“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 6

The decision to leave London was sudden, executed with the brutal efficiency Arthur applied to all things.

Three days after Richard Ashford’s visit, the gossip columns began to run thinly veiled blind items about a ruined patriarch. Arthur did not ask for Clara’s opinion. He simply ordered the trunks packed. By dawn on Friday, they were in a dark, heavy traveling coach, rattling violently down the frozen roads toward Somerset.

The journey was a grueling, bone-rattling endurance test that left Clara’s spine feeling like shattered glass and her temper strung tighter than a piano wire. They stopped at miserable coaching inns, eating cold mutton and sleeping in drafty beds. It took four agonizing days.

By the time they reached the imposing iron gates of Westford Hall, Clara was shivering violently, wrapped in three wool blankets, unable to get warm.

The estate was a sprawling Gothic monster of gray stone, surrounded by ancient skeletal oaks. It was beautiful in a savage, unforgiving way. As the carriage pulled to a halt, the massive front doors opened, spilling warm golden light onto the snowy gravel.

Arthur stepped out first, turning to offer Clara his hand. When her fingers closed over his, she stumbled. Her legs felt made of lead, her vision swimming at the edges.

Arthur caught her instantly, his arm wrapping around her waist, anchoring her against his heavy greatcoat.

“Clara.” His voice was sharp with alarm.

“I am quite well.” She lied, her teeth chattering so hard she bit her tongue. “The carriage simply made me stiff.”

He stripped off one of his leather gloves and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead.

“You are burning up. You have caught a chill.”

“It is just the damp.”

Without another word, Arthur scooped her up. He did not struggle — she was terrifyingly light, having barely eaten since the incident with her father. He carried her up the stone steps, past a shocked line of house staff waiting in the foyer, and straight up the grand staircase.

“Mrs. Hughes!” Arthur bellowed over his shoulder to the housekeeper. “Send for the physician. Have fires lit in the main suite and bring hot water.”

“Arthur, put me down. This is ridiculous.”

Clara protested weakly, her head lolling against his shoulder. He smelled of horsehair, cold air, and that sharp, clean soap he used.

“Be quiet, Clara.”

He kicked open the door to a massive bedchamber and deposited her gently onto the edge of a vast four-poster bed. The room was freezing, the fire not yet lit. Clara curled in on herself, her arms wrapped around her chest, violent tremors shaking her frame.

Usually, a lady’s maid would take over — stripping the damp clothes and managing the illness with professional detachment. But Arthur did not wait. He knelt in front of her, his large hands working quickly at the laces of her boots.

“You do not have to do that,” Clara mumbled, embarrassed by the intimacy of it.

“Your pride is going to kill you one day,” he muttered, pulling off the ruined leather boots and tossing them aside.

He stood up, his jaw set. “Stand up. We need to get you out of these damp clothes.”

“I can manage.”

She tried to stand, but her knees buckled instantly. Arthur caught her, his arms wrapping tightly around her. For a moment, she was pressed flush against him. She could feel the steady, thudding rhythm of his heart beneath his waistcoat. She was too exhausted to pull away. She rested her forehead against his collarbone, surrendering to the fever.

With surprising gentleness, Arthur unfastened the hooks of her traveling cloak and the heavy wool gown beneath it, letting the wet garments fall to the floor. He left her in her cotton shift, lifting her onto the mattress and pulling the heavy down quilts up to her chin.

By the time the physician arrived two hours later, Clara was delirious.

The next three days blurred into a suffocating nightmare of heat and shadows. She dreamt of her father selling her at an auction block in Covent Garden. She dreamt of fifty yards of Belgian lace tightening around her throat, choking the life out of her.

But every time she surfaced, gasping for air in the dim firelit room, Arthur was there.

He did not leave her to the nurses. He sat in a high-backed chair near the bed, his cravat discarded, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was the one who held the cool cloth to her forehead. He was the one who lifted her head to force bitter willow bark tea past her lips.

On the fourth night, the fever broke.

Clara woke to the sound of a crackling fire and the howling wind rattling the windowpanes. Her skin was damp with sweat, but the agonizing heat had finally left her blood. She felt weak, hollowed out — but clear-headed.

She turned her head on the pillow.

Arthur was asleep in the chair. He looked terrible. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, and a heavy layer of dark stubble covered his jaw. His large frame looked cramped and uncomfortable in the chair. Barnaby was asleep at his feet.

Clara watched him breathe. The Duke of Westford — the man who had bought her for vengeance. She remembered the feeling of his hands, calloused and strong, smoothing the hair back from her damp forehead. She remembered the sheer panic in his voice when the physician had warned of congestion in her lungs.

He stirred. His brow furrowed. His eyes opened, blinking against the firelight, and locked onto hers.

He sat up instantly, abandoning any pretense of sleep.

“You are awake.” His voice was a gravelly rasp.

“You look awful,” Clara whispered. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

Arthur let out a short, breathless laugh. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his tired face.

“You have not looked into a mirror recently, Your Grace.”

He stood up and poured a glass of water from the bedside table, sliding one hand behind her shoulders to help her sit up. He held the glass to her lips. She drank greedily, the cool water soothing the fire in her throat.

“Thank you,” she rasped, leaning back against the pillows.

Arthur set the glass down. He did not retreat to his chair. He sat on the edge of the mattress. The weight of him dipped the springs.

“The physician said you are through the worst of it,” he said quietly. “You need rest.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Four days.”

Clara stared at him. “You stayed here.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

The question slipped out before her pride could catch it.

Arthur looked at her. The anger, the vengeance, the bitter ice that had defined him since the day they met — it was all entirely gone. Melted away in the crucible of her fever. What remained was a man who looked terrifyingly vulnerable.

“Because,” Arthur said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I realized that if you died in that bed, my life would be entirely empty.”

He reached out, his rough thumb gently wiping away a bead of sweat near her temple.

“I bought you for revenge, Clara.” His eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “But I think I am going to keep you for myself.”