It was slightly too large for her work-thinned hand, but the weight of it was staggering.
"With this ring, I thee wed," Arthur murmured.
He did not kiss her politely on the cheek, as society dictated. He cupped her face in both hands, his thumbs grazing her jawline, and kissed her with a desperate, crushing intensity. It was an apology, a promise, and a claiming all at once.
10 hours later, the carriage wheels crunched onto the pristine white gravel of the Westford Estate Drive.
Clara pressed her face against the cold glass of the window. The manor was immense. It was a sprawling masterpiece of Palladian architecture, its pale limestone glowing menacingly in the fading twilight.
Symmetrical wings stretched out like grasping arms, flanking a massive central portico supported by towering Corinthian columns. Dozens of windows blazed with expensive candlelight. It did not look like a home. It looked like a fortress.
"Arthur," Clara whispered, her bravado faltering as the sheer scale of his world loomed over her.
Arthur shifted on the seat, leaning close until his shoulder pressed against hers. "It is just stone, Clara. Stone and glass. Do not let it intimidate you. You are the master of it now."
The carriage ground to a halt. The footmen, instantly alerted to the duke's unannounced arrival, rushed down the wide marble steps to throw open the doors.
Dawson, the estate's head butler, stood at the top of the stairs. He was a man of impeccable posture and rigid discipline, a fixture of the Pendleton household for four decades. He stepped forward to deliver his customary greeting, but the words died in his throat.
Arthur stepped out of the carriage first. He did not wait for the footman. He reached back inside and easily lifted a sleeping toddler into his arms. Then he offered his free hand.
A woman stepped out into the crisp evening air. She was dressed in fine wool, but her hands lacked gloves, revealing skin chapped by harsh labor. Upon her left ring finger hung a heavy gold band.
Dawson's eyes widened a fraction of an inch, a monumental display of shock for a man in his position. He recognized her. The staff had whispered about the shopkeeper's daughter 3 years ago just before she vanished into the night.
"Your Grace," Dawson managed, recovering his composure with supreme effort. "We did not expect your return for another fortnight."
"Plans change, Dawson," Arthur said, his voice echoing loudly across the marble portico. He did not lower his tone. He wanted the house to hear him. He wanted the walls to rattle. "Have the master chambers prepared immediately. Draw a bath and send for the housekeeper to arrange a nursery in the adjoining rooms."
"A nursery, Your Grace?" Dawson blinked, his gaze dropping to the sleeping boy in Arthur's arms.
"Yes, Dawson." Arthur met the butler's gaze with a look of absolute lethal authority. "For my son, the Earl of Westfield. And inform the staff that they are to address the woman beside me as Her Grace, the Duchess. Any hesitation, any disrespect, and the offender will be dismissed without a character reference before the hour is out. Am I understood?"
Dawson bowed deeply, his spine snapping into a rigid angle. "Implicitly, Your Grace. Welcome home, Your Grace."
Arthur nodded once. He placed his hand on the small of Clara's back, guiding her up the sweeping marble stairs. They crossed the threshold into the cavernous entrance hall. The air inside smelled of beeswax, exotic lilies, and old woods. It was suffocatingly rich.
"Where is she, Dawson?" Arthur asked quietly, though the silence in the hall made the question ring like a gunshot.
"The dowager duchess is in the drawing room, Your Grace," Dawson replied, his eyes firmly on the floor. "Taking her evening tea."
Arthur's mouth curled into a terrible, cold smile. "Excellent."
The drawing room was a masterpiece of aristocratic excess. Walls paneled in dark mahogany were hung with priceless Dutch landscapes. A massive crystal chandelier fractured the firelight into a thousand sharp prisms.
At the center of it all, seated on a velvet chaise longue, was Agatha Pendleton.
She was a woman who commanded space without moving a muscle. Dressed in severe black silk that only accentuated the icy paleness of her skin, she held a porcelain teacup with perfectly manicured fingers. She looked exactly as Clara remembered, a predator masquerading as a gentlewoman.
Arthur didn't knock. He shoved the heavy double doors open with his shoulder. The wood slammed against the paneling with a crack that made the crystals above them shudder.
Agatha jumped, tea sloshing over the gold rim of her cup onto the saucer. Her head snapped up, her sharp gray eyes—the same color as Arthur's, but entirely devoid of warmth—narrowing in irritation.
"Arthur," she snapped, setting the cup down on a silver tray. "What on earth is the meaning of this barbarism? You were not meant to arrive until—"
The words evaporated from her tongue.
Arthur stepped into the light. He carried a sleeping child against his chest, and slightly behind him, holding her chin high despite the visible trembling in her hands, was Clara.
For 10 agonizing seconds, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire in the marble hearth.
Agatha's face drained of color, leaving her skin the shade of old parchment. Her gaze darted from the boy to Clara and finally settled on her son.
"What is she doing here?" Agatha whispered. The refined, commanding tone was gone, replaced by a raw, rasping hiss.
"Returning home," Arthur said.