Page 26 of His Auctioned Duchess
Richard’s hand slid down to her hip, thumb circling the bone through her skirts, a maddening tease that made her hips shift toward him.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. “And I will.”
But she couldn’t. The words stuck in her throat, drowned out by the roar of her pulse.
Instead, she captured his mouth once more, pouring all her conflicted longing into the kiss. It was fierce now, teeth grazing lips, hands roaming with increasing boldness. His fingers skimmed up her side, brushing the underside of her breast, and she moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled but raw.
Caroline’s gown felt too tight, her skin too hot, every inch of her yearning for more—for the slide of his hands without barriers, for the weight of him pinning her down. But they danced on the edge, never crossing, the restraint only heightening the torment.
Finally, as the rain outside intensified, drumming against the glass like an impatient chaperone, Caroline pulled away. Herchest heaved, lips parted and glistening, eyes glazed with unspent desire.
Richard looked equally wrecked—hair tousled from her fingers, shirt askew, breath ragged. They stood there, inches apart, the air between them crackling with what could have been. The orangery hummed with unspoken promises, the scent of oranges now mingled with the musk of their arousal.
Caroline straightened her gown with trembling hands, but the fire he’d kindled refused to extinguish. It burned low and steady, a promise of more to come, if only she dared.
“Enough,” she whispered, voice unsteady. Her lips tingled, her pulse wild. “No more.”
He sat back, watching her, his expression unreadable. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest betrayed that the moment had shaken him, too.
“This clouds my judgment,” she said, attempting to collect the shards of her composure.
Richard’s reply was a low rumble, like distant thunder. “Perhaps that is the point.”
Caroline rose from her seat, every movement deliberate, though her legs felt unsteady beneath her. She smoothed her skirts, lifted her chin, and tried to speak as though her world hadn’t just shifted. “I prefer to think with my head, not my heart.”
“Then you are a wiser creature than most,” he said.
She turned toward the door, her hands trembling behind her back. “If I stay, I will forget that wisdom entirely.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “And that frightens you.”
“Yes,” she admitted softly. “It does.”
She took a step toward the exit, then hesitated, her voice breaking through the silence like a drawn sword. “You think you can win every battle, Your Grace. But hearts are not pieces on a board. They do not fall so neatly.”
He regarded her, his scarred face. “You mistake me, my lady. I do not wish to win your heart.”
She froze. “Then what do you wish?”
His eyes met hers, silver and fire. “To understand it.”
The words caught her off guard, softening something in her that she didn’t realize had tensed. For a heartbeat, she saw the man behind the armor—the soldier still searching for peace, the son who feared tenderness more than pain.
But she couldn’t let him see that understanding. Not yet.
Caroline inclined her head, her voice composed once more. “Then I wish you luck, Your Grace. You will need it.”
CHAPTER 9
Three days after the first rendezvous, three days of avoiding the duke, trying to wrap her head around what she had done at the orangery, what she had felt, Caroline was strolling idly down the gallery. She paused when she heard the murmur of unfamiliar tones, men’s voices, deep and roughened by years of labor. The voices were coming from the Duke’s study.
She hesitated, curiosity tugging her closer. The door to Richard’s study was half open, and from the shadows within came the scent of pipe smoke and parchment.
Through the crack, she saw him.
Richard sat at a massive desk of dark oak, his posture straight but not rigid, his expression one of cool concentration. Around him stood three men—farmers by their clothes, their hats in hand, their boots worn from fieldwork. Their tones were deferential but not fearful.
Caroline had expected the famous Devil of the Ton to treat his tenants with the same icy distance he offered everyone else. Instead, what she witnessed startled her.
