Page 24 of His Auctioned Duchess
Caroline leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “You could change that, you know.”
His gaze sharpened, the faintest smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “You presume I wish to.”
“And you presume I don’t see through you,” she said. “Beneath all this armor, Your Grace, there is a man who bleeds like anyone else.”
He chuckled softly, a laugh that was short and carried a hint of something mysterious and shadowy. “And what do you believe you'll uncover beneath that armor, my lady?” he asked, a teasing curiosity in his voice.
She met his gaze with confidence, her eyes steady and searching. “Something worth knowing,” she replied simply, her voice firm yet gentle, filled with a quiet determination.
For a moment, her words seemed to linger in the air between them, creating an invisible connection. Then, with a swift and decisive movement, Richard made his next move. His queen moved smoothly across the board and captured hers with a firm, strategic placement.
The sound of it, the single, sharp click as the ivory piece met the marble board, was enough to break the spell of their conversation. It echoed slightly in the quiet room, signaling a shift in their game.
Caroline looked at the chessboard, her eyes wide in playful exaggeration. Her mouth opened slightly in feigned shock and dismay. “Oh no, my queen!” she exclaimed, acting out her pretend surprise with a flourish of her hand.
“Your ribbon,” he said quietly.
She hesitated, meeting his eyes. The challenge there was unmistakable, yet it was not cruel. It was invitation.
Slowly, she reached up, fingers trembling only slightly, and tugged the silk free from her hair. Her curls tumbled loose, falling about her shoulders. The air itself seemed to still.
Richard’s eyes darkened, the gray deepening to storm.
The playful duel was gone. In its place, something far more dangerous stirred—want, sharp and unspoken.
Caroline’s breath caught. She reached forward, deliberately resetting her captured piece, her hand steady though her heart pounded. “Satisfied?” she asked, her tone light but breaking slightly at the edges.
Richard leaned forward, his gaze locked to hers. “Not yet.”
The air between them had turned molten.
Sunlight poured through the glass dome above, spilling over the marble table and pooling like gold upon the scattered chess pieces. Outside, a thrush sang in the orchard, unaware that inside, two people sat locked in a battle far older and more dangerous than any played upon a board.
Caroline met Richard’s gaze and felt the ground shift beneath her. The heat in his eyes was not the controlled, measured fire of a man playing to win—it was hunger restrained only by will.
She drew a breath, forcing her composure. “It seems you have won this round, Your Grace.”
He didn’t answer. His hand hovered above the board, then lowered—not to move a piece, but to take hers. His fingers brushed the back of her hand, rough and warm, holding her still.
“Do you yield?” he asked quietly.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. “Never.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, the faintest echo of a smile. “Then you are either brave—or foolish.”
“Perhaps both,” she whispered.
For a long moment, neither moved. The scent of orange blossom clung to the air, mingling with the faint spice of his cologne. She could feel the space between them contracting, pulled by something unseen yet undeniable.
Richard leaned forward, his voice dropping to a murmur that seemed to reach straight to her spine. “You challenge me at every turn. Most would bow, smile, and flatter. You–” His gaze lingered on her mouth. “You would rather fight.”
Caroline’s throat felt suddenly dry. “And you would rather conquer.”
A low hum of amusement vibrated from his chest. “We may be alike, then.”
Her heart stuttered, her words caught between defiance and curiosity. “I rather hope not. I should hate to think myself so impossible.”
His eyes darkened. “Impossible?”
