Page 78 of His Auctioned Duchess
“She drew this?”
“Yes,” Sophia said. “During the days before the wedding. I thought you should see what she imagined when she thought of you.”
He said nothing.
Sophia’s tone softened, though her gaze stayed steady. “You frightened her, Richard. That day by the lake, the anger in you—she captured it here. It terrified her, yet she could not stop sketching you. You haunt her.”
Richard’s fingers tightened on the page until it creased. “Why bring me this?”
“Because you must understand what she fights—her fear, her heart, her confusion. If you love her, you cannot let this–” She gestured to the sketch—“become the truth.”
He stared down at it again, and something inside him twisted. The artist’s hand had not lied; the shadows, the darkness, the anguish—they were all him.
Sophia turned toward the hearth, her eyes blazing. “If this is what you mean to keep becoming, then let it burn.”
Before he could stop her, she flung the drawing into the fire.
The paper caught instantly, curling black at the edges, the image of his own monstrous face twisting in the flames.
“No!”
Richard lunged forward, instinct overriding sense. He reached into the grate, seizing the burning page with his bare hand. The heat seared through his skin, pain exploding up his arm, but he refused to let go until he had smothered the flames against the stone floor.
“Richard!” Sophia cried, rushing to his side.
He crouched there, panting, the ruined paper in his scorched palm. His skin was blistered, the edges raw, but he did not seem to notice. He stared at what remained of the drawing—the faint lines still visible beneath the ash.
His own face, half burnt, half preserved.
The smell of char and singed flesh filled the room.
Sophia knelt beside him, horrified. “You fool!” She seized a cloth from the table and tried to take his hand, but he pulled away.
“Leave it,” he said hoarsely.
“Richard, you’ll scar.”
He looked at her then, and she saw tears glinting in his eyes. “Do you think I care for another scar?”
She froze.
He turned his gaze back to the ruined page. The edges still smoldered faintly, curling inward. He brushed them away gently, as if by doing so he might uncover some hidden forgiveness beneath.
“This,” he said softly, almost to himself, “is how she saw me.”
“She was frightened, yes,” Sophia said gently. “But she also stayed. She drew you again and again. She wanted you, even in fear.”
He let out a broken laugh, low and bitter. “And still she left.”
“She left because you pushed her away.”
He looked up sharply, but Sophia did not flinch.
“You told her she was free,” she said, voice trembling with feeling. “You told her she should not marry you. You gave her nothing to hold on to but this.” She gestured to the blackened sketch. “You made her believe this was all you were.”
Richard stared at the floor, at his burned hand still clutching the remains of the drawing. “Perhaps it is.”
“No.” Sophia’s tone hardened. “That is what you’ve let yourself become. But the man who dove into a lake to save her, who fought off his own cousin to protect her—that man is still there, whether you will admit it or not.”
