The storm broke on a Thursday. It was not a storm of rain, but a carriage bearing the crest of Viscount Linfield. Linfield was a notorious fixture at White's, a man who possessed a small fortune, a loud mouth, and an insatiable appetite for the destruction of others' reputations. He had happened to be traveling north to inspect a newly acquired property and required shelter from a passing squall. It was a blatant lie.
There were three inns between the main road and Ironwood. He was a spy, sent by the vultures to verify the rumors of Clara's misery and Theodore's deviance. When Linfield was ushered into the parlor, he brought the stale, suffocating scent of London society with him. He was a handsome man, but his eyes were sharp and cruel. "Windermere," Linfield drawled, offering a lazy bow.
"And the lovely duchess, a picture of rustic domesticity. How charming. And Lord Weston, I had heard you braved the wilds. Dedication to your scholarly pursuits, no doubt." The implication hung in the air, heavy and vile.
Theodore went absolutely rigid. The relaxed, smiling man of the past few days vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, brooding duke. He took a step toward Linfield, his fists clenching at his sides. Clara stood up. She smoothly stepped in front of her husband, placing a light, restraining hand on his forearm.
She felt the violent tension humming beneath his coat. She squeezed his arm once, a silent command. "Let me, Viscount Linfield," Clara said, her voice dropping into the flat, icy register she used for unruly tenants and bad debts. "How fortunate you found us. I hear the roads near your new property in Northumberland are treacherous, particularly for a man accustomed to the smooth pavements of St. James."
Linfield smiled, a thin, predatory stretching of his lips. "Indeed. But one must suffer discomfort to check on one's investments, though I see some of us prefer to isolate our investments far from the public eye." He looked around the ancient, dimly lit parlor with open disdain. "A bit drafty, is it not, Your Grace?
One hopes you are kept warm." "I am perfectly warm," Clara said. Linfield leaned forward, lowering his voice in a mock show of sympathy. "It is a brave face you wear, Lady Clara. Your mother is quite frantic with worry.
Society understands the burdens placed upon a dutiful daughter. If you ever require a swift escort back to civilization, my carriage is at your disposal." He was offering her an escape under the guise of chivalry, while simultaneously insulting her husband to his face. Clara did not flush. She did not raise her voice.
She walked slowly to the small table holding the sherry decanter and poured a glass. "Tell me, Viscount," Clara asked, her back to him. "How is your sister?" Linfield frowned, clearly thrown by the sudden shift in topic. "Lady Sarah is well."
"And her husband? The Earl?" Clara turned, holding the crystal glass. "I was reviewing some old financial columns recently. Is it true the Earl lost the deed to their Somerset estate in a card game last month?
And that he has taken up permanent residence in the lodgings of an opera dancer in Covent Garden?" Linfield's face drained of color. The room went deadly quiet. Thomas Weston choked on a swallow of air, covering his mouth with his hand. "I... I do not see how that is relevant," Linfield stammered, the smooth veneer cracking.
"It is relevant," Clara said, stepping closer to him, her eyes burning with a cold, terrifying fire. "Because society seems entirely comfortable with an earl bankrupting his family and abandoning his wife for a mistress. That is considered normal. That is accepted." She took another step.
Linfield actually leaned back away from her. "Yet my husband," Clara continued, her voice ringing off the stone walls, "pays his debts. He oversees 200 tenant families, ensuring their roofs do not leak and their children do not starve. He reads Greek. He remains faithful to his vows."
"But because he does not wish to drink port and exchange crude stories with men like you, he is labeled a monster." "Duchess, I assure you, I meant no..." "I know exactly what you meant, Linfield," Clara interrupted, cutting him down with ruthless precision. "You came here looking for a tragic wife to pity and a scandal to feed your bored friends. You will find neither. What you will find is a duchess who manages the accounts, a duke who owns the ground you are standing on, and a door."
She pointed toward the heavy oak exit. "I suggest you use it before the squall worsens." Linfield stared at her. He looked at Theodore, expecting the duke to rein in his wife. Theodore simply crossed his arms over his chest, his pale gray eyes gleaming with dangerous, absolute pride.
"You heard the duchess, Linfield. The door." Linfield opened his mouth, closed it, and turned on his heel. He practically fled the room. A few moments later, the heavy thud of the front door echoed through the house, followed by the frantic crunch of carriage wheels on the gravel drive.
Silence descended on the parlor. Thomas Weston slowly lowered his hand from his mouth. He looked at Clara with an expression of profound, almost religious awe. "My God," Thomas whispered, "she's terrifying." Theodore let out a slow, ragged breath.
He walked across the room, ignoring Thomas entirely. He cupped Clara's face in his large hands, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones. "You," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, "are the most magnificent creature I have ever seen." Clara leaned into his touch, the icy rage melting away, leaving only the warmth of his hands. "I told you I would burn their society to the ground."
"You barely needed a match," Theodore said, resting his forehead against hers. "They will be terrified of you now. The rumors will change. They will say you keep me locked in a dungeon and feed me raw meat." Clara smiled, wrapping her arms around his waist."
"Let them, as long as they leave us in peace."
The rumors did change. Viscount Linfield returned to London with his pride in tatters. To save face, he painted a picture not of a neglected, weeping bride, but of a monstrous, tyrannical woman. He claimed Clara had gone mad on the moors, that she ruled Ironwood Hall with an iron fist, and that the duke was entirely under her bewitching, terrifying control. The gossip shifted from pitying Clara to fearing her.
The letters from her mother stopped entirely. The society hostesses who had once planned to save her now crossed her name off their invitation lists with a shudder. It was the greatest gift London could have ever given them. The heavy silence of winter gave way to the brutal muddy thaw of a Yorkshire spring. The moors turned a vivid shocking green and the air smelled of wet earth and new heather.
Clara stood by the massive window in Theodore's study looking out over the rolling hills. She pressed a hand against the small of her back arching slightly to relieve the dull ache that had taken up permanent residence in her spine. She was 6 months pregnant. There was no delicate glowing fragility about it. It was exhausting.