Page 98 of His Auctioned Duchess
She took it, her gloved fingers fitting neatly into his. “Your Grace.”
They moved together easily, the years of guarded solitude erased by the rhythm of shared laughter. Around them, the ballroom glowed with candlelight reflected in the mirrored walls, the chandeliers spilling gold across the crowd. Caroline’s gown swept out in soft waves of ivory silk, her hair catching the light like spun honey. Every step drew a sigh from the onlookers, every turn proof that scandal could indeed be beautiful.
As they danced, she caught the look in his eyes—a softness reserved for her alone.
“You’re staring, husband,” she teased.
“Admiring,” he corrected. “You are terribly distracting.”
“You’ll start gossip.”
He smiled faintly. “Let them gossip. I’ll give them reason.”
On the final note of the waltz, he bent his head just enough that only she could hear. “Turn your cheek a little.”
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because I’m going to kiss you.”
Her breath caught. “Richard–”
Too late.
His lips brushed her cheek, slow and deliberate, while half the ballroom gasped. It was not a scandalous kiss, not in act—but in meaning, it was the height of audacity. The Devil of the Ton, now the most sought-after duke in England, had just kissed his wife in front of society’s most watchful eyes.
Caroline felt heat bloom along her skin, a rush of exhilaration and disbelief. Around them, fans fluttered and whispers flared like wildfire.
When he drew back, his expression was perfectly composed. “You are flushed, my lady.”
She swallowed a laugh. “You are impossible.”
“And you,” he murmured, “are mine.”
For the rest of the evening, they were the center of every gaze, the subject of every whisper — the perfect duke and his perfectly untamed duchess. Richard played the role to perfection, charming when required, terrifying when needed. Yet in the midst of formality, he still managed to slip small touches and stolen glances that turned her heart to fire.
When supper was announced, he bent close again, his lips brushing the curve of her ear. “We’ve scandalized half the room,” he murmured.
“And the other half?”
“Envious.”
Her laugh—rich and warm—carried across the room like music itself.
When the last toast was drunk and the final notes of the orchestra melted into the hush of night, Ashwood Hall glimmered beneath a sky awash with stars. Lanterns still burned along the terrace, their glow spilling over the lawns where laughter lingered like perfume. Guests drifted away in slow clusters, silk and satin brushing against the stone steps, voices softened by wine and wonder.
Caroline slipped her arm through Richard’s as they ascended the staircase. Behind them, the hum of celebration faded, leaving only the distant echo of music and the rustle of her gown. The corridors of Ashwood were quiet now, the candlelight dimmed to a golden murmur that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. Each step carried the faint creak of polished wood, a rhythm as intimate as breathing.
When they reached the door of their chambers, Richard paused to open it, the gesture precise and unhurried.
Her gaze lifted immediately to the far wall. There it hung: the infamous sketch.
The stern man and the laughing bride. Once it had been a private joke turned confession, then a secret almost destroyed by shame.
Richard came to stand beside her. He had removed his coat; his waistcoat hung open, his shirt collar unfastened, exposing the strong column of his throat. In the flicker of the fire, he seemed less duke and more man, stripped of ceremony, tempered only by tenderness.
“It’s nice that you kept it,” she murmured.
He inclined his head, his voice low. “Where else should it live? It is part of us now.”
