Page 6 of His Auctioned Duchess
Richard’s gaze swept the hall with dispassionate indifference, yet the servants shrank from it as though he carried a chill in his wake. He followed without haste, the rhythm of his boots echoing like the march of some grim fate.
When the drawing room doors opened, silence fell as his figure filled the doorway.
Caroline’s breath caught. She had heard the whispers, mocked the tales, but none of them prepared her for the reality of him. He was larger than she imagined, scarred more cruelly than gossip described, yet possessed of a presence that demanded attention. It was not beauty, nor charm—it was power, raw and unadorned.
Nicholas Hughes, rising with his cane, cleared his throat. “Your Grace, welcome to Fernsby Manor.”
Richard inclined his head in acknowledgment, but his gaze swept past Nicholas at once, fastening upon the young woman standing near the hearth.
Caroline, pulse quickened but spirit unbowed, dropped into a sweeping curtsy so exaggerated it bordered on mockery. Her eyes lifted to his with daring, and her voice rang bright and bold. “Caroline Hughes, sir. I believe you should know the name of the hand you’ve come to claim.”
Her father hissed, “Caroline!”
But Richard did not flinch, nor did he rebuke her insolence. Instead, his mouth curved—barely, a ghost of something not quite a smile. He strode forward, and before either parent or sibling could interject, he reached for her hand.
Caroline stiffened as his fingers closed around hers. His grip was strong, calloused, not the soft touch of society’s dandies. He bent, and with unnerving deliberation brushed his lips against the back of her hand. His breath was warm against her skin, his voice gravel-deep and roughened by experience.
“Good to meet you, my lady.”
The words reverberated through her chest, though she masked it with an arch of her brow. Her father shifted uneasily, John bit back a laugh, but Caroline held Richard’s gaze unflinching.
“Good to meet you, Your Grace,” she returned, her tone a perfect mimicry of civility, though her eyes sparked mischief. “I do hope you have not come to frighten the maids. They quake enough as it is.”
For the first time, Richard’s scarred features flickered—whether in amusement or warning, she could not tell. He released her hand, straightened, and turned to Nicholas. “Shall we sit?”
Nicholas gestured stiffly, and they moved to the chairs by the fire. Richard settled with the authority of a man who had never doubted his right to any seat he chose. Caroline lowered herself opposite him, folding her hands in her lap as though she were the picture of demure civility. But her eyes glittered like a sword’s edge, waiting for the first strike.
The air was thick, charged. Even John, usually irreverent, held his tongue, though the corners of his mouth twitched. Nicholas shifted uneasily in his chair, as if sensing battle-lines already drawn.
Richard broke the silence first. His gaze fixed upon Caroline, cold, direct, unyielding.
“You are the daughter,” he said flatly.
Caroline tilted her head, smile sweet as honey. “So they tell me.”
Richard did not return the smile. “Then let us not waste time. What amount must I pay for this marriage?”
The words fell like stones in the room, blunt and brutal. Nicholas stiffened, his lips parting in outrage. John choked on a laugh, uncertain whether he misheard. Caroline blinked, stunned—and then laughter burst from her lips.
Not the polite titter expected of a lady, but a bright, ringing peal that filled the room with daring irreverence. She leaned back in her chair, pressing a hand to her breast as her laughter echoed off the paneled walls.
“Oh, Your Grace,” she gasped, eyes alight with wicked amusement, “you mistake the prize entirely. It is not money that decides my fate, but whether any gentleman proves himself worthy. My dowry may tempt, but it cannot purchase.”
Her father groaned softly, but Richard’s gaze never wavered. He regarded her as one might study a chess opponent, weighing each move before making his own. Then, slowly, he inclined his head.
“Very well,” he said, his voice low, deliberate. “Then who do I kill for your hand?”
The fire crackled. Nicholas’s knuckles whitened on his cane. John’s mouth dropped open, equal parts horrified and fascinated.
Caroline’s smile faltered, the laughter dying in her throat. The violence in the words unsettled her, yet her pulse leapt, her intrigue undeniable. She forced a scoff, masking the sudden warmth in her cheeks.
“My hand is not won by blood, sir,” she said boldly. “You may frighten the ton with such talk, but you will not frighten me.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying her, and for the first time something like interest gleamed in their cold depths.
The silence that followed was electric, the sort of silence that made every tick of the mantel clock a thunderclap. Caroline’s pulse hammered in her ears, though she raised her chin and held his gaze. He did not flinch, nor retract the question. His scar seemed deeper in the firelight, a cruel reminder of what he might be capable of.
Nicholas cleared his throat harshly, his cane striking the floor. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice taut, “this is my daughter, not a wager on the battlefield.”
