Chapter 4
When Caroline swept into the room the next night, every whisper died.
The dining hall of Fernsby Manor glittered with candlelight.
Dozens of tapers blazed in crystal chandeliers, their flames mirrored in the silver service laid across the long banquet table.
The guests—lords, ladies, distant cousins, and would-be suitors—had gathered in anticipation of an evening that promised to stir gossip for weeks to come.
But now no one was talking. Now Caroline was here.
She was radiant not because of silks or jewels, but because of her audacity.
Her gown—fashioned in the classic empire style of pale muslin—had been transformed into scandal.
Across the fabric, in dark ink, words sprawled in an elegant hand: lines of poetry, snippets of satire, fragments of verse.
Byron on one sleeve, a jest about matrimony across the hem, a Shakespearean sonnet curling across her bodice.
It was a dress of wit and rebellion, her declaration made visible for all to see.
Gasps rippled like wind through reeds. Some ladies covered their mouths. Gentlemen blinked, scandalized. And Caroline—head high, eyes glittering—drifted to her seat as though no one had spoken. She lowered herself into the chair between two dukes with the poise of a queen.
On her left sat Richard. His scar caught the glow of the candles, his massive frame casting a shadow over the table’s silver. On her right sat Alex, Duke of Cavendish—a younger man, fair and smooth, with eager blue eyes and hands that fidgeted nervously with his napkin.
Alex cleared his throat, summoning courage. “Lady Caroline,” he stammered, “your… your gown is… is most… original.”
Caroline turned her head, her lips curving into a smile. “Original?” she repeated sweetly. “Do you mean absurd? Scandalous? Indecent?”
Alex’s face reddened, his words tumbling in disarray. “No, no! I mean—it is—brilliant! Yes, brilliant. Such—such wit upon fabric! A poem one can wear—why, it is a wonder!”
Caroline leaned closer, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Do you always flatter ladies by describing their attire as wonders?”
John, seated farther down the table, nearly choked on his wine. Laughter rippled through a few daring cousins, though most guests hid their smiles behind goblets. Alex sputtered, trying to recover, but Caroline only grinned wider, utterly unrepentant.
Richard's gaze dropped once to the ink scrawled across her gown and then lifted to her face, alight with triumph. His scar tugged as his jaw clenched. He did not laugh.
The meal was served, silver domes lifted to reveal roast pheasant, glazed carrots, and rich sauces.
Yet the true feast lay not upon the plates, but in the war of words that unfurled between Caroline and her companions.
Alex scrambled to keep pace with her wit, his stammering growing more pronounced as her barbs landed with merciless precision.
Richard ate in silence, but every so often his gaze flicked to her, sharp as a blade.
At one point, Caroline caught him watching. She tilted her head, her smile mischievous. “Tell me, Your Grace,” she said suddenly, loud enough for nearby guests to hear, “do you approve of my attire? Or would you rather I had come dressed as a lamb to the slaughter, all white muslin and meekness?”
A hush fell around them. Alex’s fork clattered against his plate. All eyes darted to Richard.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Richard set down his goblet with deliberate calm. His gray eyes held hers, unblinking, his scar catching the firelight.
“You may wear what you please, my lady,” he said, his voice low and grave. “Cloth does not alter the steel beneath.”
Gasps fluttered. Caroline’s smile widened, though her pulse skipped at the blunt force of his words. She raised her glass in a mock salute, eyes gleaming. “How fortunate then, that I prefer steel to silk.”
The room exhaled as laughter scattered in nervous bursts. Richard did not smile. But under the table, his hand flexed once, a small betrayal of the tension coiling within him.
The dinner continued, each course a stage for Caroline’s audacity and Richard’s silent watchfulness. Yet the air between them grew tighter, thicker, as though the very candles leaned nearer to listen.
The hum of conversation swelled and dipped as servants carried out the next course, but most eyes remained fixed upon the end of the table where Caroline sat between her dukes. She had become the evening’s performance, her wit the entertainment, and the bold script across her gown the stage.
Caroline, aware of her audience and reveling in it, lifted her glass, the candlelight flickering through the wine.
“Gentlemen,” she announced, her voice carrying down the length of the room, “since it seems I am the object of such attention, it would be cruel to leave the matter unresolved. If men truly desire a lady’s hand, let them prove themselves worthy.
What say you, dukes? How shall you show us what makes you… deserving?”
