Page 22 of His Auctioned Duchess
He inclined his head, resigned. “Ask.”
“What is your favorite pleasure, Your Grace? And do not say victory.”
The faintest crease formed between his brows, as though no one had dared ask him such a thing in years. “Music,” he said finally. “I played the pianoforte once. Poorly.”
Caroline smiled. “A musician. How intriguing. I had imagined you preferred drums and cannon fire.”
“I prefer silence,” he said, moving a pawn forward.
“You seem to have plenty of it,” she murmured.
Her next move cost her a rook. He lifted it with quiet satisfaction. “A glove,” he said simply.
Caroline’s breath caught. She hesitated, then smiled slyly. “So be it.” She tugged at the pearl button on her wrist and slipped off her right glove, laying it neatly beside the board.
Richard’s eyes flickered briefly downward, then back to hers, unreadable once more.
Caroline struck next, taking a bishop. “Another question.”
“Ask.”
“What do you hate most?”
“War,” he said without pause. “Not for the blood, but for the devastation after.”
The sincerity in his tone quietened her retort. For a moment, neither moved. The sound of birds outside filled the air—the cry of a lark somewhere above the glass. Then Richard shifted, his knight gliding across the board to claim her pawn.
“Your shawl,” he said.
Caroline’s brows rose. “You have a taste for fabric, it seems.”
He didn’t answer. She untied the delicate silk, letting it slide down her shoulders. The air in the orangery was suddenly warmer.
She leaned forward, smiling. “Careful, Your Grace. You’re playing dangerously close to losing your composure.”
“Am I?” he asked softly, eyes glinting. “We’ll see who yields first.”
The soft clink of the chess pieces soon became the only sound between them, punctuated by the lazy hum of bees drifting through an open window. The orangery’s heat gathered like breath upon glass, heavy with the scent of orange blossom and damp earth. Caroline’s pulse matched the rhythm of the game—steady at first, then quickening as the contest sharpened.
She caught his gaze often now, and each time, the quiet power there unsettled her. Richard played as though born to command; every move was a campaign, each piece a regiment placedwithout hesitation. And yet beneath the strategy, something else smoldered: curiosity. Challenge. Amusement.
Caroline had grown up beating her brothers at chess, delighting in their frustration. But this was no mere game; it was a conversation without words, a duel of wits sharpened by unspoken attraction.
“You play ruthlessly, Your Grace,” she said, eyes narrowing as he took another pawn.
“I play to win,” he replied simply.
Caroline tilted her head. “And do you consider all contests war?”
He glanced at her, his mouth curving faintly. “No. Only the ones worth fighting.”
Her next move was deliberate—a trap disguised as carelessness. His queen advanced, taking her rook, and his voice came low, almost amused. “Your slipper, I believe.”
Caroline drew in a sharp breath, hiding it behind a smile. “You take great pleasure in these victories, do you not?”
“I take pleasure in honor kept. You agreed to the rules.”
With regal slowness, she leaned down and slipped off her right slipper, setting it beside the board. The motion revealedthe delicate curve of her ankle; sunlight caught the pale skin and glimmered like temptation itself. When she straightened, Richard was looking directly at her—not with overt hunger, but with the intensity of a man who notices too much and feels too little allowed to say it.
