Page 31 of His Auctioned Duchess
The heart she had sworn to guard was beginning to disobey her.
Richard sat once more before the dying fire in his study. Edmund had gone to bed, leaving behind an empty glass.
Richard turned their conversation over in his mind, restless. The rain beat harder against the windows, a steady drumming like memory itself. He reached for a sheet of paper, intending to distract himself with estate accounts, but his hand stilled halfway.
He was thinking of her again—her laughter in the orangery, the defiance in her eyes, the way she had looked at him that morning while he judged the tenants. It unsettled him. No, it angered him.
He had spent years building a fortress of silence around himself. Now this woman—this inconvenient, willful, infuriating woman—was walking through it as though the walls were made of air.
Richard rose abruptly and crossed to the window. Outside, the rain glistened across the terrace, reflecting the faint glow of the lamps. Somewhere above, he imagined she was awake still, pacing, sketching, thinking.
He rested one hand against the glass. The chill seeped into his skin. “Don’t,” he whispered to the empty room, though whether he meant her or himself, he couldn’t tell.
A knock startled him.
He turned as a footman entered quietly, bowing. “A letter arrived by express rider, Your Grace. It bears the crest of the Admiralty.”
Richard’s expression froze. “Leave it.”
The man obeyed and withdrew, closing the door behind him.
For several seconds, Richard did not move. Then, slowly, he crossed to the desk and broke the seal.
He read it silently. Then, he folded it once, twice, slid it into the drawer, and locked it there. He poured another measure of brandy and sat down heavily, staring into the fire until the embers blurred into a dull red haze.
Caroline turned restlessly, her mind circling back to the image she had drawn, and sleep refused to come. Finally, she rose, wrapped a shawl about her shoulders, and lit a candle. She hesitated at the door, every sensible instinct telling her to stay where she was. But curiosity—always her undoing—won again.
The corridors were dark, the air thick with the scent of smoke and rain. She made her way toward the grand staircase, the candle flame quivering as she descended.
As she reached the landing, she caught sight of him through the half-open door of the study: sitting alone, head bowed, a glass forgotten in his hand. The firelight gilded his hair, shadowed his face. He looked—she could find no better word for it—haunted.
Her first impulse was to go to him, to ask what troubled him. Her second, wiser instinct held her still. Some walls could not be scaled in one night.
Instead, she lingered quietly at the doorway, watching him for a moment longer. Then she withdrew, closing the door with the softest click.
"As she turned to retreat toward her chambers, a figure nearly collided with her in the corridor.
“Caroline!” Sophia’s whisper was both scandalized and amused. “What on earth are you doing awake at this hour?”
Caroline clutched her shawl tighter, heat creeping up her neck. “I—couldn’t sleep.”
Sophia’s grin widened in the flickering light. “Of course not. No one with an ounce of spirit could, not with tomorrow’s spectacle to think of.”
Caroline blinked. “Tomorrow’s what?”
“The opera, my dear!” Sophia’s eyes sparkled. “Richard never attends, so everyone in London will be watching. The Devil of the Ton at Covent Garden—it will be the event of the season.”
Caroline’s lips parted in surprise. “The opera? He never mentioned–”
“Oh, didn’t he? He told Mama at dinner.” Sophia laughed softly. “He said it was time he showed his future duchess to the world. I thought you already knew.”
Caroline’s stomach flipped. She had been so consumed by her drawings, by her own confusion over him, that the evening meal had passed in a haze. “I must have… missed that particular detail,” she managed.
“Well,” Sophia said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “prepare yourself, cousin. The ton adores a scandal, and you are about to provide one.”
Caroline exhaled slowly, her pulse thrumming. “How delightful.”
Sophia giggled and squeezed her hand. “Get some rest, or you’ll be yawning through Mozart.”
