Chapter 8
The next morning dawned soft and gray, rain misting over the lawns of Ashwood Hall. Inside, the breakfast room glowed with firelight, silver gleaming against porcelain, the scent of toasted bread and strong tea curling through the air.
Caroline sat opposite Richard, doing her utmost to ignore the weight of his gaze.
Sophia, bright as morning sunshine, was chattering about the gardens, filling every silence that threatened to grow too heavy.
John listened with polite interest, though his smirk betrayed amusement at his sister’s unease.
It was Sophia who finally drew Caroline out of her quiet. “You remind me of someone,” she said suddenly, her head tilting.
Caroline smiled faintly. “You do as well—of my sister, Valeria. One of them, at least.”
Sophia’s face lit with curiosity. “Then why didn’t she come to stay with you until the wedding?”
“If there’s a wedding,” Caroline corrected, reaching for her cup with deliberate calm. “I’ll invite her, of course. But I doubt she’ll come.”
“Why ever not?” Sophia pressed, kind but persistent.
Caroline hesitated, her fingers tightening around the handle of her teacup. “She was taken because of–” She stopped abruptly.
Richard’s low voice cut across the table. “Because of what?”
He spoke as though disinterested, but his tone allowed no escape.
Caroline’s jaw clenched. “Because of our… family,” she said finally, through gritted teeth.
Sophia frowned gently. “What do you mean?”
Caroline’s jaw tightened. “You wouldn’t understand. In my family, daughters are not born—they are traded. And mothers…” Her throat closed around the word. “Mothers die for it.”
Richard’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Die?” he repeated, tone deceptively calm.
Caroline forced a brittle smile. “It’s a family tradition, it seems. My mother went that way.” She stood abruptly, chair scraping the floor. “Perhaps that’s enough breakfast conversation, don’t you think?”
A silence fell. Even Sophia looked stricken, her eyes darting between them. Richard’s mother stirred her tea in careful circles, pretending not to listen.
Caroline rose, her napkin falling to the table. “If you’ll excuse me.”
She turned to leave, but Richard was already on his feet, following her out into the hall.
“Caroline,” he called, his voice hard.
She spun around. “You needn’t pretend curiosity, Your Grace. I sometimes forget that is exactly why you picked me as well.”
He stilled, his expression unreadable. “Is that truly what you believe?”
“What else am I to think?” she demanded, the tremor in her voice betraying the hurt beneath the defiance. “What could have changed so much in a few days?”
He stepped closer, slow and sure, until she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “This,” he said roughly—and then his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was fierce, claiming, obliterating reason. She gasped as he backed her against the desk, sweeping aside ledgers, papers, and quills with one arm before lifting her onto its edge. Her fingers fisted in his coat; his hand cradled the back of her neck, his breath hot against her cheek.
When he finally pulled away, his lips curved into a dangerous smile. “That,” he murmured.
Caroline sat frozen, breathless, her pulse a wild flutter beneath his touch. Before she could reply, a knock sounded at the door.
“Richard?” Sophia’s cheerful voice came through the wood. “Might I steal Lady Caroline for a tour of the estate?”
Caroline nearly leapt from the desk, smoothing her gown with trembling hands. “Yes—yes, of course,” she stammered.
Richard’s eyes lingered on her as he straightened his coat, his expression once more composed. “Go,” he said quietly.
Sophia waited in the corridor, beaming as though nothing in the world could be amiss. Together, they wandered the long corridors, their footsteps echoing softly. Caroline found herself admiring the portraits that lined the walls—generations of dukes and duchesses in oil and gilt.
When they entered a smaller gallery, she stopped before one particular portrait. The likeness was unmistakable: Richard, younger, unscarred, his expression proud and distant.
Sophia noticed her stare and hesitated. “You mustn’t–” she began.
“What happened?” Caroline asked before she could stop herself.
A voice answered from the doorway, low and unmistakable. “You shouldn’t ask such questions to anyone but me.”
Caroline flinched, turning to find Richard leaning against the doorframe, his gaze unreadable.
Sophia, quick as a bird, bobbed a curtsy. “I shall leave you to it, cousin.” She vanished with discreet haste.
Caroline swallowed. “I was only curious.”
Richard stepped forward, his tone level. “I went to war. Someone tried to kill me. Nothing more remarkable than that.”
Her eyes softened despite herself. “I’m sorry.”
