The Duke Broke the Rules and Chose the Wrong Sister — Only to Discover His Real Love

walked beside him, hands clasped behind his back, cravat tight at his throat. "Romance is often used to excuse foolishness." "Precisely," Lord Danvers said, pleased. "The heart is a poor steward of property." Arthur almost agreed. The words were ready. They had lived in him for years, passed down from fathers, guardians, solicitors, uncles, and every elderly woman who believed a man's happiness was a decorative concern. But his mind produced an image of Clara standing near the terrace, unshaken by being dismissed, her shoulders easy because she had not abandoned herself. "A poor steward, perhaps," Arthur said. "But a man who refuses to consult it may mismanage something more important than land." Lord Danvers gave him a sidelong glance. "You are young enough to say so, and old enough to know what silence can cost." The conversation cooled after that. Lord Danvers did not press him, but Arthur felt the pressure thicken. It moved through the estate without needing words. A servant left brandy in his room. Lady Danvers mentioned that Lord Danvers would be free after luncheon the next day. Eleanor wore ivory at dinner, not white, but close enough to suggest innocence and promise without vulgarity. No one demanded anything. They did not have to. Arthur lay awake past midnight staring at the dark canopy above his bed. Rain had returned, harder now, striking the windows in uneven bursts. The house creaked around him. He turned onto his side, then onto his back again, and each position seemed to belong to a man already trapped. By 2:00 in the morning, he could no longer endure the room. He rose, dressed only enough to be decent, and tied his cravat loosely because habit reached for control even when he was too tired to complete it. The corridor outside his room was dim and cold. He should not have been walking through another man's house at that hour, but the need for air drove him past propriety. He went first toward the conservatory, then stopped when he saw a light beneath the library door. Arthur knew he should turn back. An unmarried woman alone in a library at night was not safe from gossip. An unmarried duke joining her there would be worse. A servant waking early, a footman passing with coal, a maid carrying linen, any one of them could see enough to damage Clara more than him. A man survived whispers. A woman carried them like stains. He stood with his hand near the door and listened. Inside, pages turned. He should have left. Instead, he opened the door. The library was warm from a fading fire lit by a single lamp set on a low