Page 88 of His Auctioned Duchess
Later that day, Richard sat at the instrument, broad shoulders bowed slightly as his fingers glided across the keys. Caroline, seated nearby with her sketchbook, worked in stillness that mirrored his—each note he played seemed to guide her hand.
She had thought passion must always come loud, reckless, and consuming, but here, in these quiet evenings, she found something else—something deeper. The subtle warmth of his gaze when her pencil faltered, the steady rhythm of his music, the way his presence steadied the restless corners of her heart—all these spoke more of love than any grand declaration could. Even though she had yet to hear that word from him. Or say it. Though they cared for each other, they didn’t seem ready to completely let go, yet. Or so she would like to think. Because he had already claimed her as his, in more ways than one. The words didn’t matter. Or maybe she’d hear them after they were truly married. But what if he couldn’t say them because she wasn’t ready to give him children?
No. Richard wasn’t like this. She knew that now. Maybe she just had to tell them first.
After all, there would be no games, no defiance, no need to guard herself with wit or pride now. Caroline found herself sketching him without hesitation, not as the Devil of the Ton, but as the man who hummed under his breath as he played, lost to thought. She lingered on his scar—the mark that had once repelled her and now only reminded her of his strength.
Richard, for his part, would glance up from time to time and find her bent over her work, a small frown of concentration creasing her brow.
The tune he was playing carried a faint trace of melancholy, and as it filled the room, Caroline’s chest grew tight. Her pencil slipped from her fingers and rolled across the table, but she did not reach for it.
Her voice broke the stillness before she could stop herself. “Richard.”
He did not stop playing at first, only lifted his head a little, humming under his breath in answer.
“I have to ask you something,” she said softly.
The music faltered. He turned his head, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “You sound grave. What weighs so heavily?”
Her heart beat faster. The words came haltingly, heavy and raw. “It’s about… children.”
The music stopped completely. His fingers lingered on the keys for a moment, then stilled. The last note lingered before fading into silence.
Richard closed the piano lid gently, the small sound impossibly loud in the hush that followed. He turned in his seat, studying her face. “What of them?”
Caroline swallowed hard. Her throat felt dry. “You must have thought of it,” she whispered.
He said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—steady, gray, and searching—held her captive.
“I thought I could bear it,” she continued, her words tumbling out faster now. “That I could pretend not to be afraid. But I can’t, Richard. I am afraid.”
He rose from the piano slowly, his shadow stretching long across the carpet as he crossed the room toward her. Caroline gripped the edge of her sketchbook until her knuckles whitened, willing herself not to shrink back.
When he reached her, he stood silent for a long moment. The light from the fire caught the scar that cut across his face, sharp and pale against his skin. “I know” he said finally, his tone quiet but unyielding.
Her breath trembled. “I am so afraid of childbirth,” she continued. “Of dying.”
Richard’s brow furrowed slightly, but she pressed on, the words spilling out before she could think better of them.
“My mother died bringing me into the world, I’ve told you as much. I never knew her—only the stories my father told. She was young, strong, healthy. It should have been safe. But it wasn’t.” She took a shaky breath. “They say I was lucky to live, but sometimes I wonder if I stole her life for mine.”
Her voice broke on the last word, and the room seemed to shrink around her.
Richard did not answer immediately. He stood very still, the firelight flickering across his face, revealing the faint tremor of his jaw. Then, slowly, he knelt before her.
Caroline’s breath caught. The Duke of Ashwood—this man who commanded rooms with a glance—was kneeling at her feet, his hands resting lightly on her knees.
“Caroline,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”
She did.
The storm outside pressed against the windows, rain pattering in steady rhythm, but within the room, there was only stillness.His voice, when it came again, was low and deliberate, each word carved with care.
"When you’re ready," he repeated gently, his voice calm and reassuring. "Not before," he added, emphasizing his words with a gentle nod.
She stood there, her lips parting as if she were about to speak, but no words came out. Her emotions were so intense that they seemed to catch in her throat, leaving her momentarily speechless.
He continued speaking, his eyes fixed on hers with a steady, unwavering gaze. "You’ll never be forced," he promised, his voice sincere and full of warmth. "Not by me. Not ever."
