Page 1 of His Auctioned Duchess
CHAPTER 1
Richard Belford, Duke of Ashwood, felt no warmth at the sight of the Ashwood road.
Bordered on either side by beeches whose branches, dark with late autumn foliage, arched overhead like the ribs of a vaulted nave, the road to Ashwood stretched long and unwavering.
The leaves were already turning, some burnished gold, some copper, and they whispered in the wind with the faint rustle of old secrets. Beyond them, the estate unfolded in sweeping parkland: meadows sloping to the river, fields dotted with deer, the faint line of cottages that belonged to his tenants. All of it, every acre, was his by right.
Richard Belford's eyes, gray as winter stone, moved over the familiar landscape without softening. He had dreamed once, years ago, of riding home to triumph, to embrace, to welcome. Those dreams had been burned out of him, consumed in fire and blood, leaving only the scar that scored his face from temple tojaw. A brutal reminder of what he had lost, and of the man he had become.
The horse beneath him snorted, its hooves striking sparks on the gravel as the long façade of Ashwood Hall came into view. The house rose in dignified majesty, pale Bath stone catching the late afternoon sun, its rows of windows glittering like watchful eyes. There was symmetry in its lines, order in its wide sweep of steps, but to Richard, it loomed more like a judgment than a welcome.
It has not changed, he thought grimly. But I have.
The gates swung wide as he approached. Stable lads froze in their tasks, pitchforks and buckets suspended mid-air. A groom nearly dropped his bridle. Servants spilled into the courtyard, mouths agape, eyes fixed upon him. He felt the weight of their stares as though they were stones hurled at his back. Some crossed themselves, as if to ward off an apparition.
They thought me dead, he realized, grim satisfaction cutting through the cold. Perhaps they preferred it so.
The horse halted at the bottom of the grand staircase. Richard swung down, his boots crunching against gravel. The scar was visible in the full light, carved deep and angry across the once-handsome symmetry of his face. He did not flinch beneath their stares. Let them look. Let them name him devil, beast, spectre. He had no care for their whispers.
Then, “Richard!”
The cry rang out, clear and broken by sobs. A figure hurried down the marble steps, silk skirts gathered in trembling hands. His mother, Ophelia Belford, the Dowager Duchess of Ashwood, descended with such haste that propriety was forgotten. She was smaller than he remembered, her once-dark hair almost wholly silver, her shoulders bent beneath years of grief. But her eyes, the blue of summer skies, were unchanged, bright with tears as they fixed upon him.
She reached him in an instant, arms outstretched, and flung herself against him with the desperation of one who clings to the dead restored. Her fingers pressed into his coat, her cheek against his chest.
“My son, my son,” she sobbed. “Heaven forgive me, I thought you lost forever. They told us you were dead. Letters ceased, word came of ships gone down, of fever sweeping through the ports. I prayed until my knees bled. And now, oh, merciful God, you stand before me.”
Richard endured the embrace. For a moment, his arms closed about her with mechanical strength, but there was no yielding in him. He did not linger, could not. The years had made sentiment a luxury he could ill afford. After a heartbeat too long, he eased her back, his voice gravelly from disuse.
“I am alive,” he said simply. The words were fact, not comfort.
She searched his face, her fingers rising to brush the scar. He caught her hand before it could touch, holding it firm but gentle,and lowered it. “Do not,” he murmured. Her lips trembled, but she obeyed.
A sound drew his attention. From the shadow of the doorway, a man leaned against one of the carved pillars, posture languid, eyes alight. Jasper Belford, his cousin. Dressed immaculately in navy and ivory, he smiled faintly, but the expression did not reach his eyes.
“Well, well,” Jasper drawled, his voice carrying easily. “The prodigal duke returns. Forgive me, cousin, but you were more entertaining as a legend. Drowned at sea, rotting in some ditch, or slain by a jealous husband, every tale more delicious than the last. And yet here you stand, with proof enough etched upon your face. That scar, it begs for a story.”
“Have my chambers prepared,” he ordered. “I require a bath, food, and solitude. Nothing more.”
The servants shifted uneasily, glancing between them. Richard’s mother shot Jasper a sharp look.
The silence thickened, heavy as velvet. His mother opened her mouth, but no words came. Jasper’s smile sharpened, almost a sneer, and he inclined his head in mock courtesy.
“As you wish, Your Grace. Solitude, after all, is your truest inheritance.”
Richard turned without another glance and strode into the hall, his tall figure cutting through the gathering like a blade.
The long dining room blazed with candlelight that evening, every silver branch of the candelabra aflame, every polished surface reflecting fire. The house had always been proud of its grandeur, mahogany paneling, gilt-framed portraits of solemn ancestors, a table that could seat thirty. Tonight, the grandeur felt oppressive, like a weight upon the three who sat to dine.
Richard resumed his rightful place at the head of the table, a position he had not held since youth. His mother took her seat at the right hand, her delicate fingers folding and unfolding upon her napkin. Jasper sat farther down, draped lazily in his chair, but his posture belied his interest. His eyes were keen, fixed upon Richard with the fascination of a cat regarding a rival tom.
Servants came and went in silence, setting before them roast pheasant, glazed carrots, steaming bowls of potatoes. The air smelled of wine and spice, yet Richard ate as if the food were rations, his movements economical, his appetite driven by necessity alone. He neither lingered over the dishes nor spoke to remark upon them. Each mouthful was chewed and swallowed with the detachment of a soldier accustomed to harder fare.
The silence stretched, punctuated only by the clink of silver on porcelain. It was Jasper who broke it, voice light as though he intended to charm, though there was steel beneath.
“So, cousin,” he began, twirling his goblet between his fingers, “shall you not indulge us? That scar upon your face, why, it cannot have come from a gentleman’s quarrel. Too deep, too brutal. Was it a blade? Or fire? Or perhaps”—he smiled faintly—“some lady’s husband, caught unawares?”
Richard’s fork stilled mid-air. His gaze lifted, met Jasper’s, and held it. His eyes were gray stone, unflinching. “I do not know,” he said flatly. “Nor do I care. I do not waste time on the past.”
