Page 83 of His Auctioned Duchess
For a long time, neither moved. The only sound was the ragged rhythm of their breathing.
Caroline’s voice was barely audible when she finally spoke. “Do you know what you’ve done to me?”
He frowned, uncertain.
She pressed a trembling hand against her chest. “You’ve invaded every corner of my mind. I sketch you because I can’t help it. Every time I hate you, I find another piece of you to adore. It’s infuriating.”
Her eyes filled again, the tears spilling freely now. “Even when I hated you, I couldn’t stop drawing you.”
Richard’s breath left him in a quiet exhale. “Then I am still yours, in every stroke.”
Her laugh was watery and broken. “You think it’s that simple?”
“No,” he said. “But it’s true.”
The lanterns flickered as a wind swept through the garden, rustling the lilac blossoms above them. Caroline looked up at him—truly looked—and saw not the monster she had once feared, but a man brought low by love. His control was gone; his pride lay shattered between them.
And suddenly she could not bear to keep her distance.
She took a step forward. “I am terrified,” she whispered.
He frowned. “Of me?”
“Of marriage. Of children. Of dying as my mother did,” she said, voice trembling. “Of loving someone so much that losing them would end me.”
He moved closer until the heat of his body brushed hers. “And of me?” he asked again, softer this time.
She shook her head. “No. I’m terrified of a life without you.”
His breath caught—a single, quiet sound that was relief and disbelief mixed together.
Then he reached for her.
The moment his hand touched her cheek, the last of her restraint vanished.
The kiss erased everything.
It was not gentle. It was hungry, desperate, the kind of kiss that demanded and surrendered all at once. Caroline melted against him, her fingers clutching at his coat as though she might fall if she let go. The world around them—the lanterns, the night, the fountain—disappeared into silence.
When he broke away, his voice was hoarse. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
She met his gaze, eyes shining. “Don’t. Please don’t.”
He kissed her again, slower this time, reverent and consuming. Each breath between them was a promise remade. The path from the garden to her chambers blurred. She remembered only fragments: the echo of his boots on marble, the feel of his hand on her waist guiding her through the dim corridors, the way her heart beat wildly against his palm.
When the door closed behind them, the world outside ceased to exist.
Caroline’s bedchamber was a hush of candlelight and shadow, the air heavy with beeswax and the faint trace of lavender from the linens. Richard paused just inside the threshold, letting the latch click shut with a soft finality. For a long moment theysimply looked at one another, the space between them vibrating like a drawn bowstring.
Then he moved. Not hurried, not frantic, but with the deliberate grace of a man who had imagined this a thousand times and refused to rush the reality. He reached for the tiny row of pearl buttons at her throat, fingers steady despite the tremor she felt when his knuckles brushed her skin.
One by one, the buttons slipped free. The fabric parted, revealing the delicate lace of her chemise and the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath.Caroline’s hands rose to his coat, pushing it from his shoulders. It fell to the rug with a muted thud. Waistcoat next, then the crisp lawn of his shirt. She needed to feel him, skin to skin, to prove this was no dream.
When her palms met the hard planes of his chest, a low sound escaped him, part groan, part prayer. The sound emboldened her. She traced the line of an old scar beneath his ribs, then the taut ridges of muscle that flexed beneath her touch.Richard’s hands settled at her waist, lifting her as if she weighed nothing.
He carried her the few steps to the bed, laying her down among the pillows with exquisite care.
The mattress dipped under his weight as he followed, stretching above her, braced on forearms that trembled with restraint. Candlelight gilded the sharp angles of his face, the pale slash of scar, the dark hunger in his eyes. He kissed her again, slow and deep, while his fingers worked the tapes of her gown. Fabric slid from her shoulders, pooling at her waist.
