Page 92 of His Auctioned Duchess
THE FOLLOWING DAY
Richard would not wait for society’s approval.
Within the manor, servants moved with hushed precision—no fanfare, no parade, only reverence for the occasion their master had decreed with a voice that brooked no refusal.
By the time the household had awakened fully, the duke had already sent word to the vicar, to his mother, and to Caroline’s few trusted kin—John, ever her champion, and Nicholas, who came reluctantly but with visible pride. It was to be a wedding of haste, of secrecy, and of will. The ton would gossip when they learned, but Richard had no intention of letting the whispers of drawing rooms dictate the course of his life.
When Caroline descended the staircase, her cheeks still pink from the maid’s efforts, her heart thudded in time with her own disbelief. Was this truly happening? The events of the past day shimmered in her mind like a dream—Richard’s confession, hiseyes dark with vulnerability, his declaration of love that had cracked her defenses like glass.
Now, that same man awaited her in the chapel, his very stillness like a storm held in check.
“Papa will be aghast,” John muttered behind her, though his tone was fond.
Caroline smiled faintly. “Then I shall make certain the shock is softened by tea afterward.”
Her father, Nicholas, shot her a reproachful look that could not quite mask his pride. “You were born to cause a stir, my girl. But if you must do it, at least do it beautifully.”
“I always do,” she murmured, her wit faltering only slightly as her gaze caught the gleam of sunlight spilling from the open chapel doors.
Richard stood at the altar, solemn in his dark coat, his hair freshly combed but rebelliously curling near his temples. The morning light softened the scar that cut across his face, lending him an austere nobility. He looked every inch the duke, yet his eyes—those storm-gray eyes—softened the instant they found her.
Caroline froze in the doorway. Her gown was not the lavish silk of the season, but a creation of simplicity and grace: ivory muslin, unadorned save for a satin ribbon at her waist and asprig of lavender pinned to her shoulder. The fabric shimmered faintly with every step, catching the light as though kissed by starlight itself.
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Ophelia gently dabbed at her eyes with a delicate lace handkerchief, trying to contain her emotions.
Her son stood in the aisle, anticipation etched on his face. Meanwhile, nearby stood Sophia, who watched the scene with a bright smile, her eyes sparkling with triumph. She seemed pleased, almost as though she had orchestrated this meeting, making sure everything was perfect.
John, standing next to Sophia, gently nudged his sister forward. He offered an encouraging smile, silently reassuring her that everything would be alright. Caroline hesitated for a moment, her heart pounding with nervous excitement. She took a deep breath and started to move forward gracefully. Her feet, clad in elegant slippers, whispered across the floor of the aisle, making a soft sound that only she and Richard seemed to notice.
As Caroline moved closer to where Richard stood waiting, his heart thumped loudly in his chest, a mixture of hope and disbelief coursing through him. When she finally reached him, he was overwhelmed, his feelings too intense to hide.
Richard’s breath caught audibly in his throat, betraying the depth of his emotions. “You came,” he murmured softly, speaking under his breath with disbelief and reverence mingledin his voice. It was as though he couldn’t quite believe she was truly standing in front of him.
Caroline looked into his eyes, her lips curving into a tender, knowing smile. Her voice was gentle, a barely audible whisper meant just for him, “How could I not?” she replied, her words carrying warmth and an underlying sense of inevitable fate. “You did command it, after all,” she added.
Richard met her gaze and couldn’t help but chuckle quietly, a sound that was rare for him. It was a genuine laugh, a display of pure, unguarded happiness. The sound resonated in the air, reaching Caroline’s ears and making her chest ache with emotion. It was as if that simple, heartfelt laugh managed to express all the feelings he found hard to put into words.
The vicar cleared his throat, smiling faintly as he opened his book. The ceremony began with no orchestra, no string quartet, only the soft rustle of paper and the steady rhythm of two hearts rediscovering their courage.
Richard repeated his vows in a voice that trembled once—just once—before steadying. “I take thee, Caroline of Fernsby, to be my wife. To love, honor, and protect thee, from this day until my last.”
Caroline’s throat constricted. Her hand trembled as she lifted the ring—plain gold, warm from her palm—and slid it onto his finger.
Her vow came as a whisper, but it filled the chapel like a hymn. “I take thee, Richard Belford, Duke of Ashwood, to be my husband. I will not tame thee, nor change thee, but stand beside thee—come shadow, come storm.”
A faint gasp escaped Sophia. Ophelia pressed her hand to her mouth. The vicar’s voice quivered with emotion as he blessed the union.
When Richard leaned down and captured Caroline’s lips, the kiss was not decorous. It was slow, deliberate—an oath sealed in flesh and breath.
For a heartbeat, time ceased.
Then the vicar closed his book, and the ceremony was done.
The guests dispersed quietly, like whispers fading from a dream. John clasped Richard’s hand with rough affection, muttering, “If you hurt her, I’ll shoot you myself.” Nicholas bowed stiffly, though the faintest smile betrayed his approval. Ophelia embraced Caroline as though she were the daughter she had long prayed for.
Soon, only the newlyweds remained.
