Page 97 of His Auctioned Duchess
She smiled then, the expression a bright flag against the night. Her tears were gone, replaced by the fierce sort of joy that one feels when the light finally breaks through a long storm. She kissed him, long and tender, and in the press of that kiss the truth of their choosing sealed—not a surrender but an affirmation, a future built out of the stubborn tenderness that had come to define them both.
EPILOGUE
ONE MONTH LATER
From her place on the marble balcony, Caroline looked down upon the gathering below. The sight might have overwhelmed a lesser woman: carriages glittering in the sun, gentlemen in polished boots and impeccable coats, ladies fanning themselves with careful grace, all eyes waiting for a glimpse of the infamous pair. The soft hum of conversation rose to a steady chorus, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakable—wonder wrapped in envy.
Ashwood itself gleamed under the attention. This was the first ball Richard and Caroline hosted as the Duke and Duchess of Ashwood. Naturally, the hall had never looked more magnificent; the centuries-old stone caught the light like burnished silver. New curtains fluttered from the tall windows, and floral garlands framed the grand entrance. The air was bright with anticipation, a festive pulse that made even the oldest dowagers lean forward in curiosity.
Behind Caroline, laughter sounded—that unmistakable, familial music of voices she had missed for far too long. She turned to find her sister in the doorway, more radiant than ever.
Bridget moved more slowly now, her rounded form the embodiment of maternal grace, her smile tender and glowing. She was still holding the letter Valeria had sent. She couldn’t visit now, but she promised she would as soon as she could. This was enough. For now.
"Look at you," Bridget said softly, her tone wrapped in a blend of teasing affection and genuine pride as she gazed at her sister. "Our Caroline, the very picture of a duchess." Her eyes danced with mirth at the sight of Caroline standing there, embodying grace and elegance effortlessly.
Caroline responded with a light laugh, though a warm blush crept into her cheeks, hinting at her slight embarrassment. "You make it sound as though I've grown tame," she countered, her voice playfully challenging Bridget's observation.
Bridget's eyes sparkled with mischief, and she shook her head in mock disagreement. "Never that," she assured, her tone firm yet lighthearted. "Only that you've found your match," she added, acknowledging the changes in Caroline's life with a wink. There was no loss of spirit, only a new, deeper happiness that Bridget was delighted to see.
"Indeed," came a gentle addition from John, who came nearby with a teasing smile. "And by the sound of it, the ton has found its latest obsession," he remarked.
Below them, the orchestra struck up a lively air as guests began to pour through the open doors into the gardens. Caroline’s heart lifted at the sight of her family—together again beneath one roof, laughing freely as they had in childhood. It was a sight she had scarcely dared to dream of.
The doors opened again, and there he was.
Richard.
Even from across the room, she felt the change in the air, the collective hush that always accompanied his presence. He moved through the hall with effortless command, dark coat tailored perfectly to his frame, his posture that of a man utterly certain of himself. The ton had once called him the Devil of the Ton, whispered of violence and danger, but now those same whispers turned to admiration.
He met Caroline’s gaze across the distance, and in that moment, all the grandeur and noise of the day fell away. The faintest curve lifted one corner of his mouth—not enough for others to notice, but enough to send her pulse racing.
She stepped forward, meeting him halfway down the staircase. The crowd turned, murmuring as the duke and duchess descended together, their movements graceful and in perfect harmony.
The murmurs thickened into applause when they reached the floor. Richard inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, ever the perfect host, while Caroline offered smiles andthanks as the guests approached with their well-rehearsed compliments.
“Your Grace,” one lady simpered, “you have truly transformed this estate.”
“And yourself, Duchess,” added another, “you are even lovelier than rumor suggested.”
Caroline inclined her head politely, her smile fixed but genuine enough to appease. Richard stood beside her, silent and formidable, his very presence ensuring that no insult dared disguise itself as courtesy. To the ton, he was the epitome of refinement—all edges hidden beneath polish.
But Caroline knew better.
For beneath that impeccable exterior simmered the same man who had kissed her breathless against a garden wall, who had challenged her mind as fiercely as he had claimed her heart. The duke might be playing his part tonight, but his eyes—those gray, watchful eyes—gave him away.
He leaned in under the pretense of adjusting her glove. “Smile, my love,” he murmured. “The vultures are watching.”
Her smile brightened instantly. “Then let them feast.”
His low chuckle vibrated against her skin. “You tempt me to ruin you before dessert.”
She glanced up at him sharply, biting back a laugh. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He arched a brow. “Wouldn’t I?”
They passed among the guests like actors in a play, each bow and curtsy performed with perfect grace. But every time they drew close enough to the shadow of a doorway or the cover of a pillar, Richard’s hand would brush hers—sometimes deliberately, sometimes by accident—and the simple contact made her entire body hum with awareness.
When the orchestra began a waltz, he offered his hand with formal dignity. “Duchess.”
