Page 16 of His Auctioned Duchess
CHAPTER 7
Caroline sat opposite Richard, her chin lifted proudly, though every so often her eyes darted to the scar that carved across his face.
The morning had broken crisp, the road glistening with dew as the carriage lurched steadily toward Ashwood Hall. Inside, the atmosphere was a clash of temperaments: Caroline’s irrepressible chatter, John’s bubbling laughter, and Richard’s silence so solid it seemed to fill the very air.
She would never admit—especially not to him—that she found herself curious about the story behind it. She suspected he would rather face cannon fire than tell her.
“So,” she said brightly, her voice lilting against the steady clatter of wheels, “do you ever speak, Your Grace, or is silence your chief amusement?”
John, lounging beside her, let out a bark of laughter. “Careful, Caro. You’ll frighten him with such forward questions.”
Richard turned his head, gray eyes resting on her with glacial calm. “Carriages are built for travel, not for conversation.”
Caroline gave an exaggerated sigh, throwing herself back against the seat. “How dreary. Imagine enduring miles with nothing but the sound of hooves and wood groaning. Why, I should die of boredom.”
Richard’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly. “Better boredom than nonsense.”
John nearly doubled over with mirth. “Sister, you’ve met your match. The Devil of the Ton will not be baited so easily.”
Caroline’s eyes sparkled, narrowing in mock challenge. “We shall see about that. Tell me, Your Grace—do devils never smile? Is it against the laws of Hell?”
John roared with laughter, nearly choking on his own breath, while Richard’s jaw tightened as though carved from granite. Yet Caroline swore—swore—she saw the barest twitch of his scarred mouth, the faintest ghost of amusement before he turned to stare out the window.
She leaned forward, triumphant. “There! I saw it. A smile—or something dangerously near it.”
“You imagined it,” Richard replied evenly, though his hand flexed once upon his knee.
Caroline sat back, pleased as though she had won a great battle. John leaned close to her, whispering far too loudly, “I wager he only smiles when blood is spilled.”
“Or when men quiver at his shadow,” Caroline added archly. “But I shall make it my task to coax one from him without such barbarity.”
Richard’s gaze returned to her at last, steady, unreadable. “A task doomed to fail.”
But his voice—just the faintest edge softer—betrayed that perhaps her attempt had struck nearer than he wished to admit.
The conversation carried on in this rhythm. Caroline told wild stories of her childhood—climbing trees in her petticoats, hiding frogs in her governess’s teapot—while John laughed until tears sprang from his eyes. Richard remained quiet, though his eyes flickered once or twice to Caroline when she laughed too freely, as though cataloguing her joy against his better judgment.
When the carriage at last slowed, the siblings pressed to the window. Ashwood Hall rose before them, solemn and stern, its pale stone façade etched with ivy, its windows like unblinking eyes. Tall chimneys reached into the morning sky, and the gravel drive swept wide, lined with oaks that seemed to guard the estate like soldiers.
Caroline’s first impression was one of gravity—no warmth, no welcome, only strength and silence. It suits him, she thought, though the idea both unsettled and intrigued her.
The carriage halted at the base of a grand staircase. A footman opened the door, bowing low. Caroline gathered her skirts, stepping carefully down—only for her slipper to skid upon the damp stone.
Her heart leapt as she pitched forward, but before she could fall, a hand seized her waist. Firm. Steady. Possessive.
Richard.
He held her upright as though she were weightless, his grip strong enough to anchor her against a storm. His scarred face remained unreadable, but his hand lingered a moment too long, heat searing through the thin fabric of her gown.
“Careful,” he murmured, low enough for her ears alone.
Caroline’s breath caught. She straightened swiftly, tugging from his grasp though her skin burned where he had touched her. “Thank you,” she said, her tone sharper than gratitude required.
John, behind them, said wickedly. “Ah, how gallant. You’ll ruin your reputation as the Devil if you continue catching maidens rather than frightening them.”
Richard shot him a look so cold John instantly threw up his hands in mock surrender. Caroline fought to steady her racing heart, refusing to let Richard see how deeply the moment had unsettled her.
Together, they ascended the steps toward the waiting doors of Ashwood Hall.
