Page 89 of His Auctioned Duchess
Hearing his words, tears began to blur her vision, making the world around her shimmer. The emotion she felt was overwhelming, yet also comforting. She reached up instinctively, her fingertips trembling slightly as they hovered in the air between them.
"Do you mean that?" she managed to whisper, her voice filled with a mix of hope and vulnerability. Her fingers remained unsteady, as if she were trying to find something solid to hold onto.
His expression softened, though his voice remained steady. “I do. You are a person, Caroline, not my trophy. Not my means to an heir. You will choose what happens to your body and your life. That choice will always be yours.”
Something in her chest loosened, an ache that had been locked away since girlhood. Her tears fell freely now, tracing warm paths down her cheeks. She had expected promises of safety, of doctors, of all the things men said to quiet women’s fears—but not this. Not the simple gift of agency.
He reached out with his hands, marked by old scars, each one telling its own story. With gentle, steady movements, he used those strong hands to softly brush away her tears. "You’ve been brave all your life," he said, his voice full of admiration and warmth.
"You faced me when others feared me," he continued, speaking clearly and truthfully. "You speak out when others would rather stay silent." His eyes held hers, showing he truly meant every word. "You are stronger than you think," he added, his voice a firm and comforting assurance.
She gave a choked laugh, surprised by his faith in her. "You make me sound fearless," she responded, humor and disbelief mingling in her voice.
"You are," he affirmed, his expression serious and sincere. He didn’t hesitate, speaking like he was stating a plain fact.
His words seemed to touch something deep inside her, causing a flicker of hope and strength to rise. Feeling a warmth spread through her heart, she leaned forward, her hands trembling slightly as she tenderly grasped his shoulders for support.
For a moment, she simply held him close, finding comfort in the solidness of his presence. Her forehead rested gently against his, a small sigh escaping her lips as the closeness allowed her to feel safe and understood.
"Thank you," she whispered softly, her voice filled with gratitude and affection. These simple words carried all she felt but could not fully express.
He said nothing more. He didn’t need to.
They stayed like that for a long time—her tears quieting, his breath warm against her cheek, the storm outside softening to a gentle drizzle. When she finally drew back, there was peace where fear had been.
Richard rose, his movements deliberate, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Rest now,” he said softly. “You’ve carried this too long.”
Caroline nodded, unable to speak.
He lingered a moment longer, his eyes tracing her face as though memorizing it, then turned toward the door. The soft sound of his footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving her alone with the quiet crackle of the fire.
When Richard’s footsteps had faded, the chamber felt larger for his absence. The hush that settled afterward was not the heavy silence of loneliness, but something gentler—a pause, as though the house itself were holding its breath. Caroline remained seated a while, staring at the fire until the last sparks crumbled into soft gray ash. Her eyes still burned from tears, yet a strange calm had taken root within her chest.
Her sketchbook lay upon the table where she had left it, a few loose sheets curling at the edges from the warmth of the fire. She sat once more and drew it toward her, opening to a blank page. The emptiness of it beckoned, asking to be filled. For years she had drawn her fears—shadows, beasts, brides trapped behind bars of ink—but tonight her hand moved differently, lighter, as though the darkness had loosened its grip.
She began with the familiar outline of the pianoforte, its lid open, the keys gleaming pale beneath candlelight. Then she shaped the tall figure seated before it, head inclined, shoulders relaxed. The man’s face was turned slightly away, enough that the scar lay half hidden in the light. Behind him she placed a second figure—herself—standing near his shoulder, not cowering as in the old sketches, but leaning forward to listen. The pencil glided steadily, sure where once it had hesitated.
Line by line the drawing took life. Richard’s hands she traced with particular care: broad, strong, scarred, yet graceful upon the keys. In her memory she could almost hear the music again, low and resonant, wrapping the room in warmth. A small smile curved her mouth as she shaded the space between them—the shared light, the shared peace.
When at last she paused, she saw that the faces in the sketch were smiling. Not the strained smiles of society portraits, but quiet ones, content, born of recognition rather than pretense. The woman’s eyes were turned toward the man; his toward the music. It was a simple composition, yet something in it steadied her heartbeat.
Caroline set down her pencil and studied the image. Hope, she realized, was a fragile thing—it did not arrive with trumpet or drum, but crept softly into the soul, like dawn seeping through shutters. Tonight it had come to her, unannounced, borne upon the promise Richard had spoken:When you’re ready. Not before.
She touched the corner of the page with careful fingers, smudging a faint shadow where the graphite was still soft. In that moment the sketch seemed less a picture than a vow. For the first time since childhood, she believed that the future might be kind.
In her bedchamber the sheets were cool against her skin. Richard had told her he wouldn’t lose control with her again until they were properly married, which only seemed to make her want him more. Perhaps she could consider this one last game. She couldn’t lose. She could wait. She lay on her bed, facing the window, listening to the whisper of the rain. Images drifted through her half-drowsy mind: Richard at the piano, the strength of his hands, the steadiness of his voice as he spoke her name. Each memory brushed away another layer of fear. Sleepcame slowly, yet peacefully, carrying her into dreams untroubled by the specter of loss.
When dawn came, pale and clean, Caroline woke with the sense that something within her had changed shape. The fear remained—it always would—but it no longer ruled her.
CHAPTER 27
Richard was once again in his study, working. A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. The quill in his hand hovered above the page, a line of ink slowly pooling into a dark blot. Only when the door creaked open did he raise his eyes.
The footman stood hesitantly at the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he waited for permission to speak. His eyes darted nervously around the room before finally settling on his master. "Your Grace," he ventured carefully, ensuring his tone was respectful and steady, "Lord Jasper requests a private audience."
Richard paused in his writing, the quill which had been moving steadily across the parchment suddenly stilling in his fingers. For a moment, he said nothing, nor did he move. The name seemed to hang in the air like an unsolved riddle.
"Jasper," he repeated slowly..
