Page 43 of His Auctioned Duchess
He turned when she entered. For a moment, their eyes met—a brief spark of recognition that neither could disguise.
Caroline inclined her head with perfect composure and took her seat. “You look as though the world has weighed heavily upon you today, Your Grace.”
“Only the parts of it that speak too freely,” he replied, tone deceptively mild.
Sophia stifled a grin. “You two truly cannot share a room without sparring.”
“It keeps the air lively,” Caroline said just as John entered behind her, apologizing for his tardiness.
“Blame the decanter,” he said cheerfully, sliding into the chair opposite Sophia. “Your butler guards it as if it were the crown jewels.”
Lady Ophelia laughed softly. “He guards everything my son values, Mr. Fernsby.”
“Then he ought to stand between your son and my sister,” John quipped, nodding toward Richard.
The table rippled with amusement—except for Richard, whose mouth curved in something not quite a smile. “If he did, your sister might protest the obstruction.”
Caroline met his gaze, unflinching. “I might indeed.”
Jasper poured himself wine, watching them with that unreadable half-smile she had begun to distrust. “Some might call this foreplay.”
“Jasper,” Lady Ophelia warned gently, though her lips twitched.
Caroline arched her brow. “How very enlightening, my lord.”
The exchange drew polite laughter, enough to ease the tension for a moment. The first course arrived—soup fragrant withherbs, served in delicate porcelain bowls—and conversation resumed. Sophia chattered about gowns, Louisa about garden parties, and Lady Ophelia about the opera’s success.
Richard said little.
When dessert was served—lemon syllabub and sugared almonds—Sophia leaned toward Caroline and whispered, “He’s staring again.”
Caroline blinked. “What?”
“Your Duke,” Sophia said with a grin. “If he glares any harder, the almonds might combust.”
Caroline refused to turn, though her pulse skipped treacherously. “He is merely lost in thought.”
“Indeed. And you, my dear, are the unfortunate subject of it.”
Before Caroline could retort, Richard set down his glass with a soft, deliberate clink that drew every gaze to him.
“I have a matter to announce,” he said.
The table stilled. Even the footman froze mid-step.
Richard’s gaze swept over them all, calm, commanding—and finally, it rested on Caroline. “I have obtained a special license.The wedding will take place next week. Invitations have already been sent.”
The words fell like thunder.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Caroline choked on her wine. “I beg your pardon?”
Sophia’s fork clattered to her plate. “Next week?”
Lady Ophelia blinked rapidly, as if uncertain she had heard correctly. “Richard, surely you mean–”
“I mean precisely what I said,” he replied, his tone smooth as glass. “There is no reason for delay.”
Caroline’s voice rose, sharp and incredulous. “No reason? You speak as though I am some contract to be executed, not a woman with–”
