Chapter 7
Caroline sat opposite Richard, her chin lifted proudly, though every so often her eyes darted to the scar that carved across his face.
The morning had broken crisp, the road glistening with dew as the carriage lurched steadily toward Ashwood Hall. Inside, the atmosphere was a clash of temperaments: Caroline’s irrepressible chatter, John’s bubbling laughter, and Richard’s silence so solid it seemed to fill the very air.
She would never admit—especially not to him—that she found herself curious about the story behind it. She suspected he would rather face cannon fire than tell her.
“So,” she said brightly, her voice lilting against the steady clatter of wheels, “do you ever speak, Your Grace, or is silence your chief amusement?”
John, lounging beside her, let out a bark of laughter. “Careful, Caro. You’ll frighten him with such forward questions.”
Richard turned his head, gray eyes resting on her with glacial calm. “Carriages are built for travel, not for conversation.”
Caroline gave an exaggerated sigh, throwing herself back against the seat. “How dreary. Imagine enduring miles with nothing but the sound of hooves and wood groaning. Why, I should die of boredom.”
Richard’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly. “Better boredom than nonsense.”
John nearly doubled over with mirth. “Sister, you’ve met your match. The Devil of the Ton will not be baited so easily.”
Caroline’s eyes sparkled, narrowing in mock challenge. “We shall see about that. Tell me, Your Grace—do devils never smile? Is it against the laws of Hell?”
John roared with laughter, nearly choking on his own breath, while Richard’s jaw tightened as though carved from granite. Yet Caroline swore—swore—she saw the barest twitch of his scarred mouth, the faintest ghost of amusement before he turned to stare out the window.
She leaned forward, triumphant. “There! I saw it. A smile—or something dangerously near it.”
“You imagined it,” Richard replied evenly, though his hand flexed once upon his knee.
Caroline sat back, pleased as though she had won a great battle. John leaned close to her, whispering far too loudly, “I wager he only smiles when blood is spilled.”
“Or when men quiver at his shadow,” Caroline added archly. “But I shall make it my task to coax one from him without such barbarity.”
Richard’s gaze returned to her at last, steady, unreadable. “A task doomed to fail.”
But his voice—just the faintest edge softer—betrayed that perhaps her attempt had struck nearer than he wished to admit.
The conversation carried on in this rhythm.
Caroline told wild stories of her childhood—climbing trees in her petticoats, hiding frogs in her governess’s teapot—while John laughed until tears sprang from his eyes.
Richard remained quiet, though his eyes flickered once or twice to Caroline when she laughed too freely, as though cataloguing her joy against his better judgment.
When the carriage at last slowed, the siblings pressed to the window.
Ashwood Hall rose before them, solemn and stern, its pale stone facade etched with ivy, its windows like unblinking eyes.
Tall chimneys reached into the morning sky, and the gravel drive swept wide, lined with oaks that seemed to guard the estate like soldiers.
Caroline’s first impression was one of gravity—no warmth, no welcome, only strength and silence. It suits him, she thought, though the idea both unsettled and intrigued her.
The carriage halted at the base of a grand staircase. A footman opened the door, bowing low. Caroline gathered her skirts, stepping carefully down—only for her slipper to skid upon the damp stone.
Her heart leapt as she pitched forward, but before she could fall, a hand seized her waist. Firm. Steady. Possessive.
Richard.
He held her upright as though she were weightless, his grip strong enough to anchor her against a storm. His scarred face remained unreadable, but his hand lingered a moment too long, heat searing through the thin fabric of her gown.
“Careful,” he murmured, low enough for her ears alone.
Caroline’s breath caught. She straightened swiftly, tugging from his grasp though her skin burned where he had touched her. “Thank you,” she said, her tone sharper than gratitude required.
John, behind them, said wickedly. “Ah, how gallant. You’ll ruin your reputation as the Devil if you continue catching maidens rather than frightening them.”
Richard shot him a look so cold John instantly threw up his hands in mock surrender. Caroline fought to steady her racing heart, refusing to let Richard see how deeply the moment had unsettled her.
Together, they ascended the steps toward the waiting doors of Ashwood Hall.
The great doors of Ashwood swung open with a groan that echoed through the entrance hall. Caroline’s first step across the threshold was met with a chill that seemed to seep from the very stone.
The space was cavernous: vaulted ceilings arched overhead, chandeliers heavy with crystal chains swayed slightly in the draft, and tapestries of hunting scenes lined the walls, their colors dulled with age.
