The words settled between them.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, slowly, something in Maxwell changed. It was subtle, the kind of shift that might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but Arabella saw it clearly. The tension in him eased, not entirely, but enough that the rigid line of his posture softened.
“You would forbid it?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
“I would,” she said.
Even in the dim light, she saw it then—the way his gaze altered, the way something warmer touched it where there had been only restraint before.
Maxwell inclined his head slightly. “Then I shall do as my duchess commands.”
Arabella let out a small breath she had not realized she was holding. “Good,” she murmured.
The word barely left her lips before he moved.
His hand came to her face, not abruptly, but with a steadiness that drew her attention fully to him. His fingers were warm against her cheek, his touch firm enough to hold her there without force.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
She forgot to breathe for a moment, hesitating only a fraction before doing as he asked.
The world shifted at once. Without sight, every other sensation sharpened. The quiet of the carriage. The steady rhythm of movement beneath them. The faint sound of fabric as he moved closer.
And then the soft, unmistakable sound of his mask being removed.
She did not dare move or open her eyes.
She waited, almost panting, and just as she made to wet her lips with her tongue, his mouth found hers.
There was no hesitation in it. It was immediate, certain, and it carried something deeper than urgency, something that held rather than claimed.
Arabella leaned into him without thought, her hand lifting to his arm, then higher, fingers curling as though to keep herself planted.
The kiss deepened, unhurried but full, until there was little space left for anything else. When they finally parted, her breath was uneven, her eyes still closed.
There was a pause, brief but weighted, before his voice came again, lower now.
“Look at me.”
Arabella’s eyes opened.
The carriage light caught him fully now, unobstructed.
For a moment, she did not understand what she was seeing, not just because it was unfamiliar, but because it washim, and not him all at once. The line of his jaw remained, the shape of his mouth, the steadiness in his gaze, but the scars altered the rest, drawing the eye where once it would not have lingered. One side of his face bore the brunt of it, the skin marked, uneven, still faintly red where it had not fully settled.
She did not look away.
If anything, her gaze steadied. Traced. Took him in as though committing him to memory without interruption this time.
Maxwell did not speak. He watched her, not guarded now, not braced for reaction, but still enough that she understood what it cost him to remain so.
And then, before she could think better of it, Arabella leaned forward.
Her hand came to his face, mirroring his earlier touch, her fingers resting carefully along the scarred side as though the contact required intention. Not hesitation. Not pity. Simply care.
And she kissed him.
