Page 13 of His Auctioned Duchess
The statement hung, naked and raw, between them. Her cheeks flamed, her lips trembling as the realization struck—what she had revealed, what she had implied.
Richard went very still. His eyes, gray as winter stone, flashed like steel struck by fire. Slowly, deliberately, he closed the ruined sketch in his fist and let it fall, sodden, into the grass. Then he stepped forward, closing the space between them with the inevitability of a storm.
Caroline stumbled back until her shoulders struck the rough bark of an oak. Her breath caught as his arm braced beside her head, his massive frame caging her in shadow. The wet fabric of her gown clung to her trembling form, her heart beating a wild rhythm beneath it.
His voice was a growl, low and dangerous, vibrating through her very bones. “Plenty of women would.”
Her lips parted, her pulse leaping. She hadn't meant to wound him, she only meant that no one would marry him just for an heir, but she had somehow managed to. Her cheeks flushed crimson, her chest rising and falling as his words sank into her.
The silence between them crackled like fire catching dry wood.
Richard’s gaze dropped to her lips—pink, trembling, parted.
Caroline’s pulse hammered so fiercely she thought he must hear it. Trapped between the oak’s rough bark and the hard wall ofhis chest, she felt every ounce of his fury—and something more, something hotter, more dangerous, coiled beneath it. Her lips parted, though no words came.
Richard’s scarred face loomed close, his eyes burning into hers, as though he could scour the truth from her soul. His voice was a rasp against her skin, low and perilous. “Do you doubt it, Caroline? Do you think no woman would want me?”
She tried for bravado, but her breath caught. “I... I do not think...” Her words faltered, trembling. “You are not like other men.”
“No,” he said, his mouth curving in something between a snarl and a smile. “I am not.”
The silence crackled, taut as a drawn bowstring. His gaze dropped once more to her lips—still trembling, still parted—and in the next heartbeat, restraint shattered.
He seized her mouth with his.
The kiss was not gentle. It was searing, claiming, a clash of fire and storm. Caroline gasped, her hands pressed against his chest to push him away—but her fingers curled instead, fisting in the soaked fabric of his coat. Her knees weakened, yet he held her fast, one hand gripping her waist, the other braced above her head, caging her against the tree.
She tried to resist, tried to cling to her outrage, but his mouth moved with relentless hunger, his breath hot against hers, his tongue demanding, coaxing. And her resistance melted, dissolved into heat and need. A sound escaped her, both protest and surrender, as her lips parted beneath his, yielding.
His hand roamed down the curve of her waist, firm, possessive, the strength of his grip betraying how close he skirted to losing all control. The rough bark bit into her back, the damp air clung to their skin, yet all she felt was him—his mouth devouring hers, his body pressed hard and unyielding against hers, his scar grazing her cheek as though to brand her.
When at last he tore his lips from hers, both of them were breathless, their chests rising and falling in ragged unison. He did not step back. His forehead rested against hers, his voice a growl against her swollen lips.
“You’re choosing me.”
Her heart thundered, every nerve alight. She wanted to deny him, wanted to retort with some sharp barb, to reclaim control. But her lips trembled, and no words came. Only the hammering of her pulse betrayed her.
He pulled back just enough to see her face, her flushed cheeks, the dazed fire in her eyes. His own expression was fierce, almost feral, yet beneath it flickered something she could not name—a hunger not only for her body, but for something more.
Caroline pressed her palm against his chest, feeling the hard thrum of his heartbeat beneath her hand. She drew a shaky breath, finally forcing her lips into a smile, though it wavered. “You mistake one kiss for a vow, Your Grace.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed, the fire in them unrelenting. “No. I mistake nothing.”
Her breath hitched. She tore her gaze away, breaking the spell, and pushed at his chest—this time gently, almost reluctantly. He let her go, though his hand lingered at her waist a fraction longer than propriety allowed.
She slipped past him, her gown heavy and clinging, her steps unsteady as she fled toward the house. Every nerve burned, every thought tangled in chaos. She could still taste him, still feel the press of his body, the heat of his mouth. She pressed her fingers to her lips, trembling.What have I done?
Richard remained beneath the oak, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists. The ruined sketch lay sodden in the grass at his feet, the monstrous caricature already blurred beyond recognition.
He stared after her retreating figure, his jaw tight, his scar stark in the light. Her gown clinging to her form, the pale silk turned nearly translucent by the lake water. Her hair had fallen loose in dark, curling waves down her back, glinting with threads of chestnut where the sun broke through the clouds. She was tallfor a lady, with long, graceful limbs and a carriage that spoke of both breeding and rebellion.
Her skin, flushed from the cold, was the delicate shade of English rose, though there was nothing delicate about the way she moved. Her stride was sure, her chin high, her shoulders squared as if daring the world to strike her down. Even soaked and shivering, she radiated life and defiance. And those bright green eyes had looked at him not with fear, but with fury.
He had meant only to frighten her, to remind her who he was, to punish her insolence. But the kiss had undone him as much as her. He could still taste her defiance, her fire, the way she melted against him despite herself.
For the first time in years, Richard Belford felt the precarious edge of losing control. And worse—he was not certain he wanted to regain it.
CHAPTER 6
