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

Chapter 8

The hunting party left the next morning. Lord Pembroke was gone before breakfast, citing a sudden mysterious illness. By midday, Northwood Abbey was silent once more. The heavy gray clouds broke, allowing a pale late autumn sun to wash over the damp moors.

Clara sat at the vanity in her bedchamber. Mrs. Harlow was brushing her hair, pulling the heavy pins out, letting the long brown waves cascade over the white silk of her nightgown.

“Will you require anything else, Your Grace?” the maid asked quietly.

“No, Harlow. Thank you. You may retire.”

The maid bowed and left, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind her.

Clara stared at herself in the mirror. Her lips were slightly swollen. Her eyes were dark, wide, and trembling with a nervous, electric energy.

Between her bedchamber and Julian’s was a heavy adjoining door.

For two months, it had remained locked — a silent physical barrier enforcing the terms of their bargain.

Clara stood up. Her bare feet made no sound on the thick rugs. She walked to the adjoining door and placed her hand flat against the cool wood. She could hear the faint crackle of the fire in the next room. She could hear the slow, rhythmic pacing of heavy boots.

He was awake. He was waiting.

Clara didn’t knock. She reached down, turned the heavy brass handle, and pushed the door open.

Julian stopped pacing.

His room was cast in deep shadow, lit only by the roaring fire in the hearth. He had discarded his coat and cravat. His white linen shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, exposing the strong column of his throat. He looked up as the door swung open, his eyes locking onto her.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The air in the room grew heavy, thick with the weight of everything they hadn’t said.

“Clara,” Julian breathed, the word sounding like a prayer.

She took a step into his room. Then another.

“There are no more ledgers,” Clara said, her voice trembling slightly, but her gaze never leaving his. “There are no more bargains. I don’t want a business arrangement anymore.”

Julian let out a ragged breath. He crossed the room in three long strides. He didn’t stop until he was towering over her. The heat of his body was a physical force.

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice a low, rough whisper.

Clara looked up at him. She saw the powerful, ruthless Duke of Northwood. But she also saw the exhausted man in the library. The lonely man who had never had anyone fight for him. The man who had stood in the shadows and watched her find her teeth.

“You,” she said simply. “Just you.”

Julian closed his eyes. A shudder racked his massive frame. He reached out, his hands finding her waist, pulling her flush against him. When he kissed her, there was no hesitation. It was a complete, devastating surrender.

His mouth was hot and demanding, parting her lips with a slow, deliberate pressure. Clara opened to him, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the heavy, frantic pounding of his heart beneath the fine linen of his shirt. He walked her backward, breaking the kiss only when her knees hit the edge of the massive four-poster bed.

Julian looked down at her, his eyes entirely black in the firelight. His breathing was heavy, ragged. He reached up, his fingers trembling slightly as they traced the line of her jaw, down the column of her neck, to rest flat against her collarbone.

“I have spent my entire life building walls, Clara,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over her racing pulse. “I built an empire so high that no one could ever reach me. And then you walked across a ballroom, grabbed me by the coat, and tore it all down in five seconds.”

Clara smiled, the expression wobbly, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “I thought you were in trouble.”

“I was.” Julian’s voice was fierce, a protective light blazing in his eyes. “I was dead. I just didn’t know it until you brought me back to life.”

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his lips pressing hot and open against her skin. Clara gasped, her head falling back, her hands gripping his shoulders to anchor herself as the world tilted on its axis.

He lifted her, laying her back against the pillows. The silk of her nightgown was a whisper against her skin compared to the heavy, grounding weight of him as he followed her down. There was no rush. There was only the slow, deliberate dismantling of the final barriers between them.

Every touch, every lingering kiss was an undoing.

When his skin finally met hers — hot and bare in the firelight — Clara felt a profound, shattering sense of belonging. He was not a stranger. He was not a transaction. He was the other half of her soul, wrapped in the iron armor of a duke.

The fire burned low, casting long, dancing shadows across the ceiling. Clara lay tangled in the heavy linens, her head resting on Julian’s chest. The rhythmic, steady beat of his heart sounded like a drum against her ear. His large hand lazily stroked the length of her spine.

She thought of the cold, cramped parlor in Bloomsbury. She thought of the sour lemonade, the wilting lilies, and the terrifying split-second decision she had made in the alcove.

She had ruined her life on a Tuesday.

And as Julian pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of her head, pulling her closer into his warmth, Clara closed her eyes, entirely at peace.

It was, without question, the smartest thing she had ever done.