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 7

“I don’t pity you, Claraara,” Arthur said, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. “I am terrified of you.”

Claraara stopped breathing. Her back pressed against the rough, whitewashed wall of the boot room. The damp cold of the stone seeped through her gray wool dress, but she barely registered it. She stared at Arthur. His chest rose and fell in jagged, uneven breaths.

“Terrified,” she repeated, her voice cracked, betraying the tight control she was desperately trying to maintain. “An hour ago I had three pounds in my pocket, Lord Mal. Your grandmother’s coin doesn’t change what I am. I pose a threat to absolutely no one.”

Arthur leaned closer, bracing one hand against the wall beside her head. He smelled of rain, horse leather, and the faint metallic tang of the cold outside.

“You pose a threat to everything I thought I knew about myself.”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t raise his voice. He spoke with a quiet, devastating intensity that pinned her to the spot.

“I spent my entire adult life watching people perform. I watched women smile until their jaws ached, pretending to love a man they despised because he had a title. I watched her — my mother — systematically destroy my father’s reputation over breakfast, while pouring his tea with perfect, chilling grace. I built walls so high and so thick, I thought nothing could breach them. I resolved to die alone rather than participate in the lie.”

Claraara swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight.

“And what does that have to do with me? I have not lied to you.”

“That is exactly the point.” His voice dropped further, scraping raw. “You don’t lie. You walk into my house, track mud on my floors, and tell me I am insufferable. You don’t ask permission. You don’t simper. You look at me, and you see exactly what I am.”

He paused.

“A coward. Hiding in a very large, very expensive fortress.”

“You are not a coward.”

The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Arthur let out a ragged breath.

“I am. Or I was — until you stood in my library and told me survival requires cold calculation, but marriage shouldn’t. You made me realize that I have been starving myself to avoid being poisoned.”

Claraara closed her eyes. The ache in her chest was unbearable. This was the fantasy stalking her. The fairy tale trying to take root in the harsh, barren soil of her reality. She couldn’t let it.

She opened her eyes, forcing herself to look at the mud on his boots, at the immaculate cut of his coat, at the unbridgeable chasm between them.

“Stop.” She pushed her hands against his chest. He didn’t budge. But he didn’t crowd her either. He simply absorbed the rejection. “You are romanticizing my poverty, Arthur. You think my honesty is refreshing because it is a novelty. In a month, when the ton is laughing at you for marrying a penniless spinster who talks about bed pans at dinner — the novelty will wear off. You will resent me. And I will not survive being hated by the one person I—”

She bit her tongue, cutting off the admission. It was too much. Too raw.

Arthur caught her wrist. His grip was firm but entirely gentle. He slowly pulled her hand away from his chest, keeping his fingers wrapped loosely around hers.

“The one person you — what, Claraara?”

She looked away, staring at the brass handle of the boot room door.

“It doesn’t matter. I am leaving.”

“Look at me.”

She refused.

Arthur reached up with his free hand. He gently touched her chin, guiding her face back toward him. His fingers were warm against her cold skin.

“I do not care about the ton. I despise the ton. If they laugh, I will shut the doors of Mal House and never let them in again. I have enough money to buy and sell Lord Covington ten times over. Their opinions are less than dust to me.”

“It is easy to say that now.” A single tear broke free and cut a hot path down Claraara’s cheek. “You don’t know what it is like — to be the stain on someone’s pristine life.”

Arthur’s thumb brushed the tear away. The gesture was so tender it nearly broke her in half.

“Then let me prove it.”

His hand stayed at her jaw, his thumb resting against her cheekbone.

“You said the fortnight ends on Tuesday. Give me until Tuesday. Do not leave today. Stay — not as my grandmother’s trap, not as an employee. Stay for me. Give me three days to show you that I am not romanticizing your struggle. Give me three days to prove that I want the reality of you, Claraara Ashford.”

He paused. His gray eyes held hers, stripped of every defense.

“The anger. The practicality. The turnips. All of it.”

Claraara searched his face. She looked for the lie. She looked for the pity.

She found nothing but a desperate, terrifying sincerity.

He was asking her to step off a cliff with him.

She looked down at her battered leather satchel on the floor. It contained everything she owned. A meager, pathetic anchor to a life of servitude and scraping by.

She looked back up at the Earl of Mal.

“Three days,” Claraara said, her voice shaking.

Arthur’s shoulders dropped — a massive release of tension echoing in the small room. He stepped back, giving her space to breathe.

But he didn’t let go of her hand.

“Three days. If you still want to leave on Tuesday morning, I will drive you to the coaching inn myself. I will book you the best seat on the finest coach to anywhere in England. You have my word.”

Claraara nodded slowly. She bent down, picking up her satchel with her free hand. Arthur immediately reached out and took the heavy bag from her grasp. He didn’t summon a footman. He simply slung the worn leather strap over his immaculate shoulder.

“Come back inside, Claraara,” he said quietly.

And for the first time in six years, Claraara Ashford walked into a house feeling like she wasn’t completely alone.