Page 37 of His Auctioned Duchess
When the carriage pulled to a stop at Ashwood’s town residence, she waited until everyone else had stepped down before taking Richard’s hand. His grip was steady, his eyes unreadable.
“Are you well?” he asked quietly, once the others had gone inside.
“Perfectly,” she said, though her voice trembled.
He studied her for a moment, the faintest crease between his brows. “Do not trouble yourself over Louisa. Her mischief is harmless.”
Caroline lifted her chin. “You mistake me, Your Grace. I do not trouble myself over anyone.”
A flicker of amusement touched his mouth. “You hide your jealousy very poorly.”
She drew back her hand. “You mistake pride for jealousy.”
“Do I?” he asked softly.
She turned and swept past him, her skirts brushing his coat as she went. “Good night, Your Grace.”
CHAPTER 11
Caroline could not sleep. The storm had left her nerves stretched taut, her thoughts restless.
The rain had stopped sometime after midnight, leaving the world wrapped in a silver hush. The corridors of Ashwood Hall lay empty, the sconces guttering low, shadows curling across the stone like restless smoke.
She wrapped a shawl about her shoulders and stepped into the hall, telling herself she sought air, not adventure. Yet the deeper she wandered, the stronger the pull became—something drawing her upward, toward the older wing of the house where even servants hesitated to tread.
It was there, in the narrow stairwell leading to the old tower, that she heard it.
Music.
Soft at first, so faint she thought she imagined it. Then unmistakable—a melody wrought of aching beauty, notes so pure they seemed to tremble in the air. It rose and fell like breath, both tender and tormented.
Caroline froze, heart hammering. Who in the house would be playing at such an hour?
She followed the sound. The tower staircase spiraled upward, its steps uneven, worn smooth by generations. The music grew clearer with each turn, curling through the stones like a living thing. It was not the polite sort of tune one heard in drawing rooms or at soirées. This was raw, almost wild—a confession given form in sound.
At last, she reached the landing. A faint light glowed beneath a half-closed door.
She hesitated only a moment before pushing it open.
The room beyond took her breath.
It was a small chamber—bare save for a grand pianoforte, a single lamp burning upon it, and the man seated before the keys.
Richard.
He was stripped to the waist, his back glistening with a sheen of exertion, the muscles along his shoulders shifting as hishands moved across the ivory keys. Candlelight played over him, turning the scar along his side into a silver streak.
For a moment, Caroline could do nothing but stare.
He played as if possessed, his head bowed, his body swaying with the rhythm. The melody was unlike any she had ever heard—melancholy and defiant, the kind of music born not of study but of survival.
Then, abruptly, his hand struck the keys in a discordant crash. The sound shattered the spell.
Richard’s head lifted sharply. His eyes caught hers.
The silence that followed was electric.
“What are you doing here?” his voice was low, edged with something between anger and disbelief.
