She had known this was the purpose of it all. The agreement had been clear from the beginning. There had been no misunderstanding in that regard.
And yet?—
Maxwell had not been there to hear it.
The thought came with a strange, conflicting relief.
He would expect it. Accept it. Perhaps even welcome it as the successful conclusion of their arrangement.
And then?
Arabella’s gaze drifted toward the window, unfocused.
Their agreement had never accounted for this moment—for what came after. For what she had begun to feel.
She had intended to speak with him, to give voice to the shift that had taken place between them, but her courage faltered beneath the weight of it. The possibility of his rejection, once distant, now felt immediate and final.
She pressed her hand lightly against Poppet’s back, grounding herself in the small, familiar warmth.
There was certainty in one thing, at least.
The child.
Whatever else might come, whatever choices lay ahead, that would not change.
Her love would not be divided. It would not be withheld.
And if it meant protecting herself from what Maxwell might say—from what he might choose?—
Then she would do so.
The thought formed slowly, not with drama, but with quiet clarity.
She would not wait to be dismissed.
She would not stand before him and hear that their arrangement had reached its natural end.
If there was to be an end, she would be the one to name it.
Arabella exhaled slowly, her hand stilling against Poppet’s fur.
She might tell him.
She might even give him the chance to ask her to stay.
The thought slipped in quietly—dangerous for how hopeful it felt—and she closed her eyes before it could take hold.
No.
She would speak first.
CHAPTER 25
The house had gone quiet by the time Maxwell came to her.
It was a familiar quiet now, one Arabella had come to recognize in the evenings when the household settled, and the world beyond their walls felt distant. She had prepared herself for this night as she had the others—calmly, methodically, without allowing her thoughts to wander too far ahead of her actions. Still, there was a difference she could not quite deny, something beneath the surface that would not settle into routine, no matter how carefully she arranged herself.
She stood near the window when he entered, her hands clasped lightly before her, the faint reflection of candlelight wavering across the glass. She did not turn immediately at the sound of the door closing, though she felt each step he took as he crossed the room.
