Page 82 of His Auctioned Duchess
Caroline straightened, the decision unmade.
He drew a step nearer as if to bridge the thin space of propriety between them. The lantern light threw his shadow long across the gravel. The question—whether she feared him, whether she cared for him or loathed him—was still in the air.
For now, there was only the hush and the two of them in the garden: a woman with a charcoal confession on her lap, and the man who had haunted every drawing.
CHAPTER 23
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came.
He stepped closer. “You think I don’t know why you ran from me?” His tone was quiet, measured, but beneath it lay a raw edge. “You think I haven’t spent every waking hour trying to hate you enough to stay away?”
Her breath caught.
“I told myself I released you to freedom,” he went on, the words spilling faster now, unguarded. “That I was being merciful. But it was a lie. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you. Every time I tried to forget, it gutted me anew.”
Caroline pressed a hand to her chest. “You had your chance, Richard. You could have said this before–”
“I couldn’t,” he interrupted, his voice breaking slightly. “Because if I said it then, you would have seen what I am without you—empty, hollow, half a man.”
The admission struck through her anger like sunlight through fog.
He exhaled, running a trembling hand through his hair. “I don’t know what I am without you. I told myself I needed an heir, that duty demanded it. But it isn’t the dukedom that keeps me awake. It’s you. The thought of your laughter, your defiance, your damned stubborn courage.”
He took another step forward until the distance between them was a breath. “You’ve ruined me, Caroline. Entirely.”
Her lips parted, trembling. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” His voice lowered, rough as gravel. “You said once that marriage was a curse. Perhaps it is. But I would bear it gladly if it meant you beside me.”
Her composure faltered.
He hesitated only a moment longer before his final confession fell, simple and devastating.
“Choose me,” he whispered. “Because I need you to. I want you to.”
The sound of those words seemed to still everything around them—the fountain, the trees, even the air itself. The Devil of the Ton, the man who had frightened noblemen and silenced drawing rooms, stood before her with his heart unmasked.
Caroline could not breathe. She stared at him, every instinct warring within her—anger, longing, disbelief.
“Say something,” he murmured.
“I can’t.”
“Then let me.”
He reached out, but she stepped back. “No. You don’t get to say this now, after everything. After you left me–”
“I never left,” he said fiercely. “My body walked away, but my heart stayed.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “You think that makes it better? That I should just forgive you because you’ve decided now that you can’t live without me?”
“No,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t forgive me. But I can’t live knowing I didn’t try.”
The confession broke something in her. Her anger began to unravel, thread by thread, leaving only exhaustion and an ache she could no longer deny.
“Why now?” she whispered. “Why tell me this now?”
“Because I’m done pretending I can breathe without you.”
