischief he had not yet grown accustomed to anticipating.
“You have not changed,” she said, her gaze moving briefly over his traveling coat. “Still, I do not believe anyone here will object.”
Maxwell’s brow shifted slightly. “It is customary.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But customs are not always necessary.”
She held his gaze a moment longer, then added, softer still, “There is no one here to observe us. We may do as we like.”
The implication was simple, though not without effect.
Maxwell exhaled, something in the sound closer to a laugh than he would have permitted elsewhere. “You are suggesting we disregard propriety entirely.”
“I am suggesting we consider it selectively – especially in our own home when the Lord of the House has just returned,” she replied. “Besides, you cannot stand there and tell me that you have dressed in tails every evening when you were traveling.”
The answer was delivered with such ease that he found himself conceding before he had fully considered it. A fact that had lifted the corners of his lips unbidden. “Very well, then. I should like to at least freshen up.”
Arabella’s satisfaction showed only in the smallest shift of her expression before she turned, carefully setting the gown back into the box. She closed it with the same attention she had given its opening, then moved toward the bell pull.
“Have dinner brought to the drawing room,” she said when the butler appeared. “For both of us.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
The arrangements were made quickly as he departed to his rooms to clean his face and hands from being on the road.
By the time Maxwell entered the drawing room again, it had already been prepared, the table set with quiet efficiency.
The earlier impression of the room returned to him, though now it was altered further by her presence within it.
Arabella had taken a seat near the fire, though not at a distance. When he approached, she shifted slightly, leaving no question as to where he was meant to sit.
He did.
The meal began without ceremony, though not without conversation. It moved easily, more so than it had before his departure, their exchange settling into a rhythm that required little effort to maintain.
“There is something I meant to tell you,” Arabella said after a time, her attention returning to him as she set aside her glass. “An invitation arrived earlier this afternoon.”
Maxwell looked at her. “From whom?”
“The Dowager Countess of Lampton,” she replied. “She is hosting a masquerade.”
“Ah, yes, her annual gathering seems to be a highlight of every Season,” Maxwell said, recalling the name. “It is very well attended… though the guest list is always curated.”
“So I have been told.”
“And do you wish to attend?”
Arabella’s lips curved slightly. “I believe I must,” she said. “It seems an event of some importance, and as you said… the guest list is always curated.”
Maxwell nodded once. “Then we shall attend.”
She tilted her head. “We?”
“You are my wife,” he said. “You will not go alone, Arabella.”
There was no hesitation in the statement, and her expression immediately softened. “I am happy I did not have to force you,” she joked.
Maxwell laughed then and shook his head as he started in on his dinner.
Their conversation moved on, but remained centered in a way that felt less deliberate than before, their attention returning to one another without effort.
Maxwell became aware of it gradually, not in the words themselves, but in the distance between them.
The small, unthinking touches.
The way her hand brushed his sleeve when she reached for something just beyond her place. The way his own fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary when he passed her a roll. The absence of distance, not only in proximity, but in attention.
He had lived for years with silence as a constant. It had never troubled him. It had never required examination.
Now, it felt altered.
Not unwelcome. Not intrusive. Simply… different.
Arabella laughed softly at something he said, her hand coming to rest briefly against his arm as she did. The contact was light, unconsidered, and held long enough to register before she drew it back.
Maxwell did not move immediately after.
When he did, it was only to shift slightly closer.
The realization came not as a disruption, but as something already in motion.
He was aware of her in a way that extended beyond conversation, beyond obligation.
And as her gaze returned to him, steady and unguarded, he found that the restraint he had maintained before felt less certain in its necessity.
“You are looking at me as though you have forgotten something,” she said, her tone soft but observant.
“On the contrary,” Maxwell replied. “I believe I am remembering.”
She did not ask what, and the silence that followed was heated more than he had expected it to be.
Once their meal concluded, Arabella rose, “Good night, husband. I am so glad you arrived back home safely.”
Home.
Maxwell stood and bowed his head slightly, “Goodnight, Arabella.” His voice was rough as his mind raced between propriety and impropriety, and possibility, and he watched her leave the dim lit drawing room.
He could not remember at which point he let the urge to keep her close to him take over, but it did, nonetheless.
“Wait,” he heard himself say.
She turned silently toward him with that same openness that had greeted him at the door, “Yes?”
Maxwell blinked in surprise before he recovered, dropping his napkin upon the table and closing the distance between them.
Duty remained. He knew that. And the terms had not changed either.
Still, as he reached for her, as she came to him without hesitation, there was a moment, brief but undeniable, in which the distinction between what was required and what was chosen blurred entirely.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” he asked in the diminished space between them.
His eyes dropped as her mouth parted slightly before her tongue pulled in her bottom lip, and he growled lowly in response. “I—”
“Stay with me tonight, please?” he corrected, and his hand curled around hers.
Arabella nodded her head, unable to trust her voice.
Something in his tone settled deep within her that was quieter than before, but no less certain.
She did not hesitate again and, without further delay, led him out of the room and up the stairs.
She was aware of him behind her, of the weight of his presence in every step she took.
The door had barely closed before he reached for her.
Her breath caught as his hand found her wrist and turned her back toward him, not roughly, but with enough insistence that she felt it.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then his hand rose— slow this time, deliberate— brushing along her arm, her shoulder, until it came to rest at the back of her neck.
“Arabella…”
Her name was quieter now. Not restrained. Something else.
She did not answer, just stepped into him instead.
That was all it took.
Her hands found his clothing first, though there was less coordination than urgency in it.
His coat slipped from his shoulders under her finger, and he answered in kind, his hands moved to her waist, then higher, as though he could not decide where to settle.
Fabric gave way quickly beneath them, each layer abandoned more hastily than the last.
When her dress fell, he stilled long enough that she felt the hesitation. His gaze moved over her, slower now, and her chest tightened.
“Do not stop,” she whispered, and that broke whatever restraint remained.
His mouth found her throat, and this time, there was nothing measured in it. The press of his lips was firmer, his breath uneven as he followed the line of her neck. Arabella’s hand tightened in his hair, the reaction immediate, unthinking.
He lifted her then, more quickly than before, and she clung to him without hesitation, her legs wrapped around his waist as though she had done it a hundred times.
The contact pulled a sharp breath from her as he drew her in fully, leaving no space between them.
The gasp from her dragged in his ear as he pressed his arousal hard against her slick, heated core.
“Maxwell—” she did not finish it.
He barely made it to the bed before his body took over instinctively, but he guided her softly onto the pillows and hovered above her. Arabella’s hips tilted up slightly to meet his; the heat was almost unbearable to resist a moment longer.
“Tell me,” he demanded, one hand braced beside her while the other slid along her thigh teasingly.
She met his gaze. “Yes.”
That was enough.
When he moved, it was not slow nor was it careless. The urgency remained, but it was guided by instinct. Her breath broke against him as she adjusted, her hands finding his arms, holding there.
Her moans and soft gasps fell into a rhythm that he conducted. He saw her in flashes of pleasure with each thrust, her expression changing each time he buried himself in her until she gripped his arms, eyes wide.
“Maxwell, please,” she barely whispered, but it was enough. He pulled her legs around his waist as he dug into her deeper and rougher still until finally her felt her crash around him in waves of ecstasy.
Her soft cries drove him mad until he finally found his release in her. And as the night settled around them, Maxwell found that the certainty and silence that he had once relied upon no longer stood as firmly as it had before.