Page 2 of His Auctioned Duchess
A pause followed, taut and heavy. Jasper arched a brow, then let out a soft laugh. “How pragmatic. But surely society will not be so easily satisfied. You are aware, I trust, that they have named you already? The Devil of Ashwood, risen from the grave. They will demand a tale to match the moniker. Shall I invent one for you?”
The dowager flinched. “Jasper, for shame–”
Richard’s voice cut clean across hers. “Let them invent what they please. I will not waste breath upon their amusement.”
His mother reached forward, her eyes wet, her hands trembling. “Richard, I do not understand this hardness, this silence. I lost you once—I buried you in my heart. Do you not see what it means to me to have you back? Can you not grant me even a fragment of what you endured, a single memory to hold–”
“No.”
The word was a blow, sharp and final. Even the servants froze, their movements stilled as though the very air had grown brittle. Richard’s jaw tightened, but his eyes softened just enough to betray the smallest flicker of regret. “The years are gone, Mother. To speak of them will not return them. Better to speak of what matters now.” He set down his goblet, fingers steady upon the stem. “Tell me of my father.”
The dowager’s breath caught. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Jasper leaned back, his smile curving, relishing the silence. “Dead these three years,” he said smoothly, his voice pitched with practiced sympathy. “A stroke in his study. He died believing you were long buried. The dukedom passed to you in absentia. Why, many assumed it would devolve upon me, in due course.” He sipped his wine, eyes gleaming. “Your resurrection has surprised more than a few.”
The words were honey, but Richard heard the venom beneath. For the briefest moment, his composure wavered. The thought of his father—stern, unyielding, yet ever-present—dying with belief in his son’s death flickered across his mind like a blade drawn in darkness. He felt it cut, sharp and silent. But just as swiftly he suppressed it, burying the emotion beneath iron resolve.
He drained his glass in a single swallow, set it down with quiet finality, and rose. “Then I inherit his responsibilities. That is all.”
His mother rose half out of her chair, one hand reaching, her voice breaking. “Richard–”
But he had already turned, his great frame striding from the room, his shadow long against the candlelit floor.
Behind him, the dowager whispered Jasper’s name, a warning. Jasper only smiled into his wine, languid and satisfied, as though the evening had given him precisely what he desired.
The following morning dawned pale and cool, the sky washed in that uncertain gray between dawn and daylight. Mists curled low across the parkland, softening the shapes of trees and fences, wrapping the estate in veils of secrecy. Ashwood Hall, however, was already stirring; the kitchen fires roared, the bells clanged, and the household, once sluggish with grief, now moved with new purpose. The Duke had returned.
Richard was seated in the breakfast room before the rest of the household had risen. The chamber looked out upon the east lawn, its tall windows streaked with condensation. The table was laid with polished silver and fine porcelain, though he required little. He ate deliberately, his movements efficient as ever, but with none of the idle enjoyment of a man at leisure. To him, sustenance was habit, not pleasure.
The door opened, and his mother entered. She wore a gown of lavender silk, the shade chosen no doubt to soothe the eye and soften her own weariness. Her face bore the shadows of a sleepless night. She carried herself with quiet dignity, though her eyes sought his face with a mixture of yearning and fear. Shesat opposite him, her hands folded upon her lap, watching as he poured tea with precision.
Moments later Jasper appeared, faultlessly dressed in a coat of deep green that brought out the brightness of his hazel eyes. He bowed perfunctorily before taking his seat, his gaze deliberately settling upon the scar that marred Richard’s features. He smiled faintly, as though it amused him still.
The silence was taut, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the scrape of silver against porcelain. Richard ate, finished, and laid aside his knife and fork. Then he cleared his throat, his voice low but carrying, iron wrapped in calm.
“I have made a decision,” he said.
Both his mother and cousin looked up sharply. He held their gazes in turn, unmoving.
“I shall marry. And soon. Ashwood will have an heir.”
The words dropped like stones into water, sending ripples through the air. Ophelia gasped, her teacup rattling so violently against its saucer that a drop spilled onto the tablecloth. “Marry?” she repeated, as if the word were foreign upon her tongue. “So soon, after all these years–”
Richard’s expression did not alter. “I have wasted enough time. The line must continue. Ashwood requires stability.”
His mother’s hands trembled as she set down her cup. “But Richard,” she whispered, “you have not been seen in society for years. You cannot simply appear and–”
“I can. I will,” he cut across her, his tone brooking no argument. “I require a wife who understands her duty, nothing more.”
From the corner, Jasper’s laugh was soft and mocking. “How practical, cousin. Most men return from war dreaming of pleasure, yet you dream of an heir. Admirable—or perhaps pitiable. Will you not even seek affection in such a union?”
Richard’s eyes fixed upon him, steady and unblinking. “Affection is a bauble, Jasper. I require blood, not baubles.”
The dowager pressed her hand to her breast, appalled by his harshness, yet she knew better than to challenge him further. She studied her son—scarred, unyielding, yet undeniably magnificent—and for the first time since his return, a spark of mischief glimmered in her eye.
She leaned back, folded her hands, and allowed a slow smile to curve her lips. “Then, son,” she said softly, her voice carrying a note of amusement that belied the tension, “you are in luck.”
Richard’s brow lifted, suspicion flickering across his hard features. “In luck?”
Her smile deepened, her eyes bright with some secret knowledge. “Yes,” she murmured, lowering her gaze to herteacup. “As it happens, I know of precisely the young lady who will suit your purpose.”
