Chapter 2
The Hughes family drawing-room was a space designed for dignity: high windows draped in velvet, a marble hearth carved with cherubs, and heavy furniture upholstered in damask. Yet dignity rarely survived Caroline Hughes’s presence for long.
She stood now before her father, hands braced on her hips, eyes flashing like a rapier poised for a duel. Her voice, bright with indignation, rang clear through the chamber.
“I will not be auctioned off like a prize filly, Father. Not while breath remains in me.”
Nicholas Hughes, Marquess of Fernsby, sat in his great armchair like a judge presiding over a case. He was a tall man, still broad across the chest, though age and illness had bowed his shoulders. His hair was streaked silver, his once-dark eyes shaded with fatigue.
The cane resting at his side betrayed the weakness in his legs, though he used it with dignity, as if it were merely a symbol of authority rather than necessity. He raised one brow, his expression straddling the line between stern authority and concealed amusement.
“My dear,” he said, in that slow, deliberate tone that suggested his patience was wearing thin, “you exaggerate as always. No daughter of mine shall be placed upon a block for coin. The gentlemen I intend to invite are of good standing, noble lineage, and reputable fortune. It is not an auction, but an arrangement.”
Caroline tossed her curls with scorn. “You call it an arrangement; I call it a sale. These men care nothing for me—only for the dowry you have tied to my name. I may as well be a chest of gold with a ribbon affixed. Why should I be forced to smile and curtsy to men who see me only as a sum?”
On the chaise across the room lounged her younger brother, John.
Barely seventeen, he sprawled with careless grace, one arm dangling, eyes alight with mischief.
He pressed a fist to his mouth, failing to disguise his grin.
Every time his sister loosed one of her barbed retorts, his shoulders shook with silent laughter.
“Caroline,” Nicholas intoned, shooting John a quelling glance, “you speak as though your suitors were vultures. They are gentlemen. They bring titles, estates, and security. You must remember–”
“Security?” she broke in, eyes flashing. “I have security here. What I lack is liberty.”
John let out a strangled snort, doubling over as though the very notion of Caroline desiring liberty above jewels was the finest jest. Nicholas’s stern gaze pinned him at once.
“You find this entertaining, John?”
John straightened, attempting composure, though his eyes still danced. “I find it spirited, sir. And I cannot disagree. I saw Travers last season—he spoke of Caroline’s dowry as if he were bargaining for a hunter at Tattersall’s. She sent him fleeing within the hour.”
Caroline’s lips curved into a proud grin. “Indeed, I did. Poor Mr. Travers. He believed our house haunted before the evening ended.”
Nicholas’s brow furrowed. “Haunted?”
John collapsed in laughter, unable to contain it any longer. “She told him a headless nun roams the west wing, ringing the servants’ bell at midnight. When the shutters rattled, he turned positively green.”
Caroline clasped her hands dramatically to her breast. “And when old Simons sneezed in the corridor—oh, I thought Travers might faint dead away!”
Even Nicholas could not suppress the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “Incorrigible girl. You cannot make sport of every man who calls. One day your antics will cost you dearly.”
“Better antics than shackles,” Caroline retorted, unrepentant.
Nicholas sighed, long and heavy. He looked down at the cane by his chair, then back to his daughter. The humor faded from his face, replaced by something graver.
“Caroline,” he said quietly, “I am not the man I once was. My health is failing. The physicians counsel rest, though they phrase it as though rest might delay what must come. I cannot safeguard you forever. Already I hear the whispers—men circling like hounds about the estate. If you do not choose wisely, and soon, I shall be forced to choose for you.”
Caroline’s laughter stilled. The air in the room shifted, weightier now, as though the portraits of their ancestors leaned closer to hear.
She felt her heart tighten, though she disguised it with a toss of her head and a flippant smile.
“Then I shall run to Scotland and wed a stable boy,” she declared.
John choked on his laughter again. “Better yet, become a governess, Caro. Imagine you, with a brood of unruly children dangling from your skirts.”
She seized a cushion and flung it at him.
He caught it easily, laughing still. But beneath the noise, the truth of her father’s words pressed cold against her heart.
If he truly grew weaker, if he were no longer there to defend her, what then?
Who would shield her from the greed of men who measured women by fortune and beauty alone?
