Page 77 of His Auctioned Duchess
Caroline’s eyes stung, but anger steadied her voice. “You would call it sense to bargain your daughter like a racehorse? I will not permit it.”
“Permit it?” Nicholas’s brow darkened. “Child, you forget yourself.”
“I remember myself perfectly,” she said, drawing herself up. “I am your daughter, not your investment. I will not be sold to the highest bidder again.”
He rose, temper flashing. “And what would you do instead? Live here in disgrace? Waste away sketching your fantasies while the world forgets you?”
“If the world forgets me,” she said, “then at least it will not own me.”
For a moment they stood locked in silence. Then Nicholas sank back into his chair, exhausted. “You speak like your mother.”
“Then she would be proud,” Caroline whispered, and turned on her heel before her tears could fall.
CHAPTER 21
Richard had not slept.
The storm had not passed. It lingered over Ashwood Hall as though reluctant to leave, the wind sighing through the eaves, the rain whispering against the tall windows like a restless spirit.
The candle at his desk had burned to its base, leaving only a stub of wax and the bitter scent of smoke. He sat before it, eyes bloodshot, hands clasped before him as though he were waiting for judgment. The brandy was gone.
He had played until his hands ached, until the sound itself began to mock him. Now the silence pressed in—thick, suffocating, absolute.
He had sent for no one. He had spoken to no one. In his solitude he had convinced himself he wanted it so. Yet every heartbeat felt like an accusation.
It was nearly dawn when the door burst open.
“Richard.”
He looked up, blinking against the sudden intrusion. “Sophia?”
She swept into the room without ceremony, her cloak dripping rain onto the carpet, her cheeks flushed with cold and fury. “You leave me no choice but to storm your tower like some besieging army,” she said, voice trembling.
He exhaled wearily. “I told you I wished to be left alone.”
“And I told you I have no patience for fools,” she snapped.
He leaned back in his chair, regarding her through the haze of sleeplessness. “Then you’ve wasted a journey, cousin. My foolishness is long confirmed.”
“Do you think this amusing?” she demanded. “You, drinking yourself into ruin while she–”
Her voice broke, and she pressed her lips together before continuing. “You know nothing of what that girl endures while you hide here pretending at martyrdom.”
Richard’s expression did not change, though the faint muscle in his jaw twitched. “I know enough.”
“Do you?” She strode forward, producing something from beneath her cloak. A folded sheet of paper, worn at the creases. She held it tightly, as though afraid it might burn her fingers even before it touched the fire.
“I found this beneath her pillow,” she said quietly. “It was the only thing she took with her from Ashwood.”
He frowned. “What is it?”
“See for yourself.”
She thrust it toward him. For a moment he hesitated before taking it. The paper unfolded stiffly, smudged with charcoal, and he felt his breath catch.
It was a sketch—rough, emotional, painfully vivid. His own likeness stared back at him, though twisted: the scar carved softer, the eyes brighter, the shoulders monstrous. In the drawing, he held a woman to himself, kissing her softly.
His throat closed.
