Chapter 10
Caroline sat beside Richard as the carriage rolled to a slow halt beneath the lanterns of Covent Garden, its wheels crunching through damp gravel.
Her gloved hands were clasped too tightly in her lap as London, glittering and restless, swelled with life around them—coaches jostling for place, laughter spilling from passing couples, the air heavy with the mingled scents of perfume, candle wax, and late spring rain.
Across from her, Lady Ophelia adjusted her fan with maternal serenity, her expression the picture of composure.
Next to her sat Sophia. There was a lively restlessness about her, the air of a girl raised on novels and gossip columns, far too clever to be subdued by etiquette.
Beside her, Louisa, Sophia’s sister-in-law, murmured in genteel tones about gowns and rumors, though her glances toward Jasper were a touch too frequent to be entirely innocent.
Jasper, seated near the door opposite Richard, looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else. His jaw was tight, his gloved hands restless against his knees.
And beside him, half-leaning into the corner of the carriage, John observed everything with quiet amusement, the brother acting the chaperone more from affection than duty. His gaze drifted between his sister and the Duke, a hint of a knowing smile on his lips.
“Smile, dear,” Sophia whispered to Caroline, her voice bubbling with youthful mischief. “You’re on the arm of the most scandalous man in London. That alone will make half the ladies faint.”
Caroline forced a smile. “Then I shall try not to be crushed by the rush.”
Sophia stifled a laugh behind her fan. Even Richard’s lips twitched faintly, though he said nothing.
Jasper’s gaze flicked toward Caroline, his tone dry. “You needn’t worry, my Lady. They fainted often enough when the Duke merely entered a room. You’ll grow accustomed to it.”
Caroline arched a brow. “And you are an expert in such faintings, sir?”
Sophia laughed outright. “Lady Caroline, you’ve not met my brother, Jasper as you should. He and Richard were raised almost as brothers—until the war of course,” she added quietly and looked down.
Caroline inclined her head politely. “Then I must thank you for your company my Lord.”
Jasper smiled thinly. “It is I who should thank you, my lady. Few have ever managed to make my cousin attend an opera.”
The words were lightly spoken, but the edge beneath them did not escape her.
John intervened cheerfully, his tone easing the tension. “Perhaps music tames even the fiercest beasts.”
Louisa gave a small, uneasy laugh. “Or draws them out of hiding.”
Before another word could pass, the carriage rolled to a halt. The sound of the crowd outside surged—a hundred voices, a thousand whispers.
The footman descended, opening the door.
Richard was the first to step down, his movements smooth and unhurried, every inch the Duke he was. His reputation had reached the street long before he did; the murmurs rippled through the crowd—the Devil of the Ton. A man to be feared, pitied, or adored, depending on who whispered.
He turned, offering his hand to Caroline. His expression was composed, unbothered by the hungry eyes of the ton. When she placed her gloved fingers in his, the noise around them seemed to fade.
He helped her down with quiet grace—no arrogance, no flourish, only that same unyielding certainty.
The theatre’s grand staircase blazed with light. Crystals glimmered above in waves, and velvet drapes framed the marble halls. Caroline’s heart thudded as she followed Richard toward their box, aware of every pair of eyes that turned their way.
She caught a fragment of a whisper—“Is that his new mistress?”—and another—“Poor girl, she’ll not last a month.”
Her spine stiffened. Richard’s hand tightened slightly on her arm, a silent reassurance. When they reached their seats, the murmur faded to a respectful distance.
As the overture began, Caroline found herself studying him instead of the stage. The orchestra swelled, and to her astonishment, she saw the faintest flicker of emotion move across his features. His fingers, resting on the rail, kept time with the music—unconsciously, perfectly.
When a delicate pianissimo rose from the pit, his head tilted, his eyes half closing as though he could feel the notes against his skin.
She leaned closer, whispering, “You love it.”
He didn’t look away from the stage. “I understand it.”
Louisa, seated at his other side, smiled over her fan. “Do not be fooled, Lady Caroline. Our dear Richard once played the pianoforte so well that I considered commissioning him for my soirées.”
Richard gave her a cool look that might have wilted lesser women. “That was a long time ago.”
“Still,” Louisa said, with teasing fondness, “you always did have skillful hands.”
Caroline went rigid. Her pulse lurched in outrage—and something else. The easy familiarity in Louisa’s tone, the warmth in her eyes, twisted inside her like a knot tightening.
Richard, infuriatingly calm, inclined his head in polite acknowledgment, then turned back to the stage.
Caroline could not breathe. The opera blurred before her eyes; she caught nothing of the music, only the laughter and the whispering around them. Her throat burned with words she could not speak—not here, not before them all.
When the final aria began, she rose abruptly. “I feel faint,” she announced, her voice too sharp.
Ophelia turned, concerned. “My dear, shall I–”
“No, thank you,” Caroline interrupted. “I simply need air.”
Without waiting for permission, she swept from the box, skirts brushing the velvet curtain. The corridor outside was dim and blessedly cool.
She had taken no more than a few steps when she heard the door open behind her.
“Caroline.”
His voice—low, graveled, inescapable.
She spun, heat flashing in her chest. “You might at least allow me the courtesy of being alone when I am humiliated!”
Richard closed the distance between them with measured strides. “You were not humiliated.”
“Oh, no?” she snapped. “Perhaps you think it charming when other women recall your talents–”
“Louisa meant nothing by it,” he said, though the edge in his voice betrayed that he disliked the remark as much as she had.
“Nothing by it? She was practically purring at you!”
He raised a brow. “And you object?”
“I—of course not!” she said too quickly. “Why should I? I am not–”
“Not what?”
“Not your wife.”
The words hung between them, burning.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, very quietly, “No. You are not.”
She should have felt relieved by the reminder. Instead, the ache in her chest only deepened.
“Forget what I said, Your Grace. I think I might be falling ill, that is all,” she said.
“We both know why you are angry,” he said softly.
Her breath caught. “Do not flatter yourself. I am just sick.”
He stepped closer. “Is that why you are trembling?”
“Yes, that…And because you are infuriating!”
“Only because you care.”
“I do not!”
His mouth curved, faintly, dangerously. “Then you won’t mind if I prove exactly what’s wrong with you.”
He leaned down, and the world seemed to still. His breath brushed her cheek, warm against the chill of the marble corridor.
“Follow me,” he said quietly. The command was soft but impossible to refuse. She hesitated only a second before obeