Page 34 of His Auctioned Duchess
He stepped closer. “Is that why you are trembling?”
“Yes, that…And because you are infuriating!”
“Only because you care.”
“I do not!”
His mouth curved, faintly, dangerously. “Then you won’t mind if I prove exactly what’s wrong with you.”
He leaned down, and the world seemed to still. His breath brushed her cheek, warm against the chill of the marble corridor.
“Follow me,” he said quietly. The command was soft but impossible to refuse. She hesitated only a second before obeying. He led her through a side corridor lined with gilt mirrors and into a narrow dressing room that smelled faintly of powder and roses.
The door clicked shut behind them. Caroline glanced around, incredulous.
“How did you know about this room?”
His mouth curved faintly. “Does it matter?”
“Not really,” she admitted, crossing her arms. “So what’s wrong with me?”
He stepped closer, the lamplight catching the pale edge of his scar. “Isn’t it obvious, my lady?”
She blinked, defiant. “What?”
“You’re jealous.”
“I am not!”
His eyes gleamed. “No? You would never what—get possessive?” His voice dropped, the faintest smile playing on his lips. “Even though, I find it rather endearing.”
“It is not, because I am not possessive of you, that is ridiculous,” she shot back, her chin lifting.
“And what are you, then?”
For a moment they simply stared at each other, breathless. The silence grew heavy with everything neither dared to admit. His hand brushed hers once, deliberate, testing, and she didn’t pull away. The single touch lit a fuse.
Richard’s fingers curled around hers, warm, calloused, and certain. He drew her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips across her knuckles in a gesture so courtly it should have been chaste, except it wasn’t.
The heat of his breath, the faint rasp of stubble, the way his eyes never left hers; each detail coiled low in her belly like a promise. Caroline’s pulse stuttered. She tried to summon a protest, a reminder of propriety, but the words tangled behind her teeth.
Richard stepped closer, crowding her gently until the backs of her knees met a velvet-upholstered chaise. The room was small, intimate, the air thick with rosewater and the sharper note of her own anticipation.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, echoing the orangery, but this time his voice was velvet over steel.
She couldn’t. Instead, her free hand rose to the lapel of his coat, fingers curling into the wool as if anchoring herself to the storm. Richard’s gaze darkened. He released her hand only to cup her jaw, thumb sweeping across her lower lip until it parted on a shaky exhale.
Then he kissed her—not the fierce collision of before, but slow, deliberate, a savoring. His tongue traced the inside of her lip, tasting, teasing, until she leaned into him, helpless. When he pulled back, his breathing was uneven.
“Sit,” he said, the single word rough with restraint.
“What for?”
Richard looked at her in warning. “I’ll show you you have no reason to be jealous.”
“I was not-”
“Sit. Now.”
