Page 76 of His Auctioned Duchess
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
The wind stirred, carrying the scent of roses.
Somewhere in the distance, the chapel bells began to toll again—slow, mournful, as though marking the funeral of something unnamed.
Richard turned back toward the darkened house, the veil still clutched in his fist, and realized that for all his efforts to sever her from his life, every path still led to her.
Every breath still carried her name.
CHAPTER 20
Rain had washed the morning clean again, but Fernsby Manor felt heavier than ever. The gray light seeped through the tall windows, spilling over Caroline’s desk where pages lay strewn like fallen leaves. Sketch after sketch bore the same face—a man’s, sharply drawn, scar bisecting the strong line of his jaw.
She did not remember half the drawings. Her fingers moved by instinct, tracing the outline of eyes she could not forget. Every time she tried to draw something else—the gardens, the lake, even the old ash tree beyond the terrace—the image slipped back to him.
Richard.
The name itself had become a wound.
She pressed the charcoal harder, smudging the shadow beneath his mouth until it blurred. It did not help. Nothing helped.
At night she dreamed of him, not as he had been in anger, but as he was in quiet moments: his voice low and measured, his hand steadying hers on the reins, his laughter rare but startling when it came. Each dream ended the same—with her reaching for him and waking alone, the emptiness beside her a crueler punishment than scandal.
She pushed back from the desk, breathing hard, and crossed to the window. Outside, the lawns glistened, green and deceptive in their calm. Somewhere below, her father’s voice carried through the open study door, brisk and business-like. She caught fragments—words she had hoped never to hear again.
“…private invitations… discreet… bidding must begin before the Season resumes…”
Her breath caught.
No.
She moved before she thought, the skirts of her morning gown whispering against the carpet as she descended the stairs. The study door was ajar. Through the crack she saw Nicholas standing beside the hearth, a ledger open before him, his spectacles perched precariously on his nose. Across from him sat Mr Redford, the family solicitor, nodding gravely as though this were all quite ordinary.
“Father.”
Nicholas looked up, startled but unashamed. “Caroline. You’re awake.”
Her fingers tightened around the door frame. “I heard what you said. Tell me it isn’t true.”
He closed the ledger slowly. “If you refer to my efforts to restore our family’s fortunes, then yes, it is true. Someone must think of the future.”
“Another auction?” Her voice broke on the word. “After everything that happened?”
Nicholas frowned, as though she were a child objecting to medicine. “You misunderstand. The first attempt was unfortunate—badly timed, badly managed. This will be private, entirely proper. Only gentlemen of standing will be invited. We shall salvage what can be salvaged.”
Caroline stepped forward. “You would sell me again?”
“Do not be theatrical.”
“Do not be mercenary!”
Redford rose hastily, muttering something about business to attend to, and slipped out, leaving father and daughter facing each other across the polished desk.
Nicholas sighed. “Caro, you know as well as I that society has a short memory. You are still a catch—a duke’s almost-bride. That alone will raise offers.”
Her stomach turned. “You speak of offers as though I were a parcel of land.”
“I speak of duty,” he said firmly. “Your dowry remains substantial, but without a match we are vulnerable. Your brothers have estates to maintain; your sister will need portions. This house, this family, relies upon sense, not sentiment.”
