Chapter 3
Richard Belford, Duke of Ashwood, filled the doorway as though the house itself had been waiting for his shadow.
The great oak doors of Fernsby Manor groaned open upon hinges that had stood for centuries. Beyond them, a shaft of daylight streamed into the hall, outlining the tall, massive frame of the man who stepped across the threshold.
His presence was arresting. He stood taller than most men, shoulders squared with a soldier’s bearing, each step measured with quiet authority.
His dark coat cut a severe line against his broad chest, the polished boots at his feet clicking upon the stone floor with crisp finality.
But it was his face that seized attention.
The scar, livid and pale, carved from temple to jaw, caught the light of the chandelier overhead, a stark reminder of battles never spoken.
His features, otherwise striking, were hardened by the mark: the square jaw set firm, the mouth a thin line, the eyes—gray as steel—cold, assessing, unreadable.
He was a man shaped by exile and forged in something harsher than society’s drawing rooms.
The butler bowed low, voice trembling despite himself. “Your Grace… this way, if you please.”
Richard’s gaze swept the hall with dispassionate indifference, yet the servants shrank from it as though he carried a chill in his wake. He followed without haste, the rhythm of his boots echoing like the march of some grim fate.
When the drawing room doors opened, silence fell as his figure filled the doorway.
Caroline’s breath caught. She had heard the whispers, mocked the tales, but none of them prepared her for the reality of him.
He was larger than she imagined, scarred more cruelly than gossip described, yet possessed of a presence that demanded attention.
It was not beauty, nor charm—it was power, raw and unadorned.
Nicholas Hughes, rising with his cane, cleared his throat. “Your Grace, welcome to Fernsby Manor.”
Richard inclined his head in acknowledgment, but his gaze swept past Nicholas at once, fastening upon the young woman standing near the hearth.
Caroline, pulse quickened but spirit unbowed, dropped into a sweeping curtsy so exaggerated it bordered on mockery. Her eyes lifted to his with daring, and her voice rang bright and bold. “Caroline Hughes, sir. I believe you should know the name of the hand you’ve come to claim.”
Her father hissed, “Caroline!”
But Richard did not flinch, nor did he rebuke her insolence. Instead, his mouth curved—barely, a ghost of something not quite a smile. He strode forward, and before either parent or sibling could interject, he reached for her hand.
Caroline stiffened as his fingers closed around hers.
His grip was strong, calloused, not the soft touch of society’s dandies.
He bent, and with unnerving deliberation brushed his lips against the back of her hand.
His breath was warm against her skin, his voice gravel-deep and roughened by experience.
“Good to meet you, my lady.”
The words reverberated through her chest, though she masked it with an arch of her brow. Her father shifted uneasily, John bit back a laugh, but Caroline held Richard’s gaze unflinching.
“Good to meet you, Your Grace,” she returned, her tone a perfect mimicry of civility, though her eyes sparked mischief. “I do hope you have not come to frighten the maids. They quake enough as it is.”
For the first time, Richard’s scarred features flickered—whether in amusement or warning, she could not tell. He released her hand, straightened, and turned to Nicholas. “Shall we sit?”
Nicholas gestured stiffly, and they moved to the chairs by the fire.
Richard settled with the authority of a man who had never doubted his right to any seat he chose.
Caroline lowered herself opposite him, folding her hands in her lap as though she were the picture of demure civility.
But her eyes glittered like a sword’s edge, waiting for the first strike.
The air was thick, charged. Even John, usually irreverent, held his tongue, though the corners of his mouth twitched. Nicholas shifted uneasily in his chair, as if sensing battle-lines already drawn.
Richard broke the silence first. His gaze fixed upon Caroline, cold, direct, unyielding.
“You are the daughter,” he said flatly.
Caroline tilted her head, smile sweet as honey. “So they tell me.”
Richard did not return the smile. “Then let us not waste time. What amount must I pay for this marriage?”
The words fell like stones in the room, blunt and brutal. Nicholas stiffened, his lips parting in outrage. John choked on a laugh, uncertain whether he misheard. Caroline blinked, stunned—and then laughter burst from her lips.
Not the polite titter expected of a lady, but a bright, ringing peal that filled the room with daring irreverence. She leaned back in her chair, pressing a hand to her breast as her laughter echoed off the paneled walls.
