Page 3 of His Auctioned Duchess
CHAPTER 2
The Hughes family drawing-room was a space designed for dignity: high windows draped in velvet, a marble hearth carved with cherubs, and heavy furniture upholstered in damask. Yet dignity rarely survived Caroline Hughes’s presence for long.
She stood now before her father, hands braced on her hips, eyes flashing like a rapier poised for a duel. Her voice, bright with indignation, rang clear through the chamber.
“I will not be auctioned off like a prize filly, Father. Not while breath remains in me.”
Nicholas Hughes, Marquess of Fernsby, sat in his great armchair like a judge presiding over a case. He was a tall man, still broad across the chest, though age and illness had bowed his shoulders. His hair was streaked silver, his once-dark eyes shaded with fatigue.
The cane resting at his side betrayed the weakness in his legs, though he used it with dignity, as if it were merely a symbol of authority rather than necessity. He raised one brow, his expression straddling the line between stern authority and concealed amusement.
“My dear,” he said, in that slow, deliberate tone that suggested his patience was wearing thin, “you exaggerate as always. No daughter of mine shall be placed upon a block for coin. The gentlemen I intend to invite are of good standing, noble lineage, and reputable fortune. It is not an auction, but an arrangement.”
Caroline tossed her curls with scorn. “You call it an arrangement; I call it a sale. These men care nothing for me—only for the dowry you have tied to my name. I may as well be a chest of gold with a ribbon affixed. Why should I be forced to smile and curtsy to men who see me only as a sum?”
On the chaise across the room lounged her younger brother, John. Barely seventeen, he sprawled with careless grace, one arm dangling, eyes alight with mischief. He pressed a fist to his mouth, failing to disguise his grin. Every time his sister loosed one of her barbed retorts, his shoulders shook with silent laughter.
“Caroline,” Nicholas intoned, shooting John a quelling glance, “you speak as though your suitors were vultures. They are gentlemen. They bring titles, estates, and security. You must remember–”
“Security?” she broke in, eyes flashing. “I have security here. What I lack is liberty.”
John let out a strangled snort, doubling over as though the very notion of Caroline desiring liberty above jewels was the finest jest. Nicholas’s stern gaze pinned him at once.
“You find this entertaining, John?”
John straightened, attempting composure, though his eyes still danced. “I find it spirited, sir. And I cannot disagree. I saw Travers last season—he spoke of Caroline’s dowry as if he were bargaining for a hunter at Tattersall’s. She sent him fleeing within the hour.”
Caroline’s lips curved into a proud grin. “Indeed, I did. Poor Mr. Travers. He believed our house haunted before the evening ended.”
Nicholas’s brow furrowed. “Haunted?”
John collapsed in laughter, unable to contain it any longer. “She told him a headless nun roams the west wing, ringing the servants’ bell at midnight. When the shutters rattled, he turned positively green.”
Caroline clasped her hands dramatically to her breast. “And when old Simons sneezed in the corridor—oh, I thought Travers might faint dead away!”
Even Nicholas could not suppress the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “Incorrigible girl. You cannot make sport of every man who calls. One day your antics will cost you dearly.”
“Better antics than shackles,” Caroline retorted, unrepentant.
Nicholas sighed, long and heavy. He looked down at the cane by his chair, then back to his daughter. The humor faded from his face, replaced by something graver.
“Caroline,” he said quietly, “I am not the man I once was. My health is failing. The physicians counsel rest, though they phrase it as though rest might delay what must come. I cannot safeguard you forever. Already I hear the whispers—men circling like hounds about the estate. If you do not choose wisely, and soon, I shall be forced to choose for you.”
Caroline’s laughter stilled. The air in the room shifted, weightier now, as though the portraits of their ancestors leaned closer to hear. She felt her heart tighten, though she disguised it with a toss of her head and a flippant smile. “Then I shall run to Scotland and wed a stable boy,” she declared.
John choked on his laughter again. “Better yet, become a governess, Caro. Imagine you, with a brood of unruly children dangling from your skirts.”
She seized a cushion and flung it at him. He caught it easily, laughing still. But beneath the noise, the truth of her father’s words pressed cold against her heart. If he truly grew weaker, ifhe were no longer there to defend her, what then? Who would shield her from the greed of men who measured women by fortune and beauty alone?
Nicholas’s eyes softened as he studied her, though his voice remained firm. “You are clever, Caroline. Cleverer than most men who will ever seek your hand. But cleverness cannot stand in place of protection. You must wed a man who can guard you when I am gone.”
Caroline swallowed hard, hiding the sting with bravado. “Then perhaps I shall wed no man at all. I shall turn spinster, haunt the village lanes in black, and frighten children with my broom.”
John grinned, eyes gleaming. “Better that than Lady Travers.”
For a moment, laughter softened the tension. Even Nicholas allowed himself a low chuckle, though the cough that followed revealed the strain upon him. Caroline saw it, though she forced her eyes away, unwilling to let him see her fear.
The moment was broken by a knock at the door.
