Page 72 of His Auctioned Duchess
He offered his arm to Caroline. “Come.”
For a moment she hesitated, staring at him as though she might still see traces of the man who had nearly committed murder. Then, slowly, she placed her gloved hand in his. The warmth of his touch burned even through the silk.
Together they walked down the aisle, the crowd parting before them in hushed awe. The whispers followed, but Caroline held her head high, every step measured, defiant.
The great doors swung open ahead, spilling sunlight into the dim chapel, illuminating motes of dust and petals scattered across the floor. As they crossed the threshold, Caroline glanced once more at the altar—at the toppled candles and the stain of wax where Jasper had fallen.
The echoes of the Devil’s fury would not fade soon.
And yet, even as she trembled, she could not deny the truth blooming uneasily in her chest.
Her fear was no longer of the Devil she’d been warned about.
It was of the man she might already be falling for.
CHAPTER 19
The doors of the chapel closed behind them with a sound like thunder.
The murmur of voices inside still echoed faintly, the ton’s scandal-hungry whispers leaking through the stained glass, but out here the air was sharp and cold, the sunlight cruelly bright. Caroline drew in a shuddering breath as Richard’s arm guided her forward, though his touch was impersonal—more duty than comfort.
He did not look at her. Not once.
His stride was long and purposeful, boots striking the gravel path that curved through the gardens of Ashwood. Somewhere behind them, bells tolled a distant hour, indifferent to the ruin of what was meant to be the happiest day of her life.
Caroline clutched his arm because she could not yet trust her legs to hold her. She could still feel Jasper’s hand on her wrist,the sudden violence, the terror that had clenched her stomach. Yet it was not that memory that haunted her—it was the image of Richard’s face when rage consumed him.
When he had become the Devil every whisper had promised.
His jaw was tight now, his profile severe against the late-morning light. Guilt rolled off him in waves so heavy she could almost feel it pressing the air between them.
“Richard,” she began softly.
He did not answer.
“Richard,” she tried again, firmer this time. “You saved my life.”
His steps faltered for a moment, but he did not turn. “No,” he said at last, his voice rough. “You were in danger because of me. Because I brought you into my cursed name, into a family already rotting from within. I should have known better.”
“You cannot blame yourself for his madness.”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Can I not? He hated me because of what I am, because of who I was destined to become, a Duke. I rubbed it in his face. I didn't make it easy for him.”
Caroline stopped walking, forcing him to do the same. “You speak as though you created his sins. You did not.”
Finally, he looked at her. The gray of his eyes seemed colder than the stone chapel they had left behind. “And yet they follow me, wherever I go. You saw what I am, Caroline. You saw what happens when I lose control.”
Her breath caught. “You stopped.”
“I almost didn’t.” He stepped back, putting distance between them as though afraid to touch her. “I should never have claimed you. You would have been safe had you never borne my name.”
Something inside her twisted sharply. She stared at him, waiting for the words to soften, for some flicker of remorse that would reach out to her. None came.
“You mean to say,” she asked quietly, “that your solution to guilt is to cast me aside?”
He didn’t flinch, though the muscles in his jaw tightened. “Yes.”
The word struck like a physical blow.
