Page 62 of His Auctioned Duchess
Today, the Devil would marry.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaling slowly. Somewhere below, the household was already coming alive with motion. Voices echoed faintly through the corridors; the clink of silver trays, the distant trill of laughter. The world was preparing for ceremony and spectacle. But he was not made for such things.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Enter,” he said.
His valet stepped in—small, gray, and unobtrusive. “Good morning, Your Grace. I have drawn your bath. The garments are pressed and ready.”
Richard nodded, his tone clipped. “Leave them.”
“Would you wish for assistance, Your Grace?”
“No. I can manage.”
The man hesitated a moment longer, then bowed and withdrew.
Richard rose and crossed the room. The mirror loomed on the far wall, tall and merciless. He paused before it, the morning light striking his face. The scar caught the glow like lightning frozen in flesh—a harsh reminder of the years that had carved him.
It began at the corner of his brow and cut down along his cheek, stopping just above the jawline. A blade had done that. A man’s hatred. And time had preserved it, not softened it.
He had been twenty-five then. Eight years ago. Young enough to believe in glory, old enough to learn that it was a lie.
He touched the mark absently. It had long ceased to pain him, yet the ache beneath it—the one pride never quelled—lingered. He had fought for survival, for his name, for control over what remained.
And now he would fight for an heir.
That was what this marriage was: a transaction, a necessary step. He told himself he did not care about the whispers that followed his name—about the Devil of the Ton and the women who flinched from his gaze. What mattered was legacy. Stability. Continuance.
Still, he could not quiet the small voice that asked if he was building his legacy upon another’s unhappiness.
He ignored it.
Moving with deliberate precision, he stripped off his nightshirt and stepped into the bath. The water steamed faintly, scalding against his skin, but he did not flinch. He had long ago learned to bear discomfort in silence.
He washed and dressed swiftly—white linen shirt, black waistcoat, a coat of deep midnight blue trimmed in silver. The cravat gave him more trouble; he tied and retied it twice before the knot satisfied him. It was not vanity that drove him—it was the armor of presentation, the careful construction of the man the world expected to see.
When at last he slid the heavy signet ring onto his finger and adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, he looked every inch the Duke of Ashwood. Only the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
He turned toward the window, gazing out over the grounds. The chapel stood visible in the distance, small and gleaming amid the sea of green. Carriages were already arriving along the gravel drive—fine ones, emblazoned with the crests of old families. The ton had come to watch the Devil wed his unwilling bride.
He almost smiled.
Behind him, the door opened again.
“Ashwood,” came a familiar voice.
Richard glanced over his shoulder to find Edmund leaning against the frame, suit immaculate, expression half amused.
“So it is true,” Edmund said. “You are going through with it.”
Richard’s brow lifted. “You doubted it?”
Edmund stepped inside. “I’ve known you long enough to expect sudden disappearances. You’ve a talent for vanishing before fate can catch you.”
“Perhaps fate has grown faster,” Richard replied dryly.
“Or perhaps she’s wearing a wedding gown.”