A ripple of murmurs circled the table. Several matrons pursed their lips, scandalized. Young ladies leaned forward, eyes wide. John nearly choked again, grinning at his sister’s audacity. Nicholas, at the head of the table, pinched the bridge of his nose as though praying for divine patience.
Alex straightened at once, seizing the chance. His face flushed with eagerness, his words spilling out in haste. “I—I should say—fencing, yes! I am an excellent fencer, my lady. My tutor himself declared my form unmatched. Why, I once bested the Viscount of Lonsdale in three strokes!”
He mimed a flourish with his knife, nearly upsetting his wine. A smattering of polite applause followed, though the sparkle of amusement in Caroline’s eye suggested she found the boast less than impressive.
“Three strokes, you say?” she murmured sweetly. “How quick the Viscount must have been to yield. I should think a man might last longer in a duel… or a dance.”
Laughter bubbled along the table, poorly stifled. Alex turned crimson, stammering anew.
Richard, throughout, had remained silent. He neither flinched nor sought to impress, his expression unreadable. Caroline, emboldened, shifted her gaze to him. “And you, Your Grace? What shall you offer to prove your worth? Shall you boast of fencing, too? Or will you recite poetry like my gown?”
The attention of the table turned like a tide, every gaze fixed on the scarred duke. Richard set down his knife decisively and looked across at Caroline, his eyes steady, his voice deep.
“I cannot fence as lightly as Cavendish,” he said. “I cannot dance like the gentlemen of Mayfair, nor charm with idle verse.” He paused, his gaze never wavering. “What I can do, my lady, is stand when others fall. Hold fast when others flee. Endure what would break most men. That is what I offer.”
The words were delivered without flourish, without jest—so grave, so unpolished, they rang almost absurd in the glittering room. For a beat, the company held its breath, waiting for Caroline’s reaction.
And then she laughed.
Not mockery, not scorn, but genuine, unrestrained laughter. It rang like bells, bright and clear, filling the chamber with daring music. She pressed a hand to her lips, shaking her head, her eyes shining.
“Oh, Your Grace,” she gasped, “you speak as though the choice were a siege and I the fortress. Shall you endure my wit as you endured war? I confess, I should enjoy testing that claim.”
A murmur of shock rippled, but the sparkle in Caroline’s eyes was undeniable. She was entertained—not by Alex’s fencing, nor by any of the other suitors hovering, but by Richard’s sheer bluntness.
And Richard... Richard felt something shift.
The laughter did not sting as he thought it might.
It did not belittle. It... intrigued him.
He watched her as though seeing her anew—the curve of her lips, the fire in her eyes, the fearless way she mocked even him, when others trembled to meet his gaze.
A heat coiled low in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. He, who had faced cannons without flinching, felt the first tug of something more dangerous: competitiveness. Not for her dowry. Not for her father’s approval. But for the spark in her eyes when she looked at him.
His scar pulled as his jaw tightened. He inclined his head slightly, his voice low enough for her alone. “Then test me.”
Caroline’s brows arched, her smile slow and daring. “Oh, I intend to.”
The candles flickered as if stirred by the tension between them. Across the table, Alex wilted, his fencing triumph forgotten, as though he sensed a duel of a very different sort had begun—one in which he was already vanquished.
The meal lingered, but conversation dwindled to polite murmurs.
The tension between Caroline and Richard sat heavy over the table, like storm clouds gathering above a summer lawn.
Even those seated far from them sensed it; eyes darted, ears strained, whispers fluttered like moths at the edges of the candles.
Caroline, however, thrived under the scrutiny. She lifted her goblet, her smile bright, her gaze sweeping the company before landing squarely upon Richard. “We have had duels of words,” she declared, “but I grow restless. Let us have a duel of steps.”
Nicholas choked upon his wine. “Caroline, it is not the hour for dancing–”
She rose gracefully from her chair, silencing him with a look. “Then I declare it is. A ball cannot begin without music, and music cannot begin without dancers. Gentlemen,” she added with a sweeping bow toward Alex and Richard, “I insist.”
Alex scrambled to rise, nearly toppling his chair in eagerness.
But before he could take her hand, Caroline turned deliberately toward Richard.
Her eyes glittered with mischief, and her voice softened, audible only to him.
“Or are you afraid, Your Grace? Does the Devil of the Ton fear the dance floor?”