Arthur turned to Clara. She was trembling. It wasn't the cold anymore. It was the shock. Her rigid posture, the survival instinct that had kept her spine straight for 3 years, was finally cracking under the weight of sudden safety.
"Sit," Arthur commanded softly, pulling a chair out at the table.
Clara moved woodenly. She sat.
Arthur took a plate and began carving the roasted fowl. He loaded the plate with meat, potatoes dripping in fat, and a thick slice of bread. He placed it in front of her, then prepared a smaller plate and set it on the low table next to Leo's armchair.
"Eat," he said.
Clara picked up a silver fork. Her hand shook so violently the tines rattled against the porcelain plate. She couldn't hold it. She dropped the fork with a clatter and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent, gasping sobs.
Arthur crossed the room in two strides. He knelt beside her chair, uncaring that the pristine fabric of his trousers was pressed against the muddy floorboards.
He didn't offer empty platitudes. He didn't tell her it was all right, because nothing about the last 3 years had been all right. He simply wrapped his large hands over her wrists, gently pulling her hands away from her face, and held them.
"I have you," Arthur murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble. "I have you, Clara. You are never going to be cold again. You are never going to count copper pennies for stale bread again. I swear it on my life."
Clara looked at him through wet lashes. The cynical, hard-eyed duke was gone, replaced by the man who had once snuck into her father's bakery just to watch her dust flour off her apron.
"I forgot what it felt like," she whispered, her voice cracking. "To not be afraid of tomorrow."
"You don't have to be afraid anymore." Arthur squeezed her hands, then reached for a clean linen napkin, gently wiping the dampness from her cheeks. "Eat, then bathe. Tomorrow we begin the journey south."
Across the room, a soft noise broke the tension. Leo had abandoned his fork entirely and was eating a piece of buttered bread with both hands, his face smeared with grease. He looked at Arthur, chewing thoughtfully.
"Good," the boy declared, holding up the half-eaten bread.
Arthur let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "I am glad you approve."
An hour later, the parlor was quiet.
Clara had washed the grime of 3 years from her skin in the adjoining room. She emerged wearing a soft, oversized linen shirt provided by the innkeeper's wife, wrapped tightly in a thick woolen robe. Her dark chestnut curls, finally free from the severe cap, fell in damp, heavy waves down her back.
She found Arthur sitting in the armchair by the fire. He was perfectly still. Leo was fast asleep on his chest, a small hand curled into the lapel of Arthur's waistcoat.
The Duke of Westford looked down at the sleeping child with an expression of such raw, unprotected reverence that Clara had to look away to keep from weeping again.
Arthur looked up, sensing her presence, his gray eyes locked onto hers. The vulnerability vanished, instantly replaced by a terrifying, cold calculation. The father had stepped back. The duke had returned.
"Tomorrow," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper so as not to wake the boy. "We go to London, but we are not going to the townhouse. We are going to the country estate."
Clara tightened the sash of her robe. "Where she is?"
"Yes."
Arthur's jaw clenched. The firelight cast harsh, demonic shadows across the sharp planes of his face.
"She stole three years of my son's life. She subjected the woman I love to starvation and ruin. She thinks she has secured the dukedom under her absolute control by removing my only weakness."
He looked down at Leo, then back to Clara. The absolute certainty in his gaze made Clara's breath hitch.
"She is about to learn," Arthur finished, his voice like cracking ice. "That you were never my weakness, Clara. You were my humanity, and she has just stripped me of whatever mercy I had left."
The repaired carriage was a fortress of mahogany, polished brass, and heavily sprung leather. Inside, the velvet squabs were thick and forgiving, and a brass brazier at their feet radiated a steady, comfortable heat.
As the heavy wheels chewed through the mud of the southern road, leaving Yorkshire behind, Clara stared out the window at the passing gray landscape.
She felt like an impostor in the expensive clothes Arthur had ordered from the town's best modiste. The dark green traveling gown was fine wool, the pelisse lined with soft gray rabbit fur. It was richer than anything she had worn, even in her father's house.
Yet beneath the fine fabrics, she still felt the phantom chill of the cooper's workshop.
Arthur sat across from her. He had shed his greatcoat and sat with his long legs stretched out, his attention entirely focused on the leather-bound ledger resting on his knee. He was reviewing estate accounts Reynolds had brought from London, preparing for war.
Leo was asleep on the seat beside Clara, utterly exhausted by the sudden upheaval of his small universe.
"He sleeps heavily," Arthur remarked, not looking up from the numbers.