Page 61 of His Auctioned Duchess
Nicholas was not a man easily ignored. His presence filled the room, stern and composed, the weight of years carried with iron dignity. His gaze swept over her and for an instant his expression softened.
“You look radiant,” he said. “Truly radiant.”
Caroline curtsied lightly. “Thank you, Father.”
He stepped forward, taking her gloved hands. “This is a fine day for us all. The Fernsby name will be linked forever to one of the oldest titles in England. You have done well to secure such a match.”
“I didn’t secure it,” she replied quietly. “You did.”
His mouth tightened. “Do not begin, Caroline. You have had every privilege, every protection. You will soon have a husband capable of keeping both. What more could a daughter ask of her father?”
“Freedom,” she said before she could stop herself.
Nicholas’s eyes cooled. “Freedom is a word for poets and paupers. Not for women of our station.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Evan shifted uncomfortably; John looked away.
Nicholas did not back down. “You will do your duty. It is more important than every fleeting passion you could ever have.”
She stared at him, her heart thudding dully. “Mother’s duty killed her.”
He stiffened. “Do not speak of her that way.”
“I only mean,” Caroline pressed, her voice trembling slightly, “that she followed duty into the grave. I cannot pretend I don’t think of her today.”
For the first time, her father’s expression faltered. “Your mother would be proud,” he said at last. “Do not let fear dishonor her memory.”
Then, without waiting for her reply, he turned and left.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded far too final.
John approached her, his smile tinged with melancholy. “You’ll be all right, Caro. You always are.”
She tried to smile. “And if I’m not?”
“Then write to me,” he said, pressing her hand. “And I’ll come with a pistol.”
She laughed through the tightness in her throat. “You’re impossible.”
“Undeniably so,” he said with a bow. “And proud of it.”
When both brothers had gone, Caroline stood before the mirror again. The gown gleamed in the morning light—silk white as frost, embroidered with silver thread. Anne fastened the final clasp, her hands gentle but quick.
Caroline stared at her own reflection until the room blurred.
“I suppose this is it,” she whispered.
Anne dabbed her eyes discreetly. “You’ll make a beautiful duchess, my lady.”
Caroline drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Yes,” she said softly. “A beautiful duchess in a beautiful cage.”
Then, gathering her skirts, she turned toward the door.
“Let us go,” she said. “The Devil waits.”
Richard had not slept.
The night had been long, thick with restless thought, and though dawn had crept pale and quiet through the tall windows of Ashwood Hall, it had brought him no peace. He had watched the light crawl across the floor like a trespasser. He sat now on the edge of his bed, bare-chested, the sheets tangled around his waist, his mind as heavy as the silence that filled the chamber.
