Page 21 of His Auctioned Duchess
He inclined his head once. “Good. I’ll see you at breakfast.”
Caroline had not seen him for the rest of the day, so she had expected the first of her required “encounters” with the Duke of Belford to be a stiff affair—perhaps tea in a draughty salon or a painfully formal stroll where conversation died between curt replies. Instead, the following morning a footman appeared at her door just after breakfast with a single note written in Richard’s precise, unyielding hand:
Meet me in the orangery.
The words, simple as they were, made her pulse quicken.
She chose her gown with care—a soft shade of sage muslin that brought out the green in her eyes. The neckline was modest, but the fit flattering; she refused to play the demure maiden, nor would she stoop to flaunting herself. She was determined, above all, to command this “encounter”.
As she walked, the gardens glistened with dew, sunlight spilling through the mist like honey over green lawns.
When she arrived, the orangery took her breath away.
Sunlight streamed through tall glass panes, warming the air until it shimmered faintly. Citrus trees lined the walls, their glossy leaves perfumed with the scent of orange blossom and soil. Vines climbed the columns, curling toward the ceiling like living lace. It was less a room than a sanctuary—one touched with life and warmth in a house otherwise built of shadow.
And in the center, seated beside a low marble table, was Richard.
He looked almost out of place amidst the greenery—dark coat, strong shoulders, posture so still he seemed carved from the stone beneath his boots. Yet the sunlight softened the sharp edges of him, caught in the strands of his hair, painted faint gold along the scar that marked his cheek.
He rose as she entered, bowing with brief, restrained grace. “Lady Caroline.”
“Your Grace,” she replied, curtsying with equal precision.
She glanced around, expecting tea or conversation, but instead found a chessboard laid out upon the table. Ivory and ebony pieces gleamed between them, each arranged with military perfection.
“Chess?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not quite the romantic overture I anticipated.”
He gestured for her to sit. “Strategy reveals character,” he said simply.
Caroline sank gracefully into the seat opposite, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “And do you mean to measure mine, Your Grace?”
“I already have some suspicions,” he replied, arranging his pieces with the precision of a soldier counting ammunition.
She folded her hands atop the table. “Then let us make it interesting. For every piece I capture, you must answer one question of my choosing. Truthfully.”
The faintest flicker of amusement touched his scarred face. “And if I capture yours?”
Caroline tilted her head. “You may set your own price.”
He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering into a dangerous purr. “A wager, then.”
“Precisely.”
“Very well,” he said. “If I capture your pieces, you must remove one article of clothing.”
The words dropped like stones into the warm, perfumed air. Caroline blinked, caught between shock and laughter. For aheartbeat she thought she must have misheard him. Then, seeing the faintest curve of wicked humor in his eyes, she exhaled sharply through her nose.
“Scandalous,” she murmured. “You truly are the devil they say you are.”
Richard leaned back, expression unreadable. “You said the rules were mine to name.”
“Indeed,” she said, lifting her chin. “And I never rescind a challenge.”
The game began.
At first, the pieces moved with deliberate calm—each click of ivory upon marble echoing through the humid stillness. Caroline opened boldly, her fingers steady, her eyes bright. Richard countered with efficiency born of training rather than play. His movements were measured, economical, precise. He played chess as he lived: without indulgence, without waste.
She captured his knight within minutes. “That’s one question,” she said sweetly.
