Page 9 of His Auctioned Duchess
And yet... beneath the fire, beneath the pride, her lips tingled still where his breath had brushed her hand in greeting.
She exhaled sharply, shaking herself free of the thought, and strode toward the drawing-room, every step measured, every line of her figure composed.
The duel had begun.
CHAPTER 4
When Caroline swept into the room the next night, every whisper died.
The dining hall of Fernsby Manor glittered with candlelight. Dozens of tapers blazed in crystal chandeliers, their flames mirrored in the silver service laid across the long banquet table. The guests—lords, ladies, distant cousins, and would-be suitors—had gathered in anticipation of an evening that promised to stir gossip for weeks to come. But now no one was talking. Now Caroline was here.
She was radiant not because of silks or jewels, but because of her audacity. Her gown—fashioned in the classic empire style of pale muslin—had been transformed into scandal. Across the fabric, in dark ink, words sprawled in an elegant hand: lines of poetry, snippets of satire, fragments of verse. Byron on one sleeve, a jest about matrimony across the hem, a Shakespearean sonnet curling across her bodice. It was a dress of wit and rebellion, her declaration made visible for all to see.
Gasps rippled like wind through reeds. Some ladies covered their mouths. Gentlemen blinked, scandalized. And Caroline—head high, eyes glittering—drifted to her seat as though no one had spoken. She lowered herself into the chair between two dukes with the poise of a queen.
On her left sat Richard. His scar caught the glow of the candles, his massive frame casting a shadow over the table’s silver. On her right sat Alex, Duke of Cavendish—a younger man, fair and smooth, with eager blue eyes and hands that fidgeted nervously with his napkin.
Alex cleared his throat, summoning courage. “Lady Caroline,” he stammered, “your… your gown is… is most… original.”
Caroline turned her head, her lips curving into a smile. “Original?” she repeated sweetly. “Do you mean absurd? Scandalous? Indecent?”
Alex’s face reddened, his words tumbling in disarray. “No, no! I mean—it is—brilliant! Yes, brilliant. Such—such wit upon fabric! A poem one can wear—why, it is a wonder!”
Caroline leaned closer, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Do you always flatter ladies by describing their attire as wonders?”
John, seated farther down the table, nearly choked on his wine. Laughter rippled through a few daring cousins, though most guests hid their smiles behind goblets. Alex sputtered, trying to recover, but Caroline only grinned wider, utterly unrepentant.
Richard's gaze dropped once to the ink scrawled across her gown and then lifted to her face, alight with triumph. His scar tugged as his jaw clenched. He did not laugh.
The meal was served, silver domes lifted to reveal roast pheasant, glazed carrots, and rich sauces. Yet the true feast lay not upon the plates, but in the war of words that unfurled between Caroline and her companions. Alex scrambled to keep pace with her wit, his stammering growing more pronounced as her barbs landed with merciless precision. Richard ate in silence, but every so often his gaze flicked to her, sharp as a blade.
At one point, Caroline caught him watching. She tilted her head, her smile mischievous. “Tell me, Your Grace,” she said suddenly, loud enough for nearby guests to hear, “do you approve of my attire? Or would you rather I had come dressed as a lamb to the slaughter, all white muslin and meekness?”
A hush fell around them. Alex’s fork clattered against his plate. All eyes darted to Richard.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Richard set down his goblet with deliberate calm. His gray eyes held hers, unblinking, his scar catching the firelight.
“You may wear what you please, my lady,” he said, his voice low and grave. “Cloth does not alter the steel beneath.”
Gasps fluttered. Caroline’s smile widened, though her pulse skipped at the blunt force of his words. She raised her glass in amock salute, eyes gleaming. “How fortunate then, that I prefer steel to silk.”
The room exhaled as laughter scattered in nervous bursts. Richard did not smile. But under the table, his hand flexed once, a small betrayal of the tension coiling within him.
The dinner continued, each course a stage for Caroline’s audacity and Richard’s silent watchfulness. Yet the air between them grew tighter, thicker, as though the very candles leaned nearer to listen.
The hum of conversation swelled and dipped as servants carried out the next course, but most eyes remained fixed upon the end of the table where Caroline sat between her dukes. She had become the evening’s performance, her wit the entertainment, and the bold script across her gown the stage.
Caroline, aware of her audience and reveling in it, lifted her glass, the candlelight flickering through the wine. “Gentlemen,” she announced, her voice carrying down the length of the room, “since it seems I am the object of such attention, it would be cruel to leave the matter unresolved. If men truly desire a lady’s hand, let them prove themselves worthy. What say you, dukes? How shall you show us what makes you… deserving?”
A ripple of murmurs circled the table. Several matrons pursed their lips, scandalized. Young ladies leaned forward, eyes wide. John nearly choked again, grinning at his sister’s audacity. Nicholas, at the head of the table, pinched the bridge of his nose as though praying for divine patience.
Alex straightened at once, seizing the chance. His face flushed with eagerness, his words spilling out in haste. “I—I should say—fencing, yes! I am an excellent fencer, my lady. My tutor himself declared my form unmatched. Why, I once bested the Viscount of Lonsdale in three strokes!”
He mimed a flourish with his knife, nearly upsetting his wine. A smattering of polite applause followed, though the sparkle of amusement in Caroline’s eye suggested she found the boast less than impressive.
“Three strokes, you say?” she murmured sweetly. “How quick the Viscount must have been to yield. I should think a man might last longer in a duel… or a dance.”
Laughter bubbled along the table, poorly stifled. Alex turned crimson, stammering anew.
