She kissed him in front of everyone to save him,not knowing that she had just saved the richest duke

Chapter 7

The isolation of Derbyshire could not last forever.

In late October, Julian was required to host a small hunting party to secure a political alliance in the House of Lords. Northwood Abbey was suddenly flooded with twenty guests. The quiet was shattered by the baying of hounds, the crack of fowling pieces, and the endless, exhausting chatter of the aristocracy.

Clara strapped her armor back on. She wore the diamonds. She wore the cold, imperious mask of the Duchess. But the enemy had infiltrated the walls.

Lord Pembroke was a man who looked like an overripe plum — purplish, soft, and carrying a faint stench of rot. He was a political rival of Julian’s, a man who had long resented the Northwood monopoly on northern coal. He was also a man with a long memory.

On the third afternoon, the men returned early from the damp moors. Clara was in the conservatory, a massive glass structure filled with exotic, humid ferns, attempting to find ten minutes of silence. The heavy glass door opened.

Lord Pembroke stepped in, his boots tracking mud onto the pristine tiles. “Your Grace,” he said, his smile resembling an open wound.

Clara did not turn around immediately. She carefully snipped a dead leaf off a fern with a pair of silver shears. “Lord Pembroke. I trust the hunt was successful.”

“Passable,” he said, stepping closer. The smell of wet wool and stale brandy hit her. “Though I find the true sport is usually found indoors.”

Clara turned. She kept her face perfectly blank. “If you are looking for the billiard room, you have taken a wrong turn.”

“I am exactly where I intend to be.” Pembroke looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on the heavy silk of her gown. “It truly is a remarkable transformation. From a penniless spinster in Bloomsbury to the mistress of Northwood Abbey. Does the guilt ever keep you awake?”

Clara’s grip tightened on the silver shears. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Oh, come now.” Pembroke took another step, invading her personal space. “We both know why Northwood married you. You were a convenient scandal. A way to shut the doors on the marriage mart. But a man like Julian Blackwood does not keep a stray dog on the velvet cushions forever. Eventually, he will want a true-bred hound. Someone with bloodlines. Not a woman whose brother drank himself into an early grave after cheating at cards.”

The world stopped.

The air in the conservatory suddenly felt too thin to breathe. The mention of her brother. The wound that had never truly healed — a jagged knife twisted directly into her ribs.

The polite, cynical facade Clara had worn for months cracked straight down the middle.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t flinch. A cold, absolute fury settled in her bones, heavy and terrifying.

Clara took one step forward, closing the distance until she was inches from Pembroke’s chest. The older man blinked, surprised by her advance.

“My brother,” Clara said, her voice dropping into a register so cold it could freeze boiling water, “was a naive boy who was preyed upon by vultures who needed to pay their tailoring bills. Vultures very much like you, Pembroke.”

Pembroke’s face darkened. “You dare —”

“I dare whatever I please.” Clara’s voice sliced through the humid air like a razor. “I am the Duchess of Northwood. You are a guest in my home. A guest whose estates in Yorkshire are currently heavily mortgaged, if the rumors regarding your gambling debts are to be believed.”

She leaned in, her eyes locked onto his, channeling every ounce of Julian’s brutal authority.

“Do not mistake my lack of a pedigree for a lack of teeth. If you ever speak my brother’s name again, I will not ask my husband to ruin you. I will do it myself. I will buy your debts. I will foreclose on your ancestral home. And I will turn it into a stable for my horses. Do we understand each other?”

Pembroke stared at her. The plum color of his face drained away, leaving him a sickly gray. He opened his mouth, closed it, and took a frantic step backward, nearly tripping over a potted orchid. He turned and practically ran out of the conservatory.

Clara stood trembling, the silver shears slipping from her fingers to clatter loudly against the tiles. The adrenaline crashed, leaving her hollow and shaking. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the sudden burning sting of tears.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Clara gasped, spinning around.

Julian was standing in the shadows of the large palm fronds near the far entrance. He was still wearing his damp riding coat, a riding crop held loosely in his left hand. He stepped into the light. He didn’t look angry. He looked fiercely, terrifyingly proud.

“How much of that did you hear?” Clara asked, her voice cracking.

“Enough to know that Lord Pembroke will likely be packing his trunks before dinner.” Julian walked toward her, his heavy boots echoing on the tile. He stopped directly in front of her, tossing the riding crop onto a nearby table. He reached out.

This time, he didn’t grab her wrist. He framed her face with both of his large, warm hands. His thumbs gently brushed the wetness from beneath her eyes. Tears she hadn’t realized had fallen.

“You didn’t step in,” she whispered.

“You didn’t need me to.” Julian’s voice was soft, his gray eyes burning with an intensity that made her breath catch. “You are exactly as lethal as I am, Clara. You just never had the ammunition until now.”

He stared down at her, his hands holding her face as if she were something infinitely precious — something he was terrified of breaking.

“You are not a stray dog,” he murmured, his voice thick with raw emotion. “You are the absolute center of this empire. And you are the center of me.”

Clara’s heart stopped.

She looked up into the harsh, beautiful face of the man she had married for money. The man she had kissed in a crowded ballroom to save him from a trap. There was no ledger between them anymore. There was only this.

Julian lowered his head. He didn’t ask. He simply claimed.

His mouth came down on hers — not with the clumsy desperation of their first kiss, but with a deep, consuming hunger. Clara made a soft, wrecked sound in the back of her throat. She reached up, her hands tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.

He tasted like rain and dark tea. The heat of him burned through the layers of her clothes, searing the coldness from her bones. He wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her entirely off the ground. Clara clung to him, the world outside the glass walls entirely forgotten.

They were no longer playing a part.

The transaction was dead.