Page 57 of His Auctioned Duchess
He stared at her, silent, unyielding.
“Then tell me,” she demanded. “If I am so naive, enlighten me. What is it you truly want from me, Richard? An heir? A quiet wife who smiles on command? A warm bed and a silent heart?”
His mouth opened as if to answer, but the sound that came out was more sigh than speech. “Enough,” he said, turning from her. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me,” she whispered.
He stopped, back still to her. The candlelight trembled over the scars on his shoulders, the evidence of battles she could scarcely imagine.
“I cannot,” he said.
“Cannot—or will not?”
He turned then, and for the first time she saw something raw in his face—not anger, but weariness, deep and old.
“Both,” he said.
The single word seemed to drain the air from the room.
Caroline’s hand lowered; the candlelight wavered and steadied again. “Then we are truly strangers after all,” she said softly.
He did not reply.
She set the candle on the pianoforte, its flame reflecting in the black lacquered surface like a fragile moon. “If you would rather I remained a stranger, say so. But do not ask me to live half a life beside a man who hides from the world—and from me.”
Her voice trembled but did not break.
For a long moment he said nothing. Then, very quietly, he asked, “What is it you fear, Caroline?”
She met his eyes, and for the first time all the bravado left her.
“I fear what marriage demands,” she whispered.
Caroline’s words hung in the air like a whispered curse.
For an instant Richard said nothing; the only sound was the faint hiss of the candle and the echo of the wind through the arrow-slit window.
“What marriage demands?” he repeated, voice low. “You fear duty? Expectation?”
She shook her head. “I fear death.”
The starkness of it struck him silent.
Her throat worked before she found the strength to go on. “My mother died giving birth to me, as you probably know already. My father never speaks her name. I grew up with portraits turned to the wall so I would not have to see the woman I killed. And every time someone speaks of heirs and legacies, all I hear is the midwife screaming that she’s gone.”
For a heartbeat he only stared at her. Then he turned away sharply. His hand came down hard on the edge of the piano; the instrument shuddered, strings vibrating a single discordant note.
“Don’t,” he said roughly. “Don’t speak as though you are to blame for what cannot be undone.”
“I am to blame. I live because she died.”
She pressed her palms to her face, the candlelight catching on the tears that escaped despite her defiance. “You think I fear you, Richard. I don’t. I fear what being your wife will ask of me. I fear that to give you a child is to write my own epitaph. That I will have to abandon him or her to grow up without me.”
He wheeled on her, eyes suddenly blazing. “You live because she lived long enough to give you life. You call that murder? You dishonor her every time you say so.”
Her breath hitched. “You don’t understand–”
“I understand guilt,” he interrupted, voice shaking with barely checked anger. “I understand lying awake at night hearing ghosts call your name. I understand wishing you could barter your breath for someone else’s.”
