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 6

Matilda’s sitting room was stiflingly warm — a massive fire roaring in the hearth despite the mild afternoon weather. The old woman sat in her chair, a stack of crisp banknotes resting on the small table beside her. She looked at Claraara as she entered, her dark eyes sharp and assessing.

“Sit,” Matilda commanded.

Claraara remained standing.

“I prefer to stand, my lady. I assume you called me here to conclude our arrangement.”

Matilda’s fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the armrest.

“You are leaving early. Your seat on the coach is not booked until Tuesday.”

“I have overstayed my welcome. The experiment is concluded.” Claraara looked directly at the money. “Arthur is not going to marry me, my lady. He is too guarded. And I am too practical. We both know this was a fool’s errand. I would like my wages, so I may pack.”

“He defends you,” Matilda pointed out, her voice dropping its usual harshness. “He spent three hours yesterday morning arguing with his steward about repairing the roof on a tenant cottage — because you casually mentioned the dampness during breakfast. He has not rejected a single match this week. Because he has not thought of another woman since you arrived.”

Claraara swallowed hard. Her chest tightened, but she forced her voice to remain steady.

“He pities me. Pity is not a foundation for a marriage, my lady. It is a foundation for resentment. I saw enough resentment in my aunt’s house to last a lifetime. I will not be a charity case for your grandson to assuage his guilt.”

Matilda sighed — a long, rattling sound. She picked up the banknotes and held them out.

“You are too proud, Claraara Ashford. It will freeze you to death one day.”

“Pride is the only thing I own that cannot be taken from me,” Claraara said, stepping forward and taking the money. She did not count it. She shoved it into her pocket. “Thank you for the employment, my lady. I will be gone before dinner.”

Packing took less than ten minutes. She owned practically nothing.

Claraara fastened the straps of her battered leather satchel, hauled it onto her shoulder, and walked out into the corridor. The house was quiet. She navigated to the back stairs, intending to slip out through the kitchen and walk to the village coaching inn.

She made it as far as the side door in the boot room.

“Where are you going?”

Claraara froze. The voice was low, rough, and entirely too close.

She turned slowly. Arthur stood in the doorway leading to the main hall. He was holding a riding crop, his boots caked in fresh mud. He looked at the heavy bag on her shoulder — and the color drained from his face.

“I am leaving, Lord Mal,” Claraara said. Her grip on the leather strap tightened until her knuckles ached. “My business with your grandmother is concluded.”

Arthur stepped into the boot room. The space was small, smelling of damp wool and saddle soap. He closed the door behind him, cutting off her escape route.

“The fortnight ends on Tuesday.”

“I am releasing you from your misery a few days early.” She tried to step around him. He didn’t move. “Please step aside.”

“No.”

Claraara looked up, her frustration finally cracking her stoic facade.

“I do not belong here, Arthur. You know I don’t. I don’t have the pedigree. I don’t have the patience for your society. And I refuse to stay here and be studied like a fascinating insect you found in the dirt. I need to secure a position before winter sets in.”

“A position.” He repeated the word like poison in his mouth. “You are going to go scrub floors. Or tolerate another vicious old woman while you freeze in a drafty house.”

“Yes.” Claraara’s voice rose, the raw volume shocking them both. “Because that is my reality.”

She dropped the bag. It hit the floor with a heavy thud.

“That is the world I live in. Until this afternoon, I had three pounds and twelve shillings to my name. I cannot stay here and pretend I am something I am not.”

She stopped. The next words slipped out before she could catch them.

“It hurts too much.”

The admission hung in the small, damp room, vulnerable and bleeding. Claraara stood frozen, staring at the mud on Arthur’s boots, unable to take it back, unable to breathe.

Arthur stared at her.

The cynicism that had armored him for thirty-two years shattered entirely. He didn’t see a transaction. He didn’t see a woman trying to trap him. He saw a woman terrified of hoping for something better — because hope was a luxury she could not afford.

He closed the distance between them in two strides. He didn’t touch her. But he stood close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him.