“No offense taken,” he said simply. Then, after a beat: “Take the day to familiarize yourself with the Hall. Tomorrow, we begin your first test—our first encounter, as you call it.”
She blinked, caught between dread and a thrill she would not name.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she murmured.
He inclined his head once. “Good. I’ll see you at breakfast.”
Caroline had not seen him for the rest of the day, so she had expected the first of her required “encounters” with the Duke of Belford to be a stiff affair—perhaps tea in a draughty salon or a painfully formal stroll where conversation died between curt replies.
Instead, the following morning a footman appeared at her door just after breakfast with a single note written in Richard’s precise, unyielding hand:
Meet me in the orangery.
The words, simple as they were, made her pulse quicken.
She chose her gown with care—a soft shade of sage muslin that brought out the green in her eyes. The neckline was modest, but the fit flattering; she refused to play the demure maiden, nor would she stoop to flaunting herself. She was determined, above all, to command this “encounter”.
As she walked, the gardens glistened with dew, sunlight spilling through the mist like honey over green lawns.
When she arrived, the orangery took her breath away.
Sunlight streamed through tall glass panes, warming the air until it shimmered faintly.
Citrus trees lined the walls, their glossy leaves perfumed with the scent of orange blossom and soil.
Vines climbed the columns, curling toward the ceiling like living lace.
It was less a room than a sanctuary—one touched with life and warmth in a house otherwise built of shadow.
And in the center, seated beside a low marble table, was Richard.
He looked almost out of place amidst the greenery—dark coat, strong shoulders, posture so still he seemed carved from the stone beneath his boots. Yet the sunlight softened the sharp edges of him, caught in the strands of his hair, painted faint gold along the scar that marked his cheek.
He rose as she entered, bowing with brief, restrained grace. “Lady Caroline.”
“Your Grace,” she replied, curtsying with equal precision.
She glanced around, expecting tea or conversation, but instead found a chessboard laid out upon the table. Ivory and ebony pieces gleamed between them, each arranged with military perfection.
“Chess?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not quite the romantic overture I anticipated.”
He gestured for her to sit. “Strategy reveals character,” he said simply.
Caroline sank gracefully into the seat opposite, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “And do you mean to measure mine, Your Grace?”
“I already have some suspicions,” he replied, arranging his pieces with the precision of a soldier counting ammunition.
She folded her hands atop the table. “Then let us make it interesting. For every piece I capture, you must answer one question of my choosing. Truthfully.”
The faintest flicker of amusement touched his scarred face. “And if I capture yours?”
Caroline tilted her head. “You may set your own price.”
He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering into a dangerous purr. “A wager, then.”
“Precisely.”
“Very well,” he said. “If I capture your pieces, you must remove one article of clothing.”
The words dropped like stones into the warm, perfumed air. Caroline blinked, caught between shock and laughter. For a heartbeat she thought she must have misheard him. Then, seeing the faintest curve of wicked humor in his eyes, she exhaled sharply through her nose.
“Scandalous,” she murmured. “You truly are the devil they say you are.”
Richard leaned back, expression unreadable. “You said the rules were mine to name.”
“Indeed,” she said, lifting her chin. “And I never rescind a challenge.”
The game began.
At first, the pieces moved with deliberate calm—each click of ivory upon marble echoing through the humid stillness.
Caroline opened boldly, her fingers steady, her eyes bright.
Richard countered with efficiency born of training rather than play.
His movements were measured, economical, precise.
He played chess as he lived: without indulgence, without waste.
She captured his knight within minutes. “That’s one question,” she said sweetly.
He inclined his head, resigned. “Ask.”
“What is your favorite pleasure, Your Grace? And do not say victory.”
The faintest crease formed between his brows, as though no one had dared ask him such a thing in years. “Music,” he said finally. “I played the pianoforte once. Poorly.”
Caroline smiled. “A musician. How intriguing. I had imagined you preferred drums and cannon fire.”
“I prefer silence,” he said, moving a pawn forward.
“You seem to have plenty of it,” she murmured.
Her next move cost her a rook. He lifted it with quiet satisfaction. “A glove,” he said simply.
Caroline’s breath caught. She hesitated, then smiled slyly. “So be it.” She tugged at the pearl button on her wrist and slipped off her right glove, laying it neatly beside the board.
Richard’s eyes flickered briefly downward, then back to hers, unreadable once more.