She Fell Asleep in the War Duke’s Bed—While 59 Women Waited Below

Chapter 6

The Duchess of Ravenscroft arrived at the Ashworth house the following evening, and she did not come to offer congratulations.

Clara had spent the day in a state of suspended terror. She had told her mother everything before dawn — the dog, the room, the bed, the duke’s proposal. Mrs. Ashworth had listened without interrupting. When Clara finished, she said only, “Go to bed.”

There was no scolding. That was worse.

At breakfast, in the passage, across the supper table, her mother’s anger struck against the same invisible barrier. Until then, I ask that your daughter be treated with kindness. Julian’s words stood between them, and Mrs. Ashworth had been kind. Clara spent the day waiting for anger and receiving silence instead.

Then the knocker sounded. Once. Twice. A third time.

The sound passed through the house like a verdict.

The maid opened the front door. Cold air entered first. Then the Duchess of Ravenscroft stepped inside.

She stood beneath the lamp in a dark traveling cloak, her silver hair perfectly arranged, her expression calm enough to frighten the entire household.

“Forgive the hour,” the Duchess said. “I must speak with Mr. and Mrs. Ashworth.”

Her gaze lifted briefly toward Clara, who had been frozen on the stairs. It was the look one gave a stain after deciding how difficult it would be to remove.

The Duchess was shown into the parlor. Clara was ordered upstairs. She obeyed — far enough to disappear from sight. Then she stopped in the shadows near the landing, where the parlor door had failed to close completely.

For a moment, Clara heard only the quiet sounds of power pretending to be manners. Then the Duchess spoke.

“Your daughter is not suitable for my son.”

Clara closed her eyes.

Mrs. Ashworth answered at once. “My daughter did not seek his grace’s attention.”

“No,” the Duchess replied softly. “Then she was remarkably unfortunate in where she chose to lose herself.”

“My daughter told me what happened. I believe her.”

For one foolish second, the words felt like rescue. Then the Duchess continued.

“Julian is ruled by duty. That makes him vulnerable. A clever girl need only place herself where his honor will do the rest.”

“My daughter is not clever in that way.” Mrs. Ashworth’s voice sharpened. “She is foolish with animals, stubborn, and too quick to speak when silence would serve her better.”

Upstairs, Clara almost smiled. It was not the warmest defense a mother had ever offered. It was still a defense.

“But she is not a schemer,” Mrs. Ashworth continued. “She has spent the entire season escaping the idea of marriage.”

For one impossible moment, Clara loved her mother so fiercely that it hurt.

Then the Duchess changed weapons.

“Belief is a mother’s privilege. Consequence is not.”

Mr. Ashworth spoke at last. “What do you want?”

“When Julian calls in three days, your daughter will refuse him.”

Mrs. Ashworth drew a breath. “You expect Clara to refuse a duke — to his face?”

“I expect her to correct a mistake before it becomes a life.”

Clara’s fingers tightened around the banister. Her life had already become someone else’s mistake.

“And afterward?” Mr. Ashworth asked.

“You will leave the county for a time.”

The parlor fell silent. Mrs. Ashworth’s voice changed. “You want us to leave our home.”

“I want to prevent greater damage. This is the only home your daughters have ever known, is it not? It would be a shame if they were forced to leave it under a cloud.”

The threat hung in the air like smoke.

Mr. Ashworth spoke again, his voice heavy. “We cannot force our daughter to refuse a duke. The scandal would destroy us either way.”

The Duchess’s voice was quiet. “Then I suggest you find a way to persuade her.”

Clara heard her mother begin to weep. The sound was soft, barely audible, but it cut through Clara like a blade.

She turned and walked back to her room. She sat on the edge of her bed, her hands folded in her lap, and she thought about the albatrosses.

She had told Julian about them in the chaos of his chamber, with her gown crushed and her hair falling down. She had told him about the cliffs and the birds and the proof she had been searching for her entire life. And he had not laughed. He had not smiled indulgently. He had listened.

You believe love should choose as the birds do, he had said.

I believe it should be possible, she had replied. I have simply never seen it.

She had not told him the rest. She had not told him that she had spent years watching women she loved disappear into marriages — opinion by opinion, light by light, until almost nothing remained of them. She had not told him that she was terrified of becoming one of them, that she would rather remain unwed forever than vanish slowly inside someone else’s expectations.

But she had told him about the albatross.

And he had understood.

Or she thought he had understood. Perhaps he had simply been managing her, as he had managed everything else that night — the scandal, his mother, the room full of hungry whispers.

Clara pressed her hands against her face.

She did not know what she wanted. She only knew that the Duchess was right about one thing: a life could be built on a mistake. And she would rather face the truth now than discover it too late.