Page 32 of His Auctioned Duchess
When she had gone, the silence returned, broken only by the faint crackle of distant firelight. Caroline lingered for a moment, candle trembling in her grasp. Then she turned and made her way back to her chambers, mind spinning.
Back in her chamber, she reopened her sketchbook and, with careful strokes, added one final detail to his portrait—the flicker of light in his eyes that spoke not of cruelty, but of pain.
When she set down the pencil, she whispered to herself, “Whatever you’re hiding, Richard Belford… I will learn it.”
CHAPTER 10
Caroline sat beside Richard as the carriage rolled to a slow halt beneath the lanterns of Covent Garden, its wheels crunching through damp gravel. Her gloved hands were clasped too tightly in her lap as London, glittering and restless, swelled with life around them—coaches jostling for place, laughter spilling from passing couples, the air heavy with the mingled scents of perfume, candle wax, and late spring rain.
Across from her, Lady Ophelia adjusted her fan with maternal serenity, her expression the picture of composure.
Next to her sat Sophia. There was a lively restlessness about her, the air of a girl raised on novels and gossip columns, far too clever to be subdued by etiquette. Beside her, Louisa, Sophia’s sister-in-law, murmured in genteel tones about gowns and rumors, though her glances toward Jasper were a touch too frequent to be entirely innocent.
Jasper, seated near the door opposite Richard, looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else. His jaw was tight, his gloved hands restless against his knees.
And beside him, half-leaning into the corner of the carriage, John observed everything with quiet amusement, the brother acting the chaperone more from affection than duty. His gaze drifted between his sister and the Duke, a hint of a knowing smile on his lips.
“Smile, dear,” Sophia whispered to Caroline, her voice bubbling with youthful mischief. “You’re on the arm of the most scandalous man in London. That alone will make half the ladies faint.”
Caroline forced a smile. “Then I shall try not to be crushed by the rush.”
Sophia stifled a laugh behind her fan. Even Richard’s lips twitched faintly, though he said nothing.
Jasper’s gaze flicked toward Caroline, his tone dry. “You needn’t worry, my Lady. They fainted often enough when the Duke merely entered a room. You’ll grow accustomed to it.”
Caroline arched a brow. “And you are an expert in such faintings, sir?”
Sophia laughed outright. “Lady Caroline, you’ve not met my brother, Jasper as you should. He and Richard were raisedalmost as brothers—until the war of course,” she added quietly and looked down.
Caroline inclined her head politely. “Then I must thank you for your company my Lord.”
Jasper smiled thinly. “It is I who should thank you, my lady. Few have ever managed to make my cousin attend an opera.”
The words were lightly spoken, but the edge beneath them did not escape her.
John intervened cheerfully, his tone easing the tension. “Perhaps music tames even the fiercest beasts.”
Louisa gave a small, uneasy laugh. “Or draws them out of hiding.”
Before another word could pass, the carriage rolled to a halt. The sound of the crowd outside surged—a hundred voices, a thousand whispers.
The footman descended, opening the door.
Richard was the first to step down, his movements smooth and unhurried, every inch the Duke he was. His reputation had reached the street long before he did; the murmurs rippled through the crowd—the Devil of the Ton. A man to be feared, pitied, or adored, depending on who whispered.
He turned, offering his hand to Caroline. His expression was composed, unbothered by the hungry eyes of the ton. When she placed her gloved fingers in his, the noise around them seemed to fade.
He helped her down with quiet grace—no arrogance, no flourish, only that same unyielding certainty.
The theatre’s grand staircase blazed with light. Crystals glimmered above in waves, and velvet drapes framed the marble halls. Caroline’s heart thudded as she followed Richard toward their box, aware of every pair of eyes that turned their way.
She caught a fragment of a whisper—“Is that his new mistress?”—and another—“Poor girl, she’ll not last a month.”
Her spine stiffened. Richard’s hand tightened slightly on her arm, a silent reassurance. When they reached their seats, the murmur faded to a respectful distance.
As the overture began, Caroline found herself studying him instead of the stage. The orchestra swelled, and to her astonishment, she saw the faintest flicker of emotion move across his features. His fingers, resting on the rail, kept time with the music—unconsciously, perfectly.
When a delicate pianissimo rose from the pit, his head tilted, his eyes half closing as though he could feel the notes against his skin.