Nicholas’s eyes softened as he studied her, though his voice remained firm. “You are clever, Caroline. Cleverer than most men who will ever seek your hand. But cleverness cannot stand in place of protection. You must wed a man who can guard you when I am gone.”
Caroline swallowed hard, hiding the sting with bravado. “Then perhaps I shall wed no man at all. I shall turn spinster, haunt the village lanes in black, and frighten children with my broom.”
John grinned, eyes gleaming. “Better that than Lady Travers.”
For a moment, laughter softened the tension. Even Nicholas allowed himself a low chuckle, though the cough that followed revealed the strain upon him. Caroline saw it, though she forced her eyes away, unwilling to let him see her fear.
The moment was broken by a knock at the door.
The knock came again, sharper this time. Nicholas frowned, his heavy brows drawing low, and gestured with his cane. “Enter.”
The door opened to admit a maid—young Alice, a timid creature with flaxen hair. She bobbed a curtsy, but her hands twisted the hem of her apron until it seemed ready to tear. Her eyes darted about the room as though expecting shadows to spring from the corners.
Nicholas’s voice was measured. “What is it, girl? We are not to be disturbed at breakfast.”
Alice licked her lips. “Forgive me, my lord, but—there is a carriage. They brought word of a guest.”
Nicholas’s frown deepened. “A guest? At this hour? Who presumes upon us so?”
Caroline leapt at the chance for mischief. She sank into the nearest settee with an exaggerated sigh. “No doubt another would-be suitor with polished boots and empty compliments. Shall I fetch the household ledger, Father? We may note down the offers for my dowry beside the price of oats.”
John smothered laughter in his sleeve, though his shoulders shook violently.
Nicholas shot his daughter a look. “Enough of your insolence. Who is it, Alice?”
The maid’s gaze dropped to the carpet. “A duke, my lord.”
Caroline’s groan was immediate, theatrical.
She flung her head back and pressed the back of her hand to her brow.
“A duke! Heaven save me. Another pompous lord with a cravat tied tighter than his wits. How many dukes must march through these doors before I expire from boredom? Perhaps this one will demand I sing at him, or—worse—embroider his handkerchiefs.”
John collapsed into outright laughter, nearly spilling off the chaise. Nicholas, despite his best efforts, concealed a twitch of amusement behind his hand.
But Alice did not laugh. She clutched her apron all the harder, her knuckles white. Her lips trembled before she spoke again, barely more than a whisper. “They call him… the Devil of the Ton.”
The mirth in the room stilled at once. John’s laughter died in his throat. Nicholas’s head snapped toward the maid, his expression grave.
“What name did you say?”
Alice’s voice shook. “The Devil, my lord.”
The silence that followed was palpable. Even the fire seemed to quiet, its crackle subdued beneath the weight of the words.
Nicholas’s hand closed tight around the head of his cane. He drew a long, steady breath, his expression unreadable. Caroline studied him, unsettled by the flicker of unease in his eyes. Her father was not a man easily cowed, yet even he looked troubled at the mention of this mysterious duke.
Caroline forced a laugh, though it rang hollow at first. “The Devil? What nonsense. Is he horned as well? Does he sprout wings and breathe fire?”
John attempted a weak grin. “Perhaps he drags a cloven hoof across the carpet.”
But neither Nicholas nor Alice joined in the jest.
Caroline straightened, the humor fading from her face. She saw the way her father’s fingers drummed against his cane, restless. She heard the catch in his breath that betrayed more than fatigue—it was wariness.
“Father,” she said quietly, “you know of him.”
Nicholas’s eyes met hers, steady and grim. “I know enough. His name is Belford. Richard Belford, Duke of Ashwood. Men call him Devil because they fear him, and men do not fear without cause.”
John whistled low, shaking his head. “The Devil of Ashwood, come here? Why us?”
“Why indeed,” Nicholas murmured. “Unless–” He cut himself short, rising with effort, leaning heavily upon his cane.
Nicholas turned to Caroline, his mouth tightening. “Caroline, you will be cautious. This is not a man to mock with ghost stories and headless nuns. If Belford seeks a wife, he will have her. His will is iron. You would do well not to draw his ire.”
Her chin lifted higher. “Better to draw his ire than his leash.”
John choked on another laugh, though this time Nicholas silenced him with a glare.
