Six matches he rejected. Then his ruthless grandmother dragged a muddy, penniless stranger in from the rain — a woman hired to challenge him. Arthur Penhaligan swore he would die alone. But Claraara Ashford told him the truth, and the Earl of Mal found himself begging for three more days.

 PART 4

Dust motes danced in the shafts of afternoon light piercing the high windows of the Oak Haven library. It was a cavernous room, smelling of leather bindings, beeswax, and wood smoke.

Arthur sat at a massive oak desk in the corner, surrounded by ledger books bound in cracked red leather. He was auditing the estate’s quarterly expenses — a tedious task he usually delegated to his steward. But today he needed the distraction.

His focus, however, kept drifting to the woman seated on the velvet sofa near the fireplace.

Claraara had been in the library for an hour. She had not spoken a word. She had simply walked in, selected a thick volume on agricultural crop rotation from the lower shelves, and sat down to read.

A bizarre choice of literature.

Arthur had watched her turn the pages, waiting for her to abandon the dry text, to reach for a novel, or worse, to attempt to strike up a conversation about his estate. She did neither. She simply read, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“You cannot possibly find soil yields in Norfolk engaging,” Arthur finally said, tossing his pen onto the desk.

The sharp clatter broke the silence like a gunshot.

Claraara did not jump. She carefully marked her page with a scrap of ribbon, closed the book, and rested it on her lap.

“It is entirely fascinating, my lord. Did you know turnips can replace the fallow year entirely — feeding the livestock through winter, while their manure does the work of restoring the soil for next year’s wheat?”

“I own three thousand acres in Norfolk, Miss Ashford. I am intimately acquainted with the virtues of the turnip.”

Arthur leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why are you reading that?”

“Because it is practical,” she said simply. “And because my aunt’s library consisted entirely of religious tracts condemning sinners to hellfire. Learning about root vegetables is a vast improvement.”

Arthur let out a short, rough laugh. It startled him. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, suddenly aware of the rough stubble there.

“My grandmother has made her intentions clear, Miss Ashford. She brought you here to be a trap. A snare for an earl who refuses to marry.”

“I am aware.”

“And yet you participate in this farce.”

Arthur stood, restless. He walked toward the fireplace, closing the physical distance between them.

“You sit in my library. You eat my food. You let her parade you in front of me like a prize mare. Why? If you despise titles and wealth as much as you claim — why are you here?”

Claraara looked up at him. He was towering over her, his broad shoulders blocking the warmth of the fire. Most men used their size to intimidate. Arthur used it as a shield.

“I am here because the alternative was the workhouse,” she said, her tone brutally matter-of-fact. “Or the streets. My aunt left me nothing. When the dowager countess offered me a stipend and a roof over my head for two weeks, I took it. I am not a snare, Lord Mal. I am a woman trying to survive winter.”

Arthur froze.

The absolute lack of self-pity in her voice hit him harder than a physical blow. The women he usually dealt with cried over a torn hem or a missed invitation to Almack’s. This woman was calmly explaining that she was one bad decision away from starvation.

“You agreed to be a pawn in my grandmother’s game,” he said, his voice dropping, “for a warm bed.”

“Yes.” Claraara held his gaze. “I do not want your title. I do not want your estate. I certainly do not want a husband who looks at me as though I am a disease he is trying to cure. I am simply riding out the fortnight to collect my wages.”

“You are entirely safe from me.”

Arthur stared down at her. He felt a sudden, sharp twist in his gut. Guilt — unfamiliar and deeply unwelcome.

He had spent his life projecting the toxic dynamics of his parents’ marriage onto every woman he met. He had assumed everyone was calculating, manipulative, hungry for power.

But Claraara was not calculating. She was desperate. And she was honest about it.

He slowly lowered himself into the leather armchair opposite her, resting his elbows on his knees. The defensive posture he usually maintained collapsed.

“My parents despised one another,” he said. The words tasted like ash. He had never spoken them aloud to anyone outside his immediate family. “They married for land and alliances. They spent the next twenty years tearing each other apart. And they used my childhood as the battlefield. I swore I would never inflict that kind of cold, calculated misery on another human being — or on myself.”

Claraara watched him carefully. The cynical, untouchable Earl was suddenly looking at the floor, his hands clasped tightly together.

“Survival requires cold calculations, my lord,” she said softly, the harsh edge of her voice smoothing. “But marriage shouldn’t. You are right to avoid it, if it means chaining yourself to a lie.”

Arthur looked up. The gray of his eyes was no longer flat. It was storm-tossed, searching her face for judgment — and finding none.

“You are a very strange woman, Claraara Ashford,” he murmured.

“And you are a terrible host, Arthur Penhaligan.” She matched his quiet tone. “But your library is excellent. Now, if you are finished interrogating me, I would like to get back to my turnips.”

Arthur smiled. It was a small, rusty thing — but it changed the entire landscape of his face. He stood, bowed slightly, and returned to his desk.

The room settled back into silence. But the heavy, suffocating air had lifted.

For the rest of the afternoon, the only sounds were the scratching of his pen and the quiet turning of her pages.