Chapter 22 #3
The dance ended as all such dances did, with a measured final step and the soft retreat of music into polite applause.
Maxwell released Arabella’s hand, though not immediately, the contact lingering just long enough to register before propriety required it to end.
The space between them returned, but it did not feel the same as it had before.
A faint smile touched her lips, though it did not fully distract her from the awareness that still lingered between them. “Shall we consider the dance a success, then? Even if I was staring at you the entire time?”
Arabella’s laugh ignited the space around them, “Oh, yes, we shall.”
There was a brief pause, neither of them moving away at once, as though the moment had not yet concluded despite the music having done so.
Maxwell was aware of the room again, of the attention that had settled and shifted throughout the dance, of the way it had not pressed as heavily as it once might have.
And then it changed.
“Your Graces.”
The voice came from just to Maxwell’s right, smooth and appropriately pitched, though there was something within it that drew his attention before he fully turned.
The man who stood there, mask designed in the likeness of a wolf, inclined his head with practiced ease, his manner polished, his expression composed in a way that suggested confidence rather than caution.
“Lord Covington,” he said with a tight bow, his eyes never connecting with Maxwell’s but remaining solely on Arabella. “I trust the evening finds you well.”
Arabella’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly beside him. Not withdrawal, but clear recognition.
“It does, Lord Covington,” she replied stiffly.
Maxwell’s gaze moved between them once, briefly, before settling again on the man before him.
There was nothing overt in Covington’s manner, nothing that could be called improper, and yet there was something in the way his attention rested solely on Arabella, almost possessively, that Maxwell did not like.
Something between them just now suggested familiarity, and he immediately knew that he should not learn more about their connection in the slightest. It would anger him more so than it already has through this observed exchange.
“I wonder,” Covington continued, his tone unchanged, “if I might have the honor of the next dance.”
The request was made as it should have been, directed properly, phrased without presumption. Maxwell felt his anger rise in his chest before Arabella even answered.
Arabella glanced at him, just briefly, the look not questioning, but aware. Then she turned back to Covington.
“Of course, my lord,” she said, all three of them knowing full well that it would have been improper for her to refuse.
Maxwell inclined his head, the acknowledgment given without hesitation, though it cost him more than he cared to examine.
Covington offered his arm.
Arabella accepted it.
And then she was gone from his side.
Maxwell remained where he was for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, his attention following them as they moved onto the floor. The music had already begun again, the rhythm carrying easily through the room, though it felt altered now, sharper in a way it had not been before.
Covington danced well. That much was evident at once. His movements were practiced, his timing precise, his attention fixed entirely on his partner in a way that did not falter. Arabella matched him easily, her posture composed, her expression steady.
They looked… well-suited. The thought came unbidden, unwelcome, and Maxwell’s jaw tightened slightly.
It was not the dance itself that unsettled him. There was nothing improper in it, nothing that could be called out of place. It was the ease of it. The way Covington spoke to her, the way she responded, the familiarity that lingered beneath it even at a distance.
Maxwell became aware, then, of the tension that had begun to gather beneath his composure. It was not something he had expected.
“Enjoying the view?” The voice came from behind him this time, edged with something that did not bother to conceal its amusement.
Maxwell did not turn at once. “Roderick,” he said curtly to the man masquerading as a fox.
Roderick moved to stand beside him, his gaze following the same line Maxwell’s had taken. “I had wondered how long it might take.”
“For what?” Maxwell asked, his tone even.
Roderick let out a quiet laugh. “For that,” he said, inclining his head slightly toward the floor. “You have been standing in the same place for several minutes now. It is beginning to attract attention.”
Maxwell shifted his stance, though not enough to suggest retreat. “I am observing my wife.”
“Of course you are.” There was no mistaking the skepticism in it.
Roderick’s attention remained fixed on the dancers. “Do you know who he is?”
Maxwell’s gaze did not waver. “I have been introduced just now.”
“That is not what I meant.”
A pause followed.
Roderick’s smirk deepened slightly. “That is Lord Covington,” he said. “The man your wife once found herself… interested in.”
The words settled with a quiet precision.
Maxwell became aware, instead, of the exact moment the information took hold, the way it aligned with what he had already observed, the familiarity he had noted but not named. “I see,” he said slowly, even though he really already knew.
Roderick glanced at him, his expression openly amused now. “Do you?”
Maxwell turned then, just enough to meet his gaze directly. “If you have something further to say, you may say it plainly.”
Roderick’s brows lifted slightly. “Plainly?”
“Yes.”
A brief silence passed between them, though it did not diminish the underlying tension.
“I was under the impression that you did not care,” Roderick said at last, the words delivered lightly, though the intent behind them was anything but. “Besides, she is your wife now. It does not matter.”
Maxwell felt something shift in him then, sharper than before, less easily contained. “You thought incorrectly,” he said.
Roderick’s smile widened, as though the answer had confirmed something he had been waiting to see. “Did I?”
Maxwell’s expression hardened, though his voice remained controlled. “You will refrain from further commentary if you know what is good for you, Roderick.”
“I figured you would be indifferent,” Roderick replied nonchalantly.
“Again, how wrong you are— You should quit while you are at it, lest it become a habit.”
Roderick let out another short laugh, though it did nothing to soften the edge of the exchange. “It is a jest, Maxwell. Relax— She is your wife, and she would not have gone with him if you disapproved.”
Maxwell turned back toward the floor then, his attention returning to the movement of the dance, though it did not settle as easily as before.
The music carried Arabella and Covington through another turn, another measured exchange, though Maxwell no longer saw it as he had earlier. The ease he had once noted now grated in a way he could not ignore.
He did not care for it in the slightest.
And as the dance continued, as the distance between himself and his wife remained fixed for the duration of it, Maxwell found that the composure he had maintained throughout the evening no longer came as naturally as it had before.