Page 46 of His Auctioned Duchess
“Why can’t you?” he asked, his breath brushing her cheek.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
“Because,” he said softly, answering for her, “you know what I do. You belong with me. You always have.”
He released her hand and stepped back, his expression shuttering once more. “The invitations have gone out. You may rage as you please, but the matter is done.”
Caroline stared at him, trembling. “You think you can command me into wanting you?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I think you already do.”
Her hand lifted of its own accord—whether to strike him or to touch his face, she never decided—because in the next breath she was gone, her skirts whispering through the doorway, leaving him alone with the echo of what he had not meant to confess.
Richard sank into the nearest chair, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He had faced death without fear, defied kings, and buried his own father with dry eyes—but one woman had managed to undo him with nothing more than truth.
He looked outside. The first stars had begun to bloom over the horizon, cold and distant.
“I should never have come home,” he murmured.
CHAPTER 13
The night of the Ashwood Ball dawned with all the opulence society demanded—and all the dread Caroline could muster.
In the hours before the first carriage arrived, the manor buzzed with servants polishing silver and hanging garlands of roses. Yet upstairs, in her borrowed chamber, Caroline could not summon an ounce of excitement. She sat before the mirror as Sophia helped with her hair, watching her own reflection with a heart caught between fury and longing.
“You’ll be the envy of every woman tonight,” Sophia said cheerfully. “Even the Duchess of Wetherby will gnash her teeth.”
Caroline tried to smile, but her voice betrayed her. “Envy seems a poor prize when I haven’t chosen any of this.”
Sophia stilled, hands pausing on the fabric. “You mean the wedding?”
Caroline gave a bitter laugh. “What else? One moment he is distant and brooding, and the next he announces our marriage as though I were another estate to be managed. He did not even ask me. And now he’s back to avoiding me.”
Sophia sank onto the stool beside her. “My cousin does not often ask, Caro. He declares. It is his curse.”
“It is arrogance,” Caroline snapped, then softened. “Or perhaps fear.”
Sophia’s brows lifted. “Fear? Of what?”
Caroline toyed with the jeweled comb in her hair, her tone distant. “Of losing control. Of admitting that he might care.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. The air hummed with the faint sounds of the orchestra tuning belowstairs. Finally, Sophia reached for Caroline’s hand, squeezing lightly. “He’s spent years believing control is the only way to survive. You unsettle him. That is no small thing.”
Caroline turned to her, eyes shimmering. “Then why does it hurt so much to be the only one who seems to bleed from it?”
Sophia’s expression softened with sympathy. “Because caring for people—really caring—always draws blood. But if it helps, he’s been impossible all day. Pacing. Snapping at the footmen. Muttering about florists.”
Despite herself, Caroline laughed, the sound shaky but real. “Florists?”
“Apparently the lilies were too pale. Imagine—Richard Belford, scourge of the battlefield, terror of the ton, arguing about flowers.”
The absurd image coaxed another reluctant smile. “Perhaps there’s hope for him yet.”
Sophia grinned, satisfied. “There’s always hope where you’re concerned. Now we must hurry. Let’s make the ton remember why they call him the Devil.”
From morning, the house had been a flurry of servants, flowers, and anxious bustle. Chandeliers were polished until they blazed, musicians tuned their instruments, and the great marble foyer had been transformed into a glittering expanse of elegance. The event, announced as a celebration of the Duke of Belford’s betrothal, promised to be the most anticipated affair of the season.
Caroline stood before her mirror as her maid laced her gown and Sophia clapped her hands excitedly once more. The dress—a rich shade of deep green silk that shimmered like forest leaves at twilight—fit her like a promise. Her hair was now piled high, curls artfully escaping to frame her face. She looked every inch the duchess she refused to become without choice.
