Page 27 of His Auctioned Duchess
One of the men, his face weathered and earnest, spoke anxiously about a boundary dispute—two tenants claiming the same stretch of grazing land. Richard listened without interruption, one hand resting on the desk, his fingers tapping thoughtfully. When the man faltered, the Duke’s voice emerged, quiet but firm.
“Then you will share the field until the matter is settled. Mr. Crawley, you will pay no rent on it this season; Mr. Hales, you will bear the tithe for both. If either man cheats the other, he answers to me.”
The men nodded, murmuring thanks. Richard dismissed them with a curt inclination of his head, and they left with relief in their eyes.
Caroline sat in silence as the door closed behind them. He exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. The morning light struck across his face, touching the scar that marred his cheek—and for once, it did not seem menacing. It was simply there, part of him, like the shadows in the room.
For a moment, she could almost see what others did: not a monster, but a man who carried too much upon his shoulders.
When the next petitioner entered—a young woman with a frightened expression and a folded letter—Richard rose from hischair and motioned her toward the window where the light was better. “You’re Mrs. Denby’s niece, are you not?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the girl stammered.
“She’s ill again?”
The girl nodded. “The fever took her last night. She has little firewood left.”
Richard turned toward his steward, a silent man named Corbin who stood by the wall with a ledger. “See that the Denby household receives what they need. Add the expense to my account.”
The steward bowed and noted the order.
Caroline felt her chest tighten. This was not the man society feared. This was not the cold strategist of their chessboard or the battle-hardened devil of gossip. This was a man quietly mending the cracks of a world others overlooked.
When the girl curtsied and left, Caroline entered the room, her steps light but deliberate.
“I do believe you missed your true calling,” she said, resting a hand upon the doorframe. “You might have made an excellent magistrate—or a benevolent tyrant.”
Richard’s eyes lifted, the faintest glimmer of surprise breaking through his composure. “You were listening.”
“Observing,” she corrected, stepping further inside. “There’s a difference.”
“I see little distinction.”
“That is because you are accustomed to command, not conversation.” She smiled faintly, perching on the edge of a nearby chair. “I had half expected to find you terrifying your tenants into obedience. Instead, you are—what was it the old man called you?—‘fair as a judge.’”
He gave a small, humorless sound that might have been a laugh. “They obey because they trust I will act without favor. Not because they like me.”
“Perhaps not,” she allowed. “But I think they respect you. There’s power in that.”
He leaned back in his chair, studying her. “Respect is a fragile thing, Lady Caroline. Easier to lose than love, and infinitely harder to earn.”
She tilted her head, intrigued. “And yet you’ve done so. Even your scar doesn’t seem to frighten them.”
His gaze darkened slightly. “It should.”
“Because it frightens you?”
The question hung in the air. His jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, Caroline thought he might send her from the room. But then he only said, “Because it reminds them that power has a cost.”
She considered him, her teasing expression fading. “Or that pain doesn’t always destroy a man.”
Their eyes met—steady, searching—and for the first time, Richard looked away.
The door burst open before either could speak further. A tall man entered without ceremony, his stride confident, his coat dusty from the road. His grin was a slash of white against sun-browned skin.
“Belford, you damned ghost! I thought you were rotting in some godforsaken corner of the world!”
Caroline started at the intrusion. Richard, however, rose from his chair with a rare smile—faint, fleeting, but genuine.
