Page 70 of His Auctioned Duchess
Richard shoved Jasper away, his voice low, controlled, and deadly. “You will never touch her again.”
The force of the push sent Jasper sprawling against the base of the nearest pew. For a heartbeat he simply sat there, stunned, chest heaving, staring up at the man he had betrayed.
“Get out,” Richard said.
Jasper’s face twisted, torn between fury and despair. “You ruin everything you touch,” he hissed. “Everything!”
Then, in one desperate burst of madness, he lunged again—not for Richard this time, but toward Caroline, as though determined to destroy the one thing his cousin cherished.
Caroline froze, the scream catching in her throat. Nicholas surged forward from the front pew, shouting her name. John was faster—he vaulted over the rail, seizing Jasper’s arm, but the man was wild with rage, striking out blindly. Evan followed, grappling with him from behind, their boots skidding across the polished marble.
Richard moved in a flash. His boots struck the marble, echoing like thunder in the vaulted space. His hand shot out, gripping Jasper by the throat with a force born not of rage alone but of betrayal so deep it felt carved into his bones.
A gasp rippled through the pews. Lady Ophelia rose to her feet, one hand pressed to her mouth. Sophia cried out Richard’sname, while Edmund pushed through the stunned crowd toward the altar.
Jasper’s eyes went wide; his hands flew to Richard’s wrists, fingers clawing in panic. But the Duke’s grip did not falter.
Richard slammed Jasper backward into the altar. The candlesticks toppled, wax spilling like tears across the white cloth. Somewhere, someone screamed—the high, strangled note of a lady’s voice quickly muffled by her fan.
“Richard!” Caroline’s voice broke through the chaos, trembling yet fierce. “Stop this madness! You’ll kill him!”
He didn’t hear her. Or rather, he heard nothing but the roar of blood in his ears, the pulse beneath his palms. His muscles trembled with the effort to contain the feral instinct that demanded satisfaction.
For an instant—a terrible, breathless instant—the duke looked like a creature unchained.
Jasper’s feet kicked weakly against the polished floor. His lips moved soundlessly. The guests stared at the magnetic horror of the spectacle before them.
Lady Ophelia rose, pale as parchment, clutching the edge of her pew for balance. “Richard, for the love of God!” she cried, voice breaking. “Release him!”
Her plea cut through the haze—but it was Caroline’s next cry that struck home.
“Richard! Look at me!”
He did.
Her eyes—bright, terrified, pleading—pierced the red mist clouding his mind. He blinked once, twice, his vision clearing enough to see what his hands were doing. Jasper’s face had turned an awful shade of purple; his cousin’s struggles were weakening.
Richard’s grip faltered. The sound of his own ragged breathing filled his ears.
Then, with a shudder, he released him.
Jasper collapsed to the ground in a heap, wheezing, clutching his throat as though to reassure himself that air still existed.
Silence rippled outward through the pews, heavy and stunned. Even the candles seemed to hold their flame in uneasy stillness.
Richard stood over him, chest heaving, fists still trembling at his sides. The fury had not vanished—it merely burned lower now, darker, controlled only by sheer will.
Jasper lay sprawled at Richard’s feet, gasping for air like a man newly dragged from drowning. His chest heaved, his fine waistcoat torn at the collar where Richard’s hand had gripped him. The once-slick confidence that had always defined him was gone; what remained was pitiful—a cousin stripped bare before the ton, trembling with the shock of near-death.
He coughed once, twice, and his voice emerged as a rasp. “Richard—please… cousin—I never meant–”
“Never meant?” Richard’s tone sliced through the chapel, deep and raw, carrying both disbelief and disgust. “You never meant to see me dead? To steal my life and bury my name with the tide?”
Jasper flinched. The guests leaned forward. The duke’s voice, that low growl of controlled rage, filled the space where music and vows were meant to be spoken.
“I could forgive that,” Richard continued, his breathing slowing but his eyes still dark with fury. “I could forgive your envy. I could even forgive the years I spent rotting in filth while you drank fine wine and whispered about my ghost.”
He stepped forward once, boots thudding softly against marble, until his shadow fell over Jasper’s crumpled form. His next words came quieter, colder.
