Page 41 of His Auctioned Duchess
Caroline could not summon tranquility. She sat in the morning room the following day opposite Sophia, surrounded by an explosion of silk and muslin. Bolts of fabric in every shade—from mist-blue to pale rose—spilled across the sofa and over the table like the aftermath of a fashionable battle.
Sophia, perched like a sparrow amid the chaos, waved a scrap of lace. “You must choose something flattering, Caroline. Richard’s household cannot be forever haunted by the memory of that ink-dress of yours I read about in the gossip columns. I even saw sketches of it.”
Caroline laughed despite herself. “I liked that dress. It was original.”
“It was scandalous,” Sophia corrected with mock severity. “The ton is still debating whether it was an act of rebellion or madness. Writing sonnets on your own gown! I daresay, ifyou’d been any less lovely, they would have called you eccentric instead of bold.”
Caroline’s lips curved. “And yet here you are, begging me to scandalize them again.”
Sophia grinned. “Of course I am. London thrives on scandal, and Richard has been too somber since returning from the war. He needs a bit of mischief in his life.”
Caroline pretended to study a bolt of ivory silk, though her pulse quickened at his name. “He has mischief enough without my help.”
“Ah, but you enjoy provoking him.”
“I do not,” Caroline protested—too quickly.
Sophia tilted her head, catlike. “Then why do you blush every time someone mentions his name?”
“I do not blush.”
“Then why are you blushing now?”
Caroline groaned, hiding her face behind a piece of lace. “You are insufferable.”
Sophia only laughed. “Come now, confess it. You like him.”
“I tolerate him,” Caroline said primly, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her.
“Tolerate? My dear, no one tolerates the Devil of the Ton. They either loathe him or they love him.”
Caroline hesitated. The laughter faded from her eyes, replaced by something softer, more uncertain. “I don’t loathe him,” she said at last.
Sophia leaned forward, sensing victory. “Then...?”
Caroline traced a finger along the embroidered hem of her gown. “I don’t know. He infuriates me. He frightens me, sometimes. But...”
“But?”
Caroline exhaled. “He listens. He truly listens. When I speak, he doesn’t smile politely and drift into thoughts of dowries or titles. He looks at me as if I am the only person in the room. As if my words matter.”
Sophia laughed softly. “That’s quite the compliment from you.”
Caroline hesitated, toying with her wine glass. “It’s strange,” she said finally, voice low. “I spent years certain no one could truly see me without seeing my mother’s death as well. Father never could. Every time he looked at me, I think he saw her grave.”
Sophia’s mirth faded. “Caro…”
Caroline gave a small, brittle shrug. “That’s why I swore never to marry. Never to become another portrait above a fireplace. But he–” she stopped, shaking her head. “He looks at me as though I am alive. It’s… unsettling.”
Sophia’s teasing expression melted into something gentler. “Oh, my dear, you are lost.”
“I am not lost,” Caroline said quickly. “I’m merely... curious.”
“Curious,” Sophia repeated with a knowing smile. “Yes, that’s what every woman says before she falls.”
Caroline laughed, a little too brightly. “That is not in question here. He and I are–”
“A perfect disaster,” Sophia supplied. “Which makes you a perfect match.”
