Page 60 of His Auctioned Duchess
“My lady?” came the voice of Anne, her maid. “May I come in?”
Caroline forced her voice steady. “Yes, Anne. Come in.”
The girl entered with the air of one marching into battle, arms full of linen and lace. “We must begin at once, my lady. Lady Ophelia has already sent word—the chapel is near ready. They say the Duke himself is awake.”
“Awake,” Caroline echoed faintly, sitting up. “How industrious of him.”
Anne set down the bundle of silks and dipped a nervous curtsy. “Shall I open the curtains?”
“You may as well,” Caroline said with a wry smile. “The sun seems eager to witness my ruin.”
The maid hesitated, uncertain whether to laugh, and then busied herself with the basin and towels. The sound of water pouring seemed far too loud.
When Caroline rose, the chill of the morning air struck her skin, sharp and bracing. She crossed to the mirror and studied the reflection. Her hair was tousled from sleep, her eyes rimmed with the faintest shadows. She looked older, she thought—not by years, but by weight.
Anne moved behind her, brushing her hair in long, practiced strokes. “You’ll be the most beautiful bride the county has ever seen,” she said softly.
Caroline smiled without conviction. “Beauty has never been my trouble.”
The maid faltered mid-stroke. “You don’t mean–”
“I mean,” Caroline interrupted gently, “that beauty is a poor shield. It brings admiration, not safety.”
Before Anne could reply, another knock sounded—two sharp raps this time.
“May we enter?” came a familiar voice.
“John,” she said with relief. “Yes, come in.”
Her brothers entered one after the other. John first, lively as ever, the faintest smudge of laughter in his eyes despite his formal attire. Evan followed more solemnly, his waistcoat immaculate, his expression already one of measured gravity.
John took one look at her and whistled. “Good Lord, Caro. The Devil himself will fall to his knees when he sees you.”
Evan frowned. “Mind your tongue.”
“Oh, come now, Evan. It’s a wedding, not a funeral.”
“That remains to be seen,” Caroline murmured under her breath.
John’s grin faded slightly. “You’ll do well, sister. He may be a Devil to the ton, but you’re no angel yourself.”
“That’s meant to comfort me?”
“It’s meant to remind you you’ve teeth of your own,” he said simply.
Evan, ever the moralist, stepped closer. “This match will protect you, Caroline. Father’s choice was wise. The duke commands respect—fear even. That will keep you safe.”
“Safe,” she repeated. “From what? From life?”
“From scandal,” Evan corrected primly.
John laughed. “Caroline creates her own scandal. Always has.”
“I should be proud of that, then?” she asked.
“If it keeps you yourself, yes,” John replied.
Before she could answer, the door opened again, and her father entered.