Portraits of stern-faced Belfords peered down, their painted eyes sharp, their mouths unsmiling.
So, this is where the Devil lives, Caroline thought, a shiver running down her spine. The air itself seemed heavier here, burdened with silence and the weight of generations.
John, ever irreverent, let out a low whistle. “Cheerful place,” he muttered, though his eyes darted with awe at the scale of it.
Caroline elbowed him sharply, her own lips twitching despite herself.
Then came the sound of hurried footsteps, the swish of skirts upon polished stone, and a cry that cracked with emotion.
“Richard!”
A lady swept forward, her gown of deep plum rustling as she moved.
Her hair, streaked silver at the temples, was drawn back in a style that spoke of elegance rather than vanity.
Her face bore fine lines, the marks of both age and sorrow, yet her bearing was regal—her eyes bright with a mother’s love.
Or at least that’s what Caroline thought, that she must be Richard’s mother.
Without hesitation, she flung her arms about her son.
Richard stiffened instantly, his shoulders rigid, his arms at his sides as though bracing against an assault. Yet he did not pull away.
“Mother,” he said, confirming her assumption. His voice was flat, controlled.
Caroline, standing a few steps behind, felt her chest tighten. Here was the Devil himself, conqueror of ton gossip, survivor of war—undone not by enemy or scandal, but by the simple weight of a mother’s embrace.
His mother clung to him, her voice thick. “I didn't think you'd come to see me again so soon.” She pressed her face briefly to his chest.
Richard’s hand lifted at last, awkwardly, and patted her back once—brief, restrained, but enough to steady her.
Caroline swallowed, caught off guard by the rawness of the moment. She had never thought of Richard as anyone’s son, belonging to someone, cherished even in absence. Yet here it was, proof before her eyes. Even Devils were loved.
A sudden voice rang down from the grand staircase. “Is it true? Has Richard brought a lady home?”
Caroline turned, startled. A young woman descended the sweeping staircase, her gown of lemon-yellow fluttering as she nearly skipped the last few steps. Her curls bounced, her eyes sparkled with curiosity, and her smile was one of unabashed delight.
“So it is true!” she declared, her voice ringing like bells. “Richard has brought a bride!”
Caroline blinked, while Richard’s jaw clenched. “Sophia,” he warned.
But the girl—maybe his sister, Caroline surmised from the resemblance—paid him no mind. She bounded across the floor and seized Caroline’s hands with irrepressible warmth.
“You must be extraordinary indeed,” Sophia said breathlessly. “Tell me—did my cousin woo you with poetry?” His cousin, then. “Oh no, of course not, he hasn’t the patience. Did he frighten away your other suitors? Or did you mistake his silence for brooding romance?”
Caroline nearly laughed, startled by the torrent of words. She composed herself with practiced grace, inclining her head politely. “It is rather more complicated than that, I assure you.”
Sophia’s eyes widened with glee. “Oh, I adore her already! At last, someone who doesn’t quake in his shadow.”
Richard’s expression darkened like a storm rolling in. “Enough,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to still even Sophia’s bubbling chatter.
Lady Ophelia, still holding her son’s arm, stepped forward and took Caroline’s hand in her own. Her touch was warm, steady, her eyes softened by gratitude. “Welcome to Ashwood, my dear. Any woman who has caught my son’s notice must indeed be remarkable.”
Caroline flushed, unsure how to reply. “You are too generous, Lady Ashwood.”
Richard’s face betrayed nothing, but his eyes flicked briefly toward Caroline’s before cutting away. “She is weary,” he announced firmly. “The journey has tired her. She will rest until tomorrow.”
Caroline blinked. “But–”
His hand closed around her elbow—not rough, but immovable—and guided her away from the circle of scrutiny. His touch brooked no argument, yet it carried no cruelty either. Only finality.
“Richard!” Sophia called, laughter in her tone. “You are hiding her from me! I’ll find her later, never fear.”
Caroline glanced back as she was ushered down a side corridor. Lady Ophelia smiled faintly, Sophia beamed with mischief, and Richard’s grip remained steady, protective in its possessiveness.
At last, when they were beyond earshot, Caroline pulled free, straightening her spine. “You need not treat me as if I were glass. I am perfectly capable of speaking to your family.”
Richard stopped, turning to face her. His scar caught the lamplight, his gaze hard. “They will devour you with questions. Sophia will chatter until your head aches. My mother will cling until you suffocate. You are better spared—for now.”