Page 18 of His Auctioned Duchess
Caroline glanced back as she was ushered down a side corridor. Lady Ophelia smiled faintly, Sophia beamed with mischief, and Richard’s grip remained steady, protective in its possessiveness.
At last, when they were beyond earshot, Caroline pulled free, straightening her spine. “You need not treat me as if I were glass. I am perfectly capable of speaking to your family.”
Richard stopped, turning to face her. His scar caught the lamplight, his gaze hard. “They will devour you with questions. Sophia will chatter until your head aches. My mother will cling until you suffocate. You are better spared—for now.”
Caroline’s lips parted, then closed again. It was not arrogance in his tone, nor cruelty. It was... protection. As brusque and gruff as his words were, she could not ignore the truth of them.
She forced a smile, masking the unease that coiled in her chest. “Your family is very warm.”
His mouth curved—though not in amusement. “Too warm. They do not know when to hold their tongues.”
Caroline tilted her head. “Perhaps they only know you too well.”
His eyes narrowed briefly, but he said nothing more. He released her elbow at last and gestured to a side chamber. “Rest.”
Then he turned and walked away, his boots echoing against the stone floor, his shadow long against the wall.
Caroline watched him go, her pulse uneven. He had removed her from the scrutiny of his kin with all the subtlety of a general extracting a soldier from a battlefield. But the act had not been unkind. No—he had shielded her. Not with charm. Not with courtesy. With sheer, blunt will.
And that, she realized with a chill, was a kind of protection all its own.
Richard sat alone in his study, the only light the crackling fire and the amber gleam of whiskey in his glass.
The corridors whispered with drafts, the great house groaning as though remembering the centuries it had endured. Servants retreated to their quarters, their voices hushed with gossip of the new lady Richard Belford had brought home. Beyond the glow of the chandeliers, the estate was cloaked in silence.
The room was as severe as the man himself: dark-paneled walls, shelves of leather-bound tomes more for show than use, a heavyoak desk scarred with years of writing and worry. Maps and ledgers lay stacked in neat precision, untouched for weeks. A saber hung above the mantel, relic of wars both fought and abandoned.
He swirled the whiskey, his gaze fixed upon the fire. Its flames licked upward, their glow painting shadows across his scarred face. He preferred fire to candlelight. Fire made no judgments. It simply consumed.
He thought of the carriage ride—Caroline’s laughter, bright and insistent, needling him past his silence. Of John’s teasing, his ease with levity. They were foreign things to Richard now: laughter, warmth, familial chatter. They grated and yet... they pulled at something in him, something buried, something he thought long extinguished.
And then, the stumble upon the steps. The sudden slip, her gasp of alarm, his hand shooting out before thought could intervene. The feel of her waist beneath his palm, her body steadied by his strength, her breath catching as though the world had narrowed to that one point of contact.
He clenched his fist around the glass, the memory too vivid. Foolish. Dangerous.She unsettles you,his mind snarled.She makes you forget who you are. Forget what you must be.
The door creaked.
Richard’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. He had given no orders for company. Yet there she was—not Caroline, butSophia, her candle throwing light into the shadows as she slipped inside with the practiced ease of one who had long ignored his rules.
“I knew I should find you here,” she said, closing the door behind her with a conspiratorial click. “Sulking with whiskey, as ever.”
Richard scowled. “I am not sulking.”
“Brooding, then. A cousin may be forgiven for mistaking the two.” She crossed the room in her quick, lively stride, her pale gown swishing about her ankles. She perched upon the arm of a chair as though it were her rightful throne. “So. Tell me about her.”
“There is nothing to tell,” Richard replied, turning back to the fire.
Sophia leaned forward, chin in hand, eyes glittering with mischief. “Oh, please. You arrive with a young lady upon your arm, your mother weeping like a heroine in a Gothic novel, and every servant in the house faint with gossip. Do you expect me to believe she is nothing?”
Richard’s jaw tightened. He swallowed his whiskey and set the glass down with deliberate calm. “She is necessary.”
“Necessary?” Sophia repeated, aghast. “You speak as though you’ve acquired a new hunting dog.”
Richard shot her a glare sharp enough to silence most mortals. But Sophia was Belford blood; she did not flinch. “You’ve brought her here, cousin. That alone is extraordinary. You’ve never brought anyone—no friend, no comrade, no woman. And now you bring Caroline Hughes. Why?”
He said nothing.
Sophia’s smile widened. “Because she unsettles you. I saw it the moment she stood in this hall, damp gown and all. She is not afraid of you, Richard. She should be—everyone else is—but she isn’t. And you cannot decide whether to strangle her or...” She trailed off wickedly, arching a brow.
