"Take Off The Wedding Dress," The Duke Said Coldly. "This Marriage Is Just Revenge."

Without another word, Arthur scooped her up. He didn't 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 ordered, kicking open the door to a massive bedchamber.

He 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 didn't wait. He knelt in front of her, his large hands working quickly at the laces of her boots.

"You don't 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 3 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 50 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 didn't leave her to the nurses. He sat in a high-backed chair near the bed, his cravat discarded, his sleeves rolled up to the 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 furrowing. His eyes opened, blinking against the firelight, and locked onto hers. He sat up instantly, abandoning any pretense of sleep.

"You're awake," he said. 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 haven't 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 didn't 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?"

"4 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," he said softly, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. "But I think I am going to keep you for myself."