Page 17 of His Auctioned Duchess
The great doors of Ashwood swung open with a groan that echoed through the entrance hall. Caroline’s first step across the threshold was met with a chill that seemed to seep from the very stone.
The space was cavernous: vaulted ceilings arched overhead, chandeliers heavy with crystal chains swayed slightly in the draft, and tapestries of hunting scenes lined the walls, their colors dulled with age. Portraits of stern-faced Belfords peered down, their painted eyes sharp, their mouths unsmiling.
So, this is where the Devil lives, Caroline thought, a shiver running down her spine. The air itself seemed heavier here, burdened with silence and the weight of generations.
John, ever irreverent, let out a low whistle. “Cheerful place,” he muttered, though his eyes darted with awe at the scale of it.
Caroline elbowed him sharply, her own lips twitching despite herself.
Then came the sound of hurried footsteps, the swish of skirts upon polished stone, and a cry that cracked with emotion.
“Richard!”
A lady swept forward, her gown of deep plum rustling as she moved. Her hair, streaked silver at the temples, was drawn back in a style that spoke of elegance rather than vanity. Her face bore fine lines, the marks of both age and sorrow, yet her bearing was regal—her eyes bright with a mother’s love. Or at least that’s what Caroline thought, that she must be Richard’s mother.
Without hesitation, she flung her arms about her son.
Richard stiffened instantly, his shoulders rigid, his arms at his sides as though bracing against an assault. Yet he did not pull away.
“Mother,” he said, confirming her assumption. His voice was flat, controlled.
Caroline, standing a few steps behind, felt her chest tighten. Here was the Devil himself, conqueror of ton gossip, survivor of war—undone not by enemy or scandal, but by the simple weight of a mother’s embrace.
His mother clung to him, her voice thick. “I didn't think you'd come to see me again so soon.” She pressed her face briefly to his chest.
Richard’s hand lifted at last, awkwardly, and patted her back once—brief, restrained, but enough to steady her.
Caroline swallowed, caught off guard by the rawness of the moment. She had never thought of Richard as anyone’s son, belonging to someone, cherished even in absence. Yet here it was, proof before her eyes. Even Devils were loved.
A sudden voice rang down from the grand staircase. “Is it true? Has Richard brought a lady home?”
Caroline turned, startled. A young woman descended the sweeping staircase, her gown of lemon-yellow fluttering as she nearly skipped the last few steps. Her curls bounced, her eyes sparkled with curiosity, and her smile was one of unabashed delight.
“So itistrue!” she declared, her voice ringing like bells. “Richard has brought a bride!”
Caroline blinked, while Richard’s jaw clenched. “Sophia,” he warned.
But the girl—maybe his sister, Caroline surmised from the resemblance—paid him no mind. She bounded across the floor and seized Caroline’s hands with irrepressible warmth.
“You must be extraordinary indeed,” Sophia said breathlessly. “Tell me—did my cousin woo you with poetry?” His cousin, then. “Oh no, of course not, he hasn’t the patience. Did he frightenaway your other suitors? Or did you mistake his silence for brooding romance?”
Caroline nearly laughed, startled by the torrent of words. She composed herself with practiced grace, inclining her head politely. “It is rather more complicated than that, I assure you.”
Sophia’s eyes widened with glee. “Oh, I adore her already! At last, someone who doesn’t quake in his shadow.”
Richard’s expression darkened like a storm rolling in. “Enough,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to still even Sophia’s bubbling chatter.
Lady Ophelia, still holding her son’s arm, stepped forward and took Caroline’s hand in her own. Her touch was warm, steady, her eyes softened by gratitude. “Welcome to Ashwood, my dear. Any woman who has caught my son’s notice must indeed be remarkable.”
Caroline flushed, unsure how to reply. “You are too generous, Lady Ashwood.”
Richard’s face betrayed nothing, but his eyes flicked briefly toward Caroline’s before cutting away. “She is weary,” he announced firmly. “The journey has tired her. She will rest until tomorrow.”
Caroline blinked. “But–”
His hand closed around her elbow—not rough, but immovable—and guided her away from the circle of scrutiny. His touch brooked no argument, yet it carried no cruelty either. Only finality.
“Richard!” Sophia called, laughter in her tone. “You are hiding her from me! I’ll find her later, never fear.”
