Page 8 of His Auctioned Duchess
Caroline stood her ground as Richard advanced, her back straight, her chin lifted, though every nerve in her body thrummed like a bowstring. The air between them was charged, the manicured roses and marble statues around them fading into insignificance. It was only he—his scar catching the light, his shadow stretching across the gravel, his gray eyes fixed wholly upon her.
“Better a brute who defends,” he repeated, his voice low, roughened by gravel and smoke. “And I will defend what is mine.”
Her heart jolted, though she covered it with a flash of defiance. “I am not yours, Your Grace.”
“Not yet,” he said, the words blunt as steel.
Her lips parted. The audacity of it—so certain, so absolute—infuriated her. And yet, beneath the outrage, a shiver traced down her spine. No man had ever spoken to her so directly, without frill or fear. It unsettled her, fascinated her, angered her in equal measure.
“Confidence does not win a lady,” she retorted, striving for flippancy. “Nor threats. You cannot simply declare victory as if I were some field to be seized.”
His gaze did not waver. “Then tell me what does win you.”
The question startled her, though she masked it with a smirk. “Why, laughter, of course. I told you already. Make me laugh, and perhaps I shall consider it.”
A flicker passed over his scarred face—something unreadable, something almost amused, but fleeting. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. Caroline gave ground instinctively until her back brushed the cold stone of the garden wall. The ivy trembled where her shoulders pressed, the scent of roses thick in the air.
Richard stopped only a breath away. His shadow engulfed her, his presence overwhelming. He did not touch her, yet she felt the heat of him as if he had. His eyes studied hers with unnerving intensity, searching, measuring, as though she were a puzzle to be solved.
Caroline’s throat went dry. She had laughed at dukes, sent baronets fleeing with ghost stories, dismissed poets with scorn. Yet this man—this Devil—unsettled her in ways she could not name. She forced her lips into a defiant smile. “Well? Can you do it, Your Grace? Can you make me laugh?”
His mouth curved—not into a smile, not quite—but into something dangerous. His voice was a low rumble, vibrating through her bones.
“I'll see if I can.”
The words sent a shiver down her spine, though she masked it with a toss of her head. “If? Is that all the Devil of the Ton can promise? I expected thunder, lightning, brimstone. Instead, I find hesitation.”
But her bravado rang hollow even to her own ears. The air between them grew taut, every second stretching long. She was aware of the rasp of her breath, the hammering of her heart, the faint tremor of her hands hidden in her skirts.
Richard leaned closer, so close she caught the faint scent of leather and steel upon him, a scent wholly unlike the perfumed dandies who had come before. His eyes never left hers.
“I do not jest to win you,” he said softly, though the softness carried more weight than any shout. “If you are to laugh, it will not be at false charm. It will be real—or not at all.”
Caroline’s lips parted. The honesty in his words struck her with the force of a blow. She found herself searching his scarred face, not for beauty—he had none of the polished elegance society prized—but for truth. And she found it. Stark, unyielding truth.
Her pulse leapt, betraying her. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She broke his gaze abruptly, slipping sideways along the wall, her skirts brushing against the ivy as she moved.
“I–” Her voice faltered, and she cursed it. She drew herself up swiftly, masking the slip with a forced laugh. “You will find me no easy conquest, Your Grace. Remember that.”
He smirked. “I never liked an easy conquest.”
To steady herself, she turned slightly, glancing toward the distant lawns where lanterns were being strung for the next evening’s gathering. “Perhaps,” she said lightly, “you would do better to prove your worth with manners rather than murder and overconfidence. My father holds a dinner party tomorrow night. If you truly wish to show the ton you are more than your reputation, you will attend.”
His brow lifted, faint amusement flickering in his eyes. “A test?”
“A chance,” she corrected, her smile sharp as glass. “To demonstrate that the Devil of the Ton can dine without devouring his company.”
He studied her for a long moment before replying, “Then I shall come. Tomorrow, you say?”
“Yes,” she said. “Don't be late.”
She spun on her heel, gathering her skirts, and strode back toward the terrace. Her steps were quick, almost a run, though she forced them into measured grace before re-entering the house.
Behind her, Richard remained by the wall, his figure dark against the sunlit garden. He did not follow immediately. He stood still, as though considering the battlefield, his scarred face unreadable, his eyes reflecting something more complex than triumph.
Inside, Caroline paused just beyond the door, pressing a hand to her breast. Her heart hammered wild and fast, her breath shallow. She leaned against the paneling, closing her eyes for a brief moment. What have I done?
But when she opened them again, fire returned to her gaze. She straightened, smoothing her gown, summoning her smile once more. If the Devil of the Ton believed he had unsettled her, he would soon learn otherwise.
