Page 74 of His Auctioned Duchess
Caroline did not look back.
And for the first time in years, Richard felt the full measure of solitude he had always claimed to prefer. It did not feel like peace. It felt like punishment.
Caroline sat motionless inside the carriage that was taking her back home, her hands clenched in her lap, her gaze fixed on the fading countryside through the window. The landscape blurred with every jolt of the carriage, but she barely saw it; her mind replayed the garden over and over—the roses, the sunlight, Richard’s face when he told her she was free.
That word—free—had never sounded so hollow.
When the carriage halted, John was already waiting on the steps. His usually playful expression faltered when he saw her pale face and the wilted remnants of her bridal gown. “Caroline…” he began softly, offering his hand.
She took it, though her fingers were cold. “You should not look at me like that, John. I’m not a ghost.”
He attempted a weak smile. “You look like one.”
“I feel worse,” she admitted, stepping down. Her skirts caught on the step, and John stooped quickly to untangle them—too quickly, as though desperate to do something, anything, to help.
Inside, the manor felt strange, as though time had skipped a beat. The servants moved quietly, eyes downcast, pretending not to notice that their mistress had returned in her wedding dress before the hour of luncheon.
Nicholas appeared in the hall, his face drawn but composed. “I came to see how you were coping after the incident.”
“An incident?” Caroline gave a bitter laugh. “That’s one way to name it.”
Her father’s mouth tightened. “Do I want to know the details?”
“No,” she said wearily. “You do not.”
He hesitated, then approached and took her hand. “You are safe—that is all that matters.”
“Safe?” she repeated softly. “I’m not certain that word applies to anyone involved.”
Nicholas sighed. “The scandal will be fierce, but short-lived. You, my dear, shall endure.”
She turned away before he could see the tears gathering in her eyes. “Endurance is such a tedious virtue,” she murmured, ascending the stairs with as much dignity as she could muster.
That night, the storm broke.
Rain lashed against the windows, drumming an erratic rhythm on the panes as if echoing her thoughts. Caroline sat by the firein her chamber, wrapped in a shawl, the faint scent of smoke clinging to her hair. Before her, on the table, lay the remains of her bridal bouquet—roses crushed, petals darkened by travel and tears.
She picked one up, turning it between her fingers until the stem snapped.
It was astonishing how quickly something beautiful could break.
A knock interrupted her reverie. “Come,” she said, her voice faint.
John entered, holding a tray with a single teacup. “You haven’t eaten,” he said quietly.
She smiled, though it barely reached her eyes. “You sound like a mother hen.”
“Someone has to.” He set the tray down, studying her face. “Do you wish to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll talk,” he said lightly, pulling up a chair. “That man of yours–”
“Not mine,” she corrected.
He ignored her. “That man of yours, the duke, looks like he could wrestle a bear and win. I cannot imagine anyone daring to challenge him and living to tell it. Yet somehow you did.”
Caroline’s lips twitched despite herself. “He dismissed me, John. There was no battle. Only retreat.”
