The morning after the fever broke, the world outside Westford Hall vanished. A brutal winter storm rolled in from the moors, burying the gravel drive, the ancient oaks, and the iron gates under 3 ft of impenetrable white snow. The estate was completely cut off. There would be no letters from London, no callers, no society gossips. There was only the howling wind, the crackling hearths, and the heavy, terrifying reality of what Arthur had confessed in the dark: "I think I am going to keep you for myself."
Clara spent the next 2 days trapped in bed dissecting the words. She was a woman who had survived by analyzing the motives of men. Men lied when they were desperate; men lied when they were guilty. Arthur had been exhausted, terrified by a brush with death, and heavily burdened by his own misplaced vengeance. It was a confession born of panic, she told herself. It wasn't real; it couldn't be.
But Arthur did not retract it. He didn't return to the cold, untouchable duke who had paced the length of their London bedroom. Instead, a strange, quiet domesticity settled over him. He took his meals in her room, sitting in the high-backed chair with a plate of roasted pheasant on his knees, throwing scraps to Barnaby when he thought Clara wasn't looking. He read the London papers aloud to her, deliberately skipping the society pages and focusing on parliamentary debates, arguing with the editorials in a dry, caustic tone that made her laugh.
It was on the fifth day that Clara finally demanded to leave the bed.
"You are still weak," Arthur said. He was standing by the window, watching the snow drift against the glass.
"I have been lying on my back for a week. If I don't move, my muscles will atrophy and I will become a permanent fixture of the upholstery," Clara retorted.
She pushed the heavy quilts aside. She was wearing a thick woolen dressing gown over her shift. She swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, her bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. She stood up.
For a second, she was fine. Then, the room tilted violently on its axis. Her knees folded like cheap paper. She didn't hit the floor. Arthur crossed the room with terrifying speed, catching her under the arms. He held her up against his chest, his grip firm and unyielding.
"Stubborn," he muttered into her hair.
Clara gripped his forearms, waiting for the dizziness to pass. She could feel the heat radiating off him through the wool of her gown; she could smell the bergamot soap on his skin. It was the closest they had been since the night he carried her into the house, but this time, her mind was entirely clear.
She became acutely aware of the hard lines of his chest, the heavy weight of his hands on her ribs, the way his breath hitched slightly as she leaned into him.
"I am fine," she whispered. Her voice trembledβnot from the illness, but from the sudden, overwhelming proximity.
"You are shaking."
Arthur didn't let her go. He shifted his grip, one arm wrapping securely around her waist, the other hand coming up to cup her jaw. His fingers were slightly rough. He tilted her face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were a stormy, unreadable gray. The exhaustion had faded from his face, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity that made Clara's pulse hammer against her throat.
"I said I would keep you," Arthur said quietly, answering the question she hadn't dared to ask for five days. "I did not mean as a prisoner, Clara."
Clara swallowed hard. "Then what do you mean?"
"I mean I am done punishing us both for the sins of a dead boy and a ruined man." His thumb brushed lightly over her lower lip. "I mean I want my wife."
Panic, sharp and cold, spiked in her chest. She pushed against his shoulders, breaking the contact. Arthur let her step back, though his hands hovered, ready to catch her if she fell.
"You want a wife?" Clara said, her breathing shallow. "Or you want a distraction from the guilt?"
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Do you truly believe that is all this is?"
"I believe what I have lived, Arthur. Men like my father look at me and see a commodity. Men like you look at me and see a target." She wrapped her arms around her waist, putting physical distance between them. "I am not a fool. I know how this works. We are snowed in. We are lonely. I nearly died, and the adrenaline has made you sentimental. But when the snow melts, we will still be the Duke of Westford and the daughter of the man who killed his brother. You cannot erase that with a few kind words."
Arthur looked at her for a long time. The anger she expected never surfaced. Instead, a profound sadness flickered in his eyes.
"You think I am like him?" Arthur said softly. "You think I will use you until you are hollow and then discard you?"
"I think you already tried."
The words were a blade. Arthur took the hit without flinching. He nodded slowly, once.
"I did," he admitted. "And I will spend the rest of my life making up for it. But I will not force you, Clara. If you want me to remain the villain in your story to keep yourself safe, I will play the part. But do not ask me to lie about what I feel."
He turned and walked toward the door.
"Arthur," she called out.
He paused, his hand on the brass knob.
"If I walk to the sitting room," she said, her voice shaking slightly, "will you catch me if I fall?"
Arthur looked over his shoulder. The tension in his shoulders dropped. "Every time," he said.
He walked back across the room, offered her his arm, and slowly, carefully led her out of the bedroom.
By the second week of January, Clara was fully recovered. The snow had stopped falling, but it remained packed deep across the countryside, locking them in a world of their own making. The sprawling, terrifying estate of Westford Hall slowly shrank into a home.