Page 4 of His Auctioned Duchess
The knock came again, sharper this time. Nicholas frowned, his heavy brows drawing low, and gestured with his cane. “Enter.”
The door opened to admit a maid—young Alice, a timid creature with flaxen hair. She bobbed a curtsy, but her hands twisted the hem of her apron until it seemed ready to tear. Her eyes dartedabout the room as though expecting shadows to spring from the corners.
Nicholas’s voice was measured. “What is it, girl? We are not to be disturbed at breakfast.”
Alice licked her lips. “Forgive me, my lord, but—there is a carriage. They brought word of a guest.”
Nicholas’s frown deepened. “A guest? At this hour? Who presumes upon us so?”
Caroline leapt at the chance for mischief. She sank into the nearest settee with an exaggerated sigh. “No doubt another would-be suitor with polished boots and empty compliments. Shall I fetch the household ledger, Father? We may note down the offers for my dowry beside the price of oats.”
John smothered laughter in his sleeve, though his shoulders shook violently.
Nicholas shot his daughter a look. “Enough of your insolence. Who is it, Alice?”
The maid’s gaze dropped to the carpet. “A duke, my lord.”
Caroline’s groan was immediate, theatrical. She flung her head back and pressed the back of her hand to her brow. “A duke! Heaven save me. Another pompous lord with a cravat tied tighter than his wits. How many dukes must marchthrough these doors before I expire from boredom? Perhaps this one will demand I sing at him, or—worse—embroider his handkerchiefs.”
John collapsed into outright laughter, nearly spilling off the chaise. Nicholas, despite his best efforts, concealed a twitch of amusement behind his hand.
But Alice did not laugh. She clutched her apron all the harder, her knuckles white. Her lips trembled before she spoke again, barely more than a whisper. “They call him… the Devil of the Ton.”
The mirth in the room stilled at once. John’s laughter died in his throat. Nicholas’s head snapped toward the maid, his expression grave.
“What name did you say?”
Alice’s voice shook. “The Devil, my lord.”
The silence that followed was palpable. Even the fire seemed to quiet, its crackle subdued beneath the weight of the words.
Nicholas’s hand closed tight around the head of his cane. He drew a long, steady breath, his expression unreadable. Caroline studied him, unsettled by the flicker of unease in his eyes. Herfather was not a man easily cowed, yet even he looked troubled at the mention of this mysterious duke.
Caroline forced a laugh, though it rang hollow at first. “The Devil? What nonsense. Is he horned as well? Does he sprout wings and breathe fire?”
John attempted a weak grin. “Perhaps he drags a cloven hoof across the carpet.”
But neither Nicholas nor Alice joined in the jest.
Caroline straightened, the humor fading from her face. She saw the way her father’s fingers drummed against his cane, restless. She heard the catch in his breath that betrayed more than fatigue—it was wariness.
“Father,” she said quietly, “you know of him.”
Nicholas’s eyes met hers, steady and grim. “I know enough. His name is Belford. Richard Belford, Duke of Ashwood. Men call him Devil because they fear him, and men do not fear without cause.”
John whistled low, shaking his head. “The Devil of Ashwood, come here? Why us?”
“Why indeed,” Nicholas murmured. “Unless–” He cut himself short, rising with effort, leaning heavily upon his cane.
Nicholas turned to Caroline, his mouth tightening. “Caroline, you will be cautious. This is not a man to mock with ghost stories and headless nuns. If Belford seeks a wife, he will have her. His will is iron. You would do well not to draw his ire.”
Her chin lifted higher. “Better to draw his ire than his leash.”
John choked on another laugh, though this time Nicholas silenced him with a glare.
“Caroline,” her father said more softly, almost pleading now, “heed me. I may not have strength to protect you much longer. If Ashwood sets his mind upon you, there is little anyone can do. He is powerful. Dangerous. It would be folly to challenge him.”
She held his gaze, her heart hammering, though her smile was bright with daring. “Then let us see if the Devil can withstand me. I should like to know whether men of such reputation are made of iron—or only of smoke.”
