Page 65 of His Auctioned Duchess
Her steps slowed. John gave her a subtle nudge, and she resumed, matching the rhythm of the quartet’s low, solemn notes.
When she reached him, her father released her hand and stepped back, pride gleaming in his eyes.
Richard bowed faintly. “My lady.”
Her reply was a whisper. “Your Grace.”
Their hands touched only briefly—a cool, trembling brush of fingers.
The vicar cleared his throat, and the ceremony began.
The words flowed as they always did—measured, ancient, rehearsed through centuries. The congregation stood in reverent silence while the vicar spoke of sacred bonds, of honor and obedience, of the holy covenant between husband and wife.
Caroline scarcely heard him. The chapel seemed distant, wrapped in mist. She watched Richard instead—the hard line of his jaw, the faint flicker in his gaze when the priest spoke of love. He did not flinch, but she saw it—the shadow that crossed his features like a passing cloud.
Does he even believe in love?she wondered.
Her pulse thrummed.
When the vicar said, “You may now seal your vows,” Richard turned toward her.
The moment stretched.
He lifted her veil slowly, revealing her face to the congregation. She expected the press of his mouth, the brief and dutiful kiss that marked the end of a bargain. Instead, his gaze lingered. His eyes traced the curve of her cheek, the tremor in her lip, the faint defiance that remained even now.
Something in his expression softened—just barely. Then it was gone.
He leaned close enough that his breath stirred the veil between them.
“All of this will be over soon,” he murmured so quietly only she could hear.
The candlelight shimmered through her veil as though through water.
Somewhere beyond the applause, a single petal drifted from the altar arrangement and landed on her shoe—a small, fragile thing, pale as snow. She stared at it, absurdly struck by how easily it had fallen.
Richard offered his arm, formal and cold.
“Shall we?” he said.
She placed her hand upon it because she must, not because she wished to.
Together they turned toward the aisle, future husband and wife, Duke and Duchess. The murmurs rose around them, admiring, envious, entirely unaware that something inside her had cracked wide open.
The music swelled again, triumphant and bright.
Caroline’s smile never wavered, but her fingers trembled where they touched his sleeve.
The Devil of the Ton would have his bride.
And the bride, beautiful and proud, stood beside him in silence—already wondering how long before the cage closed entirely.
CHAPTER 17
The vicar was speaking when Caroline felt the air inside the chapel shifting.
It began as a whisper — a faint rustle among the pews, the flutter of a fan snapping closed. Then, like the breaking of a tide, the murmurs swelled into something jagged, uneasy. The taut silence before the storm.
The vicar, startled by the sudden motion, hesitated mid-blessing.
