“Take Off the Wedding Dress,” the Duke Said Coldly. “This Marriage Is Just Revenge.” — But When His Fingers Touched Clara’s Bare Skin, His Carefully Planned Vengeance Became a Prison Neither of Them Could Escape.

PART 3

The Harrington Ball was a crush of silk, sweat, and malice.

The ton operated on a very simple economy: scandal was currency, and a sudden, unannounced wedding between the Duke of Westford and Richard Ashford’s penniless daughter was a gold mine. As Clara and Arthur stepped into the grand ballroom, the string quartet’s music seemed to dip beneath the sudden collective whisper of three hundred aristocrats.

Eyes raked over them. Fans snapped open, shielding vicious, delighted mouths.

Clara took a slow breath. The corset was laced tight, digging into her lower ribs. She was wearing a gown of deep emerald velvet, purchased that afternoon with a fraction of her new allowance. It was not a maiden’s dress. It was the dress of a woman who owned her position.

Arthur’s hand rested at the small of her back. His touch was warm through the velvet — a stark contrast to the freezing fingers that had unbuttoned her wedding gown less than forty-eight hours ago.

“Smile,” he murmured, his breath brushing her ear. To anyone watching, it looked like an intimate nothing whispered between newlyweds.

Clara curved her lips into a bright, impenetrable smile.

“I am smiling. You are stepping on the hem of my gown.”

“Apologies.” He shifted his weight.

They moved into the room. Immediately, the waters parted and the sharks circled.

Lady Harrington — a woman composed entirely of sharp angles and diamonds — swooped down upon them.

“Your Grace. And the new Duchess.” Lady Harrington’s eyes darted between them, looking for bruises, for tears, for any sign of a fracture. “We were so shocked. A special license, and without a word to anyone. We all thought Lord Ashford was holding out for the Prince of Naples.”

“The Prince of Naples is a bore,” Clara said smoothly, her voice carrying just enough to be heard by the eavesdropping countesses nearby. “And I have never cared for the Italian climate.”

She turned her face up to Arthur, forcing her eyes to soften. It was a practiced look — one she had perfected over four seasons of masking her utter exhaustion with polite society.

“When Arthur made his intentions known, I simply could not wait another week.”

Arthur’s hand tightened on her waist — a fractional flinch. She had caught him off guard with the casual use of his Christian name.

“Indeed,” Arthur said, his voice a low rumble. He looked down at her, and for a second, Clara saw genuine surprise in his gray eyes. He recovered quickly, playing the part. He reached up, lightly brushing a stray curl away from her cheek.

“I am not a patient man when I find what I want.”

The lie was delivered with such dark, possessive intensity that Lady Harrington actually took a step back, fanning herself aggressively.

“Well,” the older woman stammered, “it is terribly romantic. Though I hear your father was quite surprised, Clara. He was not at his club today.”

“My father is currently indisposed.” Clara’s smile never wavered, though her chest tightened. He is hiding from his remaining creditors, she thought. Because the man standing next to me crushed his escape route.

“Shall we dance, my dear?” Arthur interrupted, sensing the slight shift in her posture.

“We must,” Clara agreed.

He led her to the floor just as a waltz began. The physical proximity of the dance was jarring. They had barely spoken since breakfast. Yet here they were, pressed together — a public exhibition of a private lie.

Arthur’s hand engulfed hers. His other hand rested firmly on her waist, pulling her perhaps a half inch closer than was strictly proper. The ton watched them like hawks.

“You are very good at this,” Arthur noted quietly as they turned. The heavy chandeliers spun above them in a blur of crystal and candlelight.

“I have been trained since birth to lie to wealthy people,” Clara replied, keeping her gaze fixed on his cravat to avoid the dizzying spin of the room. “It is my only marketable skill.”

“You did not have to defend me to that old harpy.”

“I was not defending you. I was defending myself.” She corrected sharply. “If they think you forced me, they pity me. I will not be pitied, Arthur. By them or by you.”

Arthur stared down at her. The mask of the cold, vengeful duke slipped just for a second, revealing the exhausted man underneath. He missed a step, his boot clipping hers, but he recovered instantly, his grip on her tightening to keep them upright.

“I do not pity you,” he said. His voice was suddenly rough, entirely lacking the performative polish he had used with Lady Harrington. “I think you are the most frightening woman in this room.”

Clara looked up. She expected to see mockery. But his expression was entirely serious. There was a current running between them now — a strange, volatile mixture of resentment and mutual cynical understanding.

They were both trapped. And Arthur had just realized she held a key of her own.

“Good,” Clara whispered as the music swelled. “Then try to keep up.”

They danced the rest of the waltz in total, unbroken silence. But for the first time since she had walked down the aisle, Clara didn’t feel entirely alone.