Page 58 of His Auctioned Duchess
His fists unclenched slowly. When he spoke again, the fury had gone out of his voice, leaving something quieter, heavier. “But guilt is a coward’s chain, Caroline. Break it before it breaks you.”
She stared at him through tears. “You speak as though it were so simple.”
“It isn’t,” he said. “But it is necessary.”
The silence that followed felt immense.
She stepped closer, the hem of her robe brushing the floor. “You said you needed a woman who could stand beside you. I’m telling you I cannot if I am expected to die for it.”
He looked down at her, the lines of his face carved by candlelight—hard, scarred, impossibly human. “Then what do you want from me?”
“Honesty,” she whispered. “You speak of heirs as if they were armor against the world. Do you even want them? Or do you only need them to prove you’ve survived?”
His gaze flickered; the question struck home.
She pressed on. “Because if all you want is children, you need only ask the ton for a willing body. But if you want a wife, you’ll have to face the truth of what stands before you—flaws, fears, all of it.”
He took a long breath, chest rising and falling with deliberate control. “You mistake me,” he said finally. “I never wanted heirs for pride’s sake. I wanted them because I thought it was my duty as a Duke. I thought I could have an heir who would not have to go through everything I went through.”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “It appears I was wrong. I am not fit.”
Caroline’s heart twisted. “You speak as if you are still fighting.”
“I am,” he said quietly. “Every day. The war ended; the battle didn’t.”
For the first time she saw not the Duke, nor the Devil of the Ton, but the soldier who had come home carrying pieces of a world that no longer existed.
She reached out before she could stop herself, her fingers brushing the rough line of the scar along his face. He flinched—not from pain, but from the unfamiliarity of tenderness.
Her voice softened. “Then let me stand with you.”
He caught her wrist gently, holding her hand against his skin. “You think you can bear that weight?”
“I already do.”
Something shifted in his eyes—heat, disbelief, a flicker of hope quickly buried. He released her hand and turned away again, pacing once, twice. When he spoke, the words came out hoarse.
“Why do you come to me like this? To confess, to challenge, to tempt?”
“Because I cannot live in silence,” she said. “Because you would rather drown in ghosts than let anyone reach you.”
He stopped mid-stride. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” she answered. “Hard, but simple. You stop fighting.”
He stared at her across the narrow space that divided them, chest rising fast.
“You came here to accuse me,” he said at last.
“I came here to find you.”
“And have you?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Their gazes locked, the air between them sharp as static.
Then she whispered, “If you mean to send me away again, do it now. Because if I stay another moment, I’ll start believing there is something worth staying for.”