“Oh, Your Grace,” she gasped, eyes alight with wicked amusement, “you mistake the prize entirely. It is not money that decides my fate, but whether any gentleman proves himself worthy. My dowry may tempt, but it cannot purchase.”
Her father groaned softly, but Richard’s gaze never wavered. He regarded her as one might study a chess opponent, weighing each move before making his own. Then, slowly, he inclined his head.
“Very well,” he said, his voice low, deliberate. “Then who do I kill for your hand?”
The fire crackled. Nicholas’s knuckles whitened on his cane. John’s mouth dropped open, equal parts horrified and fascinated.
Caroline’s smile faltered, the laughter dying in her throat. The violence in the words unsettled her, yet her pulse leapt, her intrigue undeniable. She forced a scoff, masking the sudden warmth in her cheeks.
“My hand is not won by blood, sir,” she said boldly. “You may frighten the ton with such talk, but you will not frighten me.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying her, and for the first time something like interest gleamed in their cold depths.
The silence that followed was electric, the sort of silence that made every tick of the mantel clock a thunderclap.
Caroline’s pulse hammered in her ears, though she raised her chin and held his gaze.
He did not flinch, nor retract the question.
His scar seemed deeper in the firelight, a cruel reminder of what he might be capable of.
Nicholas cleared his throat harshly, his cane striking the floor. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice taut, “this is my daughter, not a wager on the battlefield.”
Richard turned his head slowly toward him. “Marriage is a battlefield, my lord. You know it, as do I. Do not waste my time with pretense.”
Caroline’s lips parted. Shock flared through her, mingled with a reluctant flicker of admiration.
Who dared speak so plainly in a drawing room, in front of ladies and servants?
No one—save this Devil. She gathered her wits swiftly, letting laughter spill from her lips once more, though it sounded sharper now, edged with challenge.
“You truly are what they whisper,” she said. “A man who mistakes civility for weakness and courtship for conquest. Tell me, Your Grace—do you plan to duel every gentleman in England until only you remain to wed me?”
John, both mortified and delighted, buried his face in his sleeve to hide his grin.
Richard leaned back in his chair, eyes steady upon hers, utterly unruffled by her mockery. “If that is what is required.”
The bluntness stole her breath. He had not spoken in jest, not entirely. Beneath the words lay a promise, and though the violence in it made her shiver, something else stirred—something dangerously close to intrigue.
Nicholas shifted uneasily, sensing the undercurrents. “Caroline–” he began, his tone warning.
But she lifted a hand, silencing him without looking away from Richard. “And if blood is not required, sir? If laughter is the prize? Tell me, can you laugh? Can you make a woman laugh without frightening her first?”
Her words rang across the chamber like the crack of a gauntlet thrown. John sat up straighter, his eyes darting between them, sensing the duel sharpen.
Richard studied her in silence. His face remained unreadable, yet the firelight caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—as if he were almost amused. He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting upon his knees, his eyes locked to hers with a force that pinned her where she sat.
“I will not seduce you,” he said, his voice deep, gravelly, unyielding.
The words landed with unexpected weight.
Caroline blinked, her cheeks warming despite herself.
Of all the responses she anticipated—boast, jest, defiance—this was not among them.
He would not woo her, would not whisper pretty phrases or flatter her beauty as the others had tried.
Instead, he stripped the game bare, refusing to play it at all.
To her shame, disappointment pricked her. She masked it swiftly with scorn. “What, then? Will you conquer me by silence? Shall I fall at your feet because you refuse to woo?”
Richard’s gaze did not soften. “I will not lie to you. I will not adorn myself with frippery. I am what I am. If you find that insufficient, then send me away now.”
The room held its breath. Nicholas shifted, half rising, his cane trembling in his grip. “This is no way to speak to a lady–”
Caroline cut across him, her smile sharp. “No, Father, let him speak. For once, a man does not hide behind lace and rehearsed compliments. Tell me, Your Grace—what do you offer, if not charm or wit?”
Richard’s answer came without hesitation. “Strength. Protection. Truth.”
Caroline’s heart stuttered at the simplicity of it. So stark, so unpolished—and yet, more sincere than any speech she had endured from her suitors. She masked her reaction with a laugh, though softer this time, less cutting.