Page 63 of His Auctioned Duchess
Richard smiled faintly. “You should have been a poet.”
“Not with your mother’s pen,” Edmund said, then his voice softened. “Jest aside, Richard—how do you feel?”
Richard buttoned his coat, fastening the last clasp with deliberate care. “Prepared.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one that matters.”
Edmund studied him, head tilted. “You’ve changed. You used to speak of life as though it were a war to be won. Now you speak as though you’ve already lost.”
Richard met his gaze evenly. “Perhaps both are true.”
The remark seemed to startle Edmund into silence.
At length, he sighed. “Well. If I must watch a friend march to the gallows of matrimony, I’d best take my seat before the execution begins.”
Richard gave a short, humorless laugh. “You do that.”
As Edmund left, Richard turned once more to the mirror. For a fleeting moment, the reflection seemed to waver—the soldier, the duke, the scarred man, the groom. Four faces overlapping, none entirely whole.
He drew a steadying breath.
No hesitation.
He stepped out into the corridor, the cool air biting pleasantly at his skin. Servants drew back with murmured greetings as he passed. The house pulsed with activity—flowers carried through the hall, ribbons tied, silver polished until it gleamed. Every sound seemed magnified, every scent sharpened.
When he reached the great staircase, Lady Ophelia was waiting at the bottom. She looked radiant in lavender silk, her eyes bright though shadowed by something like worry.
“Richard,” she said softly. “You look splendid.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you, Mother.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“As sure as one must be about inevitability.”
Her mouth tightened with restrained affection. “You sound like your father.”
“Then I am truly lost,” he said, though the words lacked bite.
Ophelia stepped closer, touching his arm lightly. “She is a spirited girl, your bride. Do not crush what makes her so.”
He looked down at her. “I do not crush what stands willingly beside me.”
Her lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. “That, my dear, is the trouble. She will not stand willingly for long.”
He said nothing, but the faint tension in his posture betrayed the truth of her words.
The bells began to toll again—clear, solemn, inescapable.
Lady Ophelia drew back. “It’s time.”
Richard nodded. Together, they stepped out into the morning.
The sky was pale blue, almost too bright. The grounds of Ashwood had been transformed: white roses lined the path, their scent mingling with the faint musk of earth and rain. Guests clustered along the walk, their murmurs rising in a tide of speculation as he passed.
“The Devil comes,” someone whispered.