“Caroline,” her father said more softly, almost pleading now, “heed me. I may not have strength to protect you much longer. If Ashwood sets his mind upon you, there is little anyone can do. He is powerful. Dangerous. It would be folly to challenge him.”
She held his gaze, her heart hammering, though her smile was bright with daring. “Then let us see if the Devil can withstand me. I should like to know whether men of such reputation are made of iron—or only of smoke.”
The words hung between them, sharp as a drawn blade.
At the door, Alice shifted nervously. “Shall I admit him, my lord?”
Nicholas closed his eyes briefly, then inclined his head. “You may.”
The moment the maid departed, silence filled the room, heavier than before.
It pressed upon Caroline’s chest like a weight.
She turned from her father’s solemn face to the tall windows where sunlight slanted through the curtains.
Beyond lay the long drive of Fernsby, winding between oaks and lawns, and at any moment a carriage would crest the rise.
Her heart thudded—not with fear, she told herself, but with anticipation.
She had sparred with suitors before, driven them away with her wit, her daring, or her sheer refusal to play the meek debutante.
What was one more? Feared or no, this Devil of the Ton would find Caroline Hughes a match not easily cowed.
Yet beneath her bravado, a tremor stirred.
She remembered Travers, pale and stammering at the thought of a ghost; remembered Hensley, who fled when she insisted on debating politics over supper; remembered poor Sir Felix, who could not forgive her for laughing at his poetry.
She had rid herself of them all with ease.
But what if Richard Belford was different?
What if he was truly as ruthless as the whispers claimed—what if his will could not be broken by laughter and tricks?
Her fists curled in the folds of her gown. Then I will not yield. Not to him, not to any man. Let him learn I am no lamb for slaughter.
Nicholas cleared his throat, the sound harsh. He rose slowly from his chair, leaning heavily on his cane, and Caroline was struck anew by how frail he seemed beneath his marquess’s dignity. His hand trembled slightly upon the cane’s head, though his voice was steady.
“Caroline,” he said, “I am not blind to your fears. Nor to your cleverness. But listen well: Belford is not like those fops you have frightened away. He is not Travers or Hensley. He is iron. Do not mistake him.”
She met his gaze, her chin lifted proudly though her chest tightened. “If he is iron, Father, then I shall be fire.”
John snorted into his hand, but there was unease in his eyes. “Pray do not set him ablaze at dinner, Caro. We have only just restored the west wing since your last mischief.”
Caroline laughed, sharp and bright, more to steady herself than out of amusement. “I shall try to restrain my flames, brother.”
Nicholas’s lips thinned. He was losing patience then. “I speak not in jest, child. Time grows short for me. You think yourself invincible, but I cannot guard you forever. If Ashwood takes a liking to you, resistance may not be wise.”
Her heart twisted at his words. She wanted to protest—wanted to declare that she needed no guard, that she would forge her own future.
But seeing the lines of pain etched into his face, the shadows beneath his eyes, the hand that gripped the cane too tightly—her defiance faltered.
For a moment her expression softened, her eyes shimmering with something dangerously close to tears.
“Do not speak of leaving me, Father,” she whispered.
Nicholas’s sternness gentled. He reached across, placing a hand—large, calloused, familiar—upon hers. “All fathers must leave, sooner or later. My duty is to ensure you are safe when I do. Promise me you will not squander every chance with your games.”
Caroline swallowed, forcing a smile, the mask of rebellion slipping back into place. “I promise nothing. I will be wooed on my terms or not at all.”
John grinned, shaking his head. “Stubborn as ten mules, that one.”
Nicholas gave a weary sigh, though affection warmed his eyes. “Heaven help the man who dares to wed you, Caroline.”
At that moment the sound came: wheels upon gravel, the distant snort of horses, the heavy roll of a carriage ascending the drive.
All three turned toward the window. Through the thin veil of curtains, they glimpsed the outline of a dark coach cresting the rise, its team of blacks gleaming, its pace measured and sure.
Alice reappeared at the door, pale as parchment. “My lord—the duke has arrived.”
Nicholas nodded, his face grave. “Then we shall receive him.” He straightened as much as his failing strength allowed, resting firmly on his cane.
Caroline drew a long breath, her smile returning—this time edged with defiance sharp enough to cut glass. She smoothed her skirts, lifted her chin, and let fire blaze in her eyes.
“Let him come,” she murmured, each word deliberate, daring. “Let the Devil see I do not tremble.”