Page 29 of His Auctioned Duchess
“Like hell it doesn’t.” Edmund set his glass down with a sharp clink. “Whoever did it is still breathing, I’ll wager. Men like that don’t stop at one act of treachery. You can’t simply–”
“Let them come,” Richard said, his voice quiet but cutting through Edmund’s protest like a blade.
“You mean that,” Edmund said softly. “Good God, you actually mean that.”
“I’m tired of ghosts,” Richard said, his eyes fixed on the fire. “If they wish to haunt me, they know where to find me now.”
Edmund sank into a chair opposite, his usual bluster gone. “And what then? Another duel? Another grave? You think vengeance will give you peace?”
“No,” Richard said. “But it will silence the noise.”
For a long time, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint crackle of the hearth.
At last, Edmund exhaled and leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You’ve changed, Ashwood. You used to speak of duty, of honor. Now you speak like a man waiting for the world to strike so you might strike back.”
Richard’s mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Perhaps I’ve learned that honor is the armor of fools.”
Edmund shook his head. “And yet, you’re here—holding court like some sainted duke, mending quarrels, feeding widows. That’s not the act of a man who’s forsaken honor. It’s guilt.”
Richard’s eyes snapped to him, gray as cold steel. “Careful.”
“Guilt for what, though?” Edmund pressed, undeterred. “For surviving? For not saving everyone at a war you were never supposed to fight?”
“Enough,” Richard said, voice low and sharp.
Edmund held his gaze for a moment longer, then sighed and leaned back, lifting his hands in surrender. “Very well. I’ll not press. Not today.”
Richard drained his glass, the burn of the brandy grounding him. “Good.”
For a time, the conversation drifted toward safer ground—land management, mutual acquaintances, the dull necessitiesof noble life. Yet the unease remained, like a coiled shadow between them.
Edmund studied him quietly. “Tell me about her,” he said suddenly.
Richard’s brow furrowed. “Who?”
“The lady. Caroline Hughes, was it? You never bring women here.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Edmund grinned. “I’ve known you since you were a lad. When you say there’s nothing, it means there’s everything.”
Richard ignored him, setting his empty glass aside. “She’s stubborn. Too curious for her own good.”
“Sounds perfect for you.”
“She doesn’t know when to stop talking.”
“Neither do you, when you’re angry.”
“She sees more than she ought,” Richard said finally.
Edmund arched a brow. “And that bothers you?”
“Yes.”
The single word came too fast, too sharp.
Richard rose from his chair and walked to the window, staring out over the gardens. The afternoon light poured through the glass, glinting against the leaves of the orange trees. Somewhere beyond the hedges, he could see a flash of pale green fabric—Caroline’s gown, as she strolled along the path with Sophia.
