Page 19 of His Auctioned Duchess
“Enough,” Richard growled.
But Sophia was relentless. “Oh, admit it. She makes you feel. It terrifies you.”
Richard’s scar caught the firelight as his face darkened. “Mind yourself, Sophia.”
She tilted her head. “You think me cruel, but I am only truthful. You have spent years wrapped in armor. Stone-faced, unyielding, the Devil of the Ton. And then Caroline Hughes walks into your path, and suddenly you are… what? A man again?”
The words struck harder than he cared to admit. He turned back to the fire, his throat tight. Images flickered unbidden: smokeover a battlefield, comrades falling one by one, the sharp sting of betrayal when his own countrymen had left him to rot in exile. He had learned then what it meant to harden. To feel nothing. To survive.
“I will not change,” he said at last, his voice low, cold. “Not for her. Not for anyone.”
Sophia slid from the chair arm, her skirts whispering against the carpet. “That is what you tell yourself,” she said softly, “because it is easier than admitting you already have.”
Richard’s head turned sharply, his eyes flashing.
Sophia only smiled, her voice turning teasing once more. “She will change you, cousin. Whether you like it or not. And perhaps... perhaps that is no bad thing.”
She moved to the door, her candle throwing flickering shadows against the shelves. Before slipping out, she looked back over her shoulder. “Try not to brood too hard, Richard. It will give you lines before your time.”
The door closed. Silence reclaimed the study.
Richard sat motionless, running a finger along his scar, his hand curled tightly around the empty glass. Sophia’s words clung like burs—unwanted, irritating, but impossible to shake free.
Change. The very notion curdled his blood. He had built himself from ruin, forged from exile, scarred into iron. Change was weakness. Change was loss. Change was what broke men.
And yet…
His fist unclenched slowly, fingers brushing against the memory of Caroline’s waist beneath his hand, the warmth of her body against his when he caught her, the fire in her eyes when she dared to defy him. Her laugh in the carriage, bright and maddening. Her lips parting in shock when he steadied her.
He cursed under his breath and hurled the glass into the hearth. It shattered against the flames, sparks leaping upward.
“I’ll not change for anyone,” he muttered to the empty room.
CHAPTER 8
The next morning dawned soft and gray, rain misting over the lawns of Ashwood Hall. Inside, the breakfast room glowed with firelight, silver gleaming against porcelain, the scent of toasted bread and strong tea curling through the air.
Caroline sat opposite Richard, doing her utmost to ignore the weight of his gaze. Sophia, bright as morning sunshine, was chattering about the gardens, filling every silence that threatened to grow too heavy. John listened with polite interest, though his smirk betrayed amusement at his sister’s unease.
It was Sophia who finally drew Caroline out of her quiet. “You remind me of someone,” she said suddenly, her head tilting.
Caroline smiled faintly. “You do as well—of my sister, Valeria. One of them, at least.”
Sophia’s face lit with curiosity. “Then why didn’t she come to stay with you until the wedding?”
“If there’s a wedding,” Caroline corrected, reaching for her cup with deliberate calm. “I’ll invite her, of course. But I doubt she’ll come.”
“Why ever not?” Sophia pressed, kind but persistent.
Caroline hesitated, her fingers tightening around the handle of her teacup. “She was taken because of–” She stopped abruptly.
Richard’s low voice cut across the table. “Because of what?”
He spoke as though disinterested, but his tone allowed no escape.
Caroline’s jaw clenched. “Because of our… family,” she said finally, through gritted teeth.
Sophia frowned gently. “What do you mean?”
