Page 7 of His Auctioned Duchess
Richard turned his head slowly toward him. “Marriage is a battlefield, my lord. You know it, as do I. Do not waste my time with pretense.”
Caroline’s lips parted. Shock flared through her, mingled with a reluctant flicker of admiration. Who dared speak so plainly in a drawing room, in front of ladies and servants? No one—save this Devil. She gathered her wits swiftly, letting laughter spill from her lips once more, though it sounded sharper now, edged with challenge.
“You truly are what they whisper,” she said. “A man who mistakes civility for weakness and courtship for conquest. Tell me, Your Grace—do you plan to duel every gentleman in England until only you remain to wed me?”
John, both mortified and delighted, buried his face in his sleeve to hide his grin.
Richard leaned back in his chair, eyes steady upon hers, utterly unruffled by her mockery. “If that is what is required.”
The bluntness stole her breath. He had not spoken in jest, not entirely. Beneath the words lay a promise, and though the violence in it made her shiver, something else stirred—something dangerously close to intrigue.
Nicholas shifted uneasily, sensing the undercurrents. “Caroline–” he began, his tone warning.
But she lifted a hand, silencing him without looking away from Richard. “And if blood is not required, sir? If laughter is the prize? Tell me, can you laugh? Can you make a woman laugh without frightening her first?”
Her words rang across the chamber like the crack of a gauntlet thrown. John sat up straighter, his eyes darting between them, sensing the duel sharpen.
Richard studied her in silence. His face remained unreadable, yet the firelight caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—as if he were almost amused. He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting upon his knees, his eyes locked to hers with a force that pinned her where she sat.
“I will not seduce you,” he said, his voice deep, gravelly, unyielding.
The words landed with unexpected weight. Caroline blinked, her cheeks warming despite herself. Of all the responses she anticipated—boast, jest, defiance—this was not among them. He would not woo her, would not whisper pretty phrases or flatter her beauty as the others had tried. Instead, he stripped the game bare, refusing to play it at all.
To her shame, disappointment pricked her. She masked it swiftly with scorn. “What, then? Will you conquer me by silence? Shall I fall at your feet because you refuse to woo?”
Richard’s gaze did not soften. “I will not lie to you. I will not adorn myself with frippery. I am what I am. If you find that insufficient, then send me away now.”
The room held its breath. Nicholas shifted, half rising, his cane trembling in his grip. “This is no way to speak to a lady–”
Caroline cut across him, her smile sharp. “No, Father, let him speak. For once, a man does not hide behind lace and rehearsed compliments. Tell me, Your Grace—what do you offer, if not charm or wit?”
Richard’s answer came without hesitation. “Strength. Protection. Truth.”
Caroline’s heart stuttered at the simplicity of it. So stark, so unpolished—and yet, more sincere than any speech she had endured from her suitors. She masked her reaction with a laugh, though softer this time, less cutting.
“Well then,” she said, rising from her chair with a swish of skirts, “we must test whether your strength lies only in words. Come, Your Grace. The drawing room is too stifling. Let us see whether you can keep pace in the gardens.”
Nicholas gaped. “Caroline!”
But she was already at the door, her back straight, her steps brisk. She glanced once over her shoulder, daring him to refuse. Richard rose without a word and followed, his boots heavy upon the parquet.
John scrambled after them, wide-eyed and grinning, whispering under his breath, “Oh, this will be sport.”
The hallway seemed to constrict around Caroline as she led the way. Her pulse drummed, her palms tingled, but she did not falter. She would not let him see weakness—not this Devil, not anyone. She flung open the door to the terrace, letting cool air sweep through her hair. The gardens stretched before them: yew hedges trimmed into symmetry, roses climbing trellises, gravel paths winding between statues of Roman gods.
Richard stepped out behind her, his figure dark against the sunlit lawn. He did not look at the roses or statues. His gaze was only upon her.
She turned, folding her arms. “Tell me, Your Grace—would you truly kill for my hand?”
The question hung in the garden air, daring, reckless.
Richard’s eyes narrowed slightly. “If required.”
The bluntness of his tone made her heart leap against her ribs, though she forced a scoff. “Then you are as bad as they say. A brute who mistakes violence for devotion.”
He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “Better a brute who defends than a coward who abandons.”
Caroline’s breath caught. She had no ready retort. Her wit faltered, leaving her staring at the scarred face that loomed closer, unreadable yet arresting. For the first time, she wondered whether she had found her equal—or something far more dangerous.
