Page 5 of His Auctioned Duchess
The words hung between them, sharp as a drawn blade.
At the door, Alice shifted nervously. “Shall I admit him, my lord?”
Nicholas closed his eyes briefly, then inclined his head. “You may.”
The moment the maid departed, silence filled the room, heavier than before. It pressed upon Caroline’s chest like a weight.She turned from her father’s solemn face to the tall windows where sunlight slanted through the curtains. Beyond lay the long drive of Fernsby, winding between oaks and lawns, and at any moment a carriage would crest the rise.
Her heart thudded—not with fear, she told herself, but with anticipation. She had sparred with suitors before, driven them away with her wit, her daring, or her sheer refusal to play the meek debutante. What was one more? Feared or no, this Devil of the Ton would find Caroline Hughes a match not easily cowed.
Yet beneath her bravado, a tremor stirred. She remembered Travers, pale and stammering at the thought of a ghost; remembered Hensley, who fled when she insisted on debating politics over supper; remembered poor Sir Felix, who could not forgive her for laughing at his poetry. She had rid herself of them all with ease. But what if Richard Belford was different? What if he was truly as ruthless as the whispers claimed—what if his will could not be broken by laughter and tricks?
Her fists curled in the folds of her gown.Then I will not yield. Not to him, not to any man. Let him learn I am no lamb for slaughter.
Nicholas cleared his throat, the sound harsh. He rose slowly from his chair, leaning heavily on his cane, and Caroline was struck anew by how frail he seemed beneath his marquess’s dignity. His hand trembled slightly upon the cane’s head, though his voice was steady.
“Caroline,” he said, “I am not blind to your fears. Nor to your cleverness. But listen well: Belford is not like those fops you have frightened away. He is not Travers or Hensley. He is iron. Do not mistake him.”
She met his gaze, her chin lifted proudly though her chest tightened. “If he is iron, Father, then I shall be fire.”
John snorted into his hand, but there was unease in his eyes. “Pray do not set him ablaze at dinner, Caro. We have only just restored the west wing since your last mischief.”
Caroline laughed, sharp and bright, more to steady herself than out of amusement. “I shall try to restrain my flames, brother.”
Nicholas’s lips thinned. He was losing patience then. “I speak not in jest, child. Time grows short for me. You think yourself invincible, but I cannot guard you forever. If Ashwood takes a liking to you, resistance may not be wise.”
Her heart twisted at his words. She wanted to protest—wanted to declare that she needed no guard, that she would forge her own future. But seeing the lines of pain etched into his face, the shadows beneath his eyes, the hand that gripped the cane too tightly—her defiance faltered. For a moment her expression softened, her eyes shimmering with something dangerously close to tears.
“Do not speak of leaving me, Father,” she whispered.
Nicholas’s sternness gentled. He reached across, placing a hand—large, calloused, familiar—upon hers. “All fathers must leave, sooner or later. My duty is to ensure you are safe when I do. Promise me you will not squander every chance with your games.”
Caroline swallowed, forcing a smile, the mask of rebellion slipping back into place. “I promise nothing. I will be wooed on my terms or not at all.”
John grinned, shaking his head. “Stubborn as ten mules, that one.”
Nicholas gave a weary sigh, though affection warmed his eyes. “Heaven help the man who dares to wed you, Caroline.”
At that moment the sound came: wheels upon gravel, the distant snort of horses, the heavy roll of a carriage ascending the drive. All three turned toward the window. Through the thin veil of curtains, they glimpsed the outline of a dark coach cresting the rise, its team of blacks gleaming, its pace measured and sure.
Alice reappeared at the door, pale as parchment. “My lord—the duke has arrived.”
Nicholas nodded, his face grave. “Then we shall receive him.” He straightened as much as his failing strength allowed, resting firmly on his cane.
Caroline drew a long breath, her smile returning—this time edged with defiance sharp enough to cut glass. She smoothed her skirts, lifted her chin, and let fire blaze in her eyes.
“Let him come,” she murmured, each word deliberate, daring. “Let the Devil see I do not tremble.”
CHAPTER 3
Richard Belford, Duke of Ashwood, filled the doorway as though the house itself had been waiting for his shadow.
The great oak doors of Fernsby Manor groaned open upon hinges that had stood for centuries. Beyond them, a shaft of daylight streamed into the hall, outlining the tall, massive frame of the man who stepped across the threshold.
His presence was arresting. He stood taller than most men, shoulders squared with a soldier’s bearing, each step measured with quiet authority. His dark coat cut a severe line against his broad chest, the polished boots at his feet clicking upon the stone floor with crisp finality. But it was his face that seized attention.
The scar, livid and pale, carved from temple to jaw, caught the light of the chandelier overhead, a stark reminder of battles never spoken. His features, otherwise striking, were hardened by the mark: the square jaw set firm, the mouth a thin line, theeyes—gray as steel—cold, assessing, unreadable. He was a man shaped by exile and forged in something harsher than society’s drawing rooms.
The butler bowed low, voice trembling despite himself. “Your Grace… this way, if you please.”
