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

Chapter 7

Julian arrived at the Ashworth house on the third day, as he had promised.

Clara watched him from the window of her room. He rode alone, without his mother, without servants, without the trappings of his rank. He dismounted in the narrow street, handed his reins to a boy, and stood for a moment looking up at the house.

She had not expected him to come alone.

She had not expected the quiet way he stood there, as though he were not a duke arriving to claim a bride but a man gathering his courage before entering a stranger’s home.

Clara had spent three days preparing for this moment. She had rehearsed the words she would say. She had practiced the calm, steady voice she would use when she refused him. She had imagined every version of this conversation, and in every version, she had been in control.

She had not accounted for the way her heart would beat faster when she saw him.

She had not accounted for the way his eyes would find hers through the window, as though he had known exactly where she would be standing.

She had not accounted for the way she would forget every word she had rehearsed.

The maid announced him. Clara descended the stairs with her mother’s hand on her back, propelling her forward like a ship being launched into a storm.

Julian stood in the parlor. He had not sat. He had not accepted tea. He stood by the window in the same coat he had worn at the ball, and he looked exactly as controlled as he had that night — precise, composed, unreachable.

Until he saw her.

Something shifted in his expression. It was not a smile. It was not a softening. It was a recognition, as though he had been holding something in reserve and had only now decided to release it.

“Miss Ashworth.”

“Your grace.”

Mrs. Ashworth excused herself. The door closed. Clara and Julian were alone.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“I did not expect you to come alone,” Clara said finally.

“I did not expect to come alone.” Julian’s voice was quiet. “My mother wanted to accompany me. I asked her to remain at Ravenscroft.”

“Did she agree?”

“She did not. I left anyway.”

Clara almost smiled. “That must have been a difficult conversation.”

“It was not a conversation. It was a departure.”

The silence returned, different this time. Less hostile. More uncertain.

“I have thought about what happened,” Julian said. “Every night since the ball. I have turned it over in my mind, examined it from every angle. I have tried to find the version of events where you are a schemer, where you planned this, where you are anything other than what you seem.”

Clara’s throat tightened. “And what do I seem?”

“Honest. Stubborn. Temperamental with animals.” He paused. “And utterly unprepared for what it means to be the wife of a duke.”

The words fell between them like stones.

“Then why did you do it?” Clara asked. “Why did you propose?”

“Because it was the only way to protect you.”

“From scandal.”

“From my mother. From Mrs. Harcourt. From every woman in that room who would have spent the rest of the season destroying you piece by piece.” Julian’s voice was steady. “I have seen what society does to women who are caught in compromising positions. I have watched them disappear — not from shame, but from the slow erosion of reputation. One whispered rumor at a time. One door closed, then another, until there is nowhere left to go.”

Clara’s hands had begun to tremble. She pressed them together to still them.

“And you think marriage to you would have protected me from that?”

“I know it would have.”

“At what cost?”

Julian’s expression flickered. “I do not understand.”

“Your mother came to see us.” Clara’s voice was quieter now. “The day after the ball. She told my parents that I am not suitable for you. She told them that I should refuse you. She told them that if I did not, my family would be forced to leave the county.”

Julian’s face changed. The control did not break, but it cracked, just slightly, along the edges.

“She had no right —”

“She is your mother. She has every right. She is protecting you from a woman who is beneath your station.”

“You are not beneath my station.”

“Your mother believes I am.”

“My mother believes a great many things that are not true.”

Clara looked at him. “Is she wrong? I am the daughter of a cloth merchant. I have no title, no fortune, no connections that would benefit the Duke of Ravenscroft. I am not suitable for you. I know that. You know that. The only difference is that I am willing to admit it.”

Julian crossed the room. He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could see the tension in his jaw, the exhaustion in his eyes.

“You are wrong,” he said. “Not about your station. About what I want.”

Clara’s breath caught.

“I did not propose to you because I was trapped,” Julian said. “I proposed to you because I could not imagine letting you walk out of that room and never seeing you again.”

“That is not —”

“I have spent three days trying to understand it. I have failed. I only know that when I saw you asleep in my bed, with my dog curled against you and my puppies tucked beneath your chin, I felt something I have never felt before. I felt as though I had come home to a room I did not know I had left.”

Clara’s heart was beating so loudly she was certain he could hear it.

“You cannot mean that.”

“I do not say things I do not mean.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know that you follow lost animals into danger. I know that you read about albatrosses and believe in love that chooses freely. I know that you would rather face a firing squad than a ballroom full of eligible bachelors. I know that you are brave and stubborn and honest, and I know that I have spent the past three days thinking of nothing but you.”

Clara’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back.

“This is madness,” she whispered.

“Probably.”

“We cannot build a marriage on one night and a handful of conversations.”

“Then we will build it on more.” Julian’s voice was steady. “I am not asking you to marry me tomorrow. I am asking you to give me time. Let me court you properly. Let me show you who I am, not who the world believes me to be. Let me prove that I am not my mother, not my title, not the expectations that surround us.”

Clara looked at him. “And if I discover that we are wrong? That this was nothing but a beautiful mistake?”

Julian held her gaze. “Then I will let you go.”

The words were so simple. So honest. So unlike anything Clara had ever heard from a man who held power over her.

“One month,” she said.

Julian’s expression did not change, but something in his shoulders relaxed. “One month.”

“Courtship. Proper. With chaperones and walks and conversations that do not begin with me waking up in your bed.”

His mouth twitched. “I will endeavor to keep you out of my bed.”

“That is not funny.”

“It is a little funny.”

Clara looked at him, and despite everything — the scandal, the Duchess, the impossible gulf between their stations — she felt the corner of her own mouth lift.

“It is a little funny,” she admitted.