Page 99 of His Auctioned Duchess
She stepped closer to the sketch, studying the strokes she herself had made months ago. The bride’s smile was bolder than she remembered, the man’s eyes gentler. How strange, she thought, that fear, when faced, could become art—and that art could become truth.
Her hand lifted almost of its own accord, fingertips brushing the frame. Beneath her touch the gold was cool, solid, unyielding—unlike the life it symbolized, which had been fought for and shaped by fragile human choices.
Turning to him, she felt the swell of affection rise sharp and sweet in her chest. He stood a pace behind her, the firelight painting the scar that cut from his temple down along his cheek. Once, she had thought that mark a wound too deep for anyone to touch without awakening pain. Now she saw it for what it was: a map of everything he had survived.
She reached out, her palm finding the side of his face. Slowly, she traced the familiar line of the scar, her touch feather-light yet certain. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t change a single part of you.”
For a moment he did not move. Then his eyes closed, and he turned his head just enough to press his lips to her palm. The kiss was soft, reverent, the kind of gesture that said more than a thousand vows. When he spoke, his tone carried that quiet conviction she had come to trust more than any public promise. “Our future will be one of choice,” he said. “Not chains.”
The words sank into her like the first deep breath after years of holding one’s lungs too tight. They were not merely comfort; they were truth. She had spent her life resisting cages—society’s, men’s, her own. Yet here, in this room, beneath the gaze of that reframed sketch, she felt neither caged nor owned. She felt chosen.
She smiled, tears glimmering unshed at the corners of her eyes. “Then whatever comes,” she whispered, “we will choose it together.”
He answered not with words but with the surety of touch—drawing her against him until her cheek rested over his heart. The steady rhythm there grounded her, the warmth beneath his shirt a quiet refuge. They stayed thus for a long time, the only sound the slow crackle of the fire and the faint laughter still drifting up from the distant hall.
When he finally tilted her face upward, his expression had softened into something that made her breath catch. He kissed her, long, slow, tender, each brush of his lips sealing the truth of what they had built. It was not a kiss born of urgency, nor of conquest, but of peace: two souls acknowledging that their battles were done.
The world beyond the walls might still whisper. Let it. She no longer feared the ton’s judgment. The woman who had once measured freedom by rebellion now understood it as something quieter, the liberty to love without fear, to stand unmasked beside a man who saw her wholly.
They undressed in silence, the movement unhurried, unceremonious, every gesture speaking of trust rather than haste. Gown, waistcoat, shirt, chemise; each garment folded and set aside like pages turned in a well-loved book.
When at last they lay together, the firelight painted the room in amber and gold. His arm circled her waist, her hand came to rest atop his, fingers entwining until they formed a single shape. The sketch watched over them from its place of honor, the laughing bride forever frozen in mid-joy, the beast’s eyes forever softened by devotion.Caroline nestled against Richard’s chest, the steady drum of his heart beneath her ear a lullaby she had never known she craved.
The fire crackled low, casting flickering shadows across the carved bedposts and the heavy velvet drapes. Outside, wind rattled the windowpanes, but inside there was only warmth, the mingled scents of woodsmoke and skin, the faint lavender of the sheets now overlaid with the musk of their earlier joining.
Richard’s fingers traced idle patterns along her spine, each stroke a silent vow. She felt the calluses on his palm, the places where sword and pen had both left their mark, and smiled into the hollow of his throat. He had fought wars, literal and figurative, yet here he was gentle as dawn. The contrast still undid her.
“Cold?” he murmured, lips brushing her temple.“No.” She pressed closer, thigh sliding between his, the coarse hair on his legs rasping deliciously against her smoother skin. “Never with you.”
He hummed, a low, satisfied sound, and shifted to tuck the counterpane more securely around her shoulders. The gesture was so domestic, so utterly unlike the man the ton painted as ruthless, that her heart performed a slow, somersaulting flip.
She lifted her head to study him: the scar that cut through his left eyebrow, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that deepened when he smiled, the mouth that could command a room or unravel her with a whisper.
“What?” he asked, catching her stare. “I’m memorizing,” she said simply.
“In case you decide to be sensible and leave.”
His laugh rumbled beneath her palm. “Sensible is overrated.” He rolled them so she lay atop him, her hair spilling across his chest like dark silk. “Besides, I’ve spent years being sensible. Look where it got me.”
“Alone?” she teased, though the word carried old weight.
“Empty,” he corrected. His hands settled at her hips, thumbs sweeping slow arcs that sent warmth pooling low in her belly again. “Until a certain sharp-tongued hellion decided to sketch me.”
Caroline propped her chin on his sternum.
“You were rather beastly.”
“And you were rather determined to tame me.”
“Still am.” She nipped his collarbone, soothed the spot with her tongue. His breath hitched; the hands at her hips tightened fractionally. Encouraged, she traced a path upward, lips grazing the stubble along his jaw, the sensitive spot beneath his ear that made him shudder. When she reached his mouth, she kissed him lazily, savoring the taste of him, smoke and salt and something uniquely Richard.
He let her lead, a concession that felt like trust. She explored the firm line of his lips, the slick heat behind them, the way his tongue met hers in unhurried welcome. Each kiss deepened the quiet intimacy between them, less about conquest now and more about communion. When she finally pulled back, his eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide.
“Caroline,” he said, her name a rough benediction. His hands slid up her back, mapping the dip of her spine, the flare of her shoulder blades. She arched into the touch like a cat, then deliberately rolled her hips. The hard length of him pressed against her belly, hot and insistent.
A soft sound escaped him.
She smiled, wicked and tender all at once. “I believe we have unfinished business.”
