Page 38 of His Auctioned Duchess
Caroline’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged. She gathered her wits with effort. “I—I couldn’t sleep. I heard the music.”
He rose slowly from the bench. Even in shadow, he seemed enormous, the candlelight carving him into lines of power and restraint. “The music is private.”
“I gathered that,” she said, her tone soft but steady. “But it was beautiful. I could not walk away.”
His jaw tightened, as if beauty were a thing he mistrusted. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Perhaps not. Yet here I am.”
For a heartbeat, the silence stretched again. Then he sighed, rubbing a hand across his brow. “You will catch your death wandering this house at night.”
“I’ve survived worse—your temper, for instance.”
That startled a ghost of a smile from him, the first since she entered.
“Why do you play?” she asked quietly.
He hesitated. “Because it soothes me.”
Caroline lingered by the door, uncertain if she should step closer or flee while she still had sense enough to. The room smelled faintly of wax, old wood, and rain—a clean, masculine scent that seemed to belong entirely to him.
Richard had turned away, fingers trailing absently across the piano’s lid. “It’s an indulgence,” he said at last. “I play to quiet my mind. It’s… nothing.”
“Nothing?” she repeated softly. “That was not ‘nothing,’ Your Grace. That was… extraordinary.”
His mouth curved without humor. “It is easier to be extraordinary in solitude.”
Caroline tilted her head, studying him. “You surprise me, Richard. A man who terrifies half of London, who rides into battle and returns with scars enough to frighten statues—and yet here you sit, playing like a poet’s ghost.”
His gaze lifted to hers, sharp as a blade. “Do not make me a story, Caroline.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. The only sound was the soft hiss of the lamp and the faint patter of rain against the narrow window.
Finally, he spoke. “During the war, there were nights when the camps fell silent—no laughter, no speech, just the wind and the smell of smoke. I used to play in my head. I could almost hear it—the music, clear as breath. It reminded me I was still human.”
The words were quiet, almost reluctant, as if torn from him against his will.
Caroline’s throat tightened. “And now?”
He looked down at his hands. “Now it reminds me of what I lost.”
There was no arrogance in his voice then, no shield of dry humor. For the first time, she saw the man beneath the reputation—the soldier who had lived through something unspeakable and returned with silence stitched into his soul.
Caroline took a step forward. The floor creaked softly beneath her slippers, but he did not turn her away.
“Play for me,” she said.
He looked up, startled. “Why?”
“Because I want to know what you sound like when you are not pretending to feel nothing.”
His brows drew together, uncertain whether to be angered or amused. “You are not easily deterred.”
“Never.”
Something shifted in his gaze—respect, perhaps, or resignation. With a small exhale, he sat again at the piano. “Very well,” he said, and placed his hands on the keys.
