Page 64 of His Auctioned Duchess
He ignored it. He had heard worse on darker nights.
As he approached the chapel, Edmund was already stationed near the door, straight-backed and solemn. The soldiers’ composure in him brought Richard a measure of calm.
He paused once before the threshold, looking briefly toward the horizon. Somewhere beyond it, war still raged—somewhere, men still bled for causes they scarcely understood. He had escaped all that. Yet this, somehow, felt no less dangerous.
He stepped inside.
The hush that followed his entrance was absolute.
Candles burned in tall stands along the aisle, their light glinting off the polished pews and the golden crucifix at the altar. Every face turned toward him, every whisper stilled.
Richard lifted his chin, his expression unreadable. Whatever fear he carried, he buried deep beneath the armor of command.
The Devil of the Ton had arrived to claim his bride.
The sound of carriage wheels crunching over the gravel had long since faded, replaced by the whisper of silk as she stepped from the coach and onto the cobblestone path. The morning air carried the faint scent of roses—too sweet, too deliberate. Someone had arranged them in careful, symmetrical borders, as though beauty could disguise dread.
Her heart thudded hard against her ribs.
John offered his arm with a grin that failed to reach his eyes. “Ready?”
“As one can ever be when marching to her fate,” she said, managing a ghost of humor.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “Keep that tongue sharp. It’s your only weapon.”
Evan, walking slightly ahead, turned at that. “Decorum, Caroline.”
“Decorum,” she repeated softly. “Yes. I shall try not to bleed rebellion on the altar.”
Their father stood waiting beside the chapel door, his posture regal, his eyes shining with a satisfaction that made her stomach tighten. He extended his arm without a word.
Caroline hesitated for a heartbeat—one fleeting, foolish wish that someone might say she need not do this. But none did.
She placed her hand on her father’s arm. The warmth of him felt distant through the gloves.
Inside, the world changed.
The chapel shimmered in candlelight. Petals lay scattered along the aisle like a pale snowfall. Faces turned as she entered—curious, appraising, judgmental. The cream of the ton had gathered for the spectacle: the fiery Miss Fernsby marrying the Devil himself.
Whispers rippled like wind through reeds.
“She looks terrified.”
“They say he made a pact for her dowry.”
“Imagine being bound to such a man.”
Caroline heard them all, though she kept her chin high.
Her father’s arm remained steady beneath her hand. With every step, the weight of her gown grew heavier, the lace train dragging like a chain. The candles blurred as tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. A Fernsby did not cry before strangers.
Then she saw him.
Richard.
He stood at the altar—tall, composed, dark as if carved from iron. His coat was cut with military precision, the black fabric making his eyes seem colder, his scar more severe. And yet, when her gaze met his, something unspoken passed between them. Recognition. Warning. Maybe even pity.
He looked like a man prepared for execution.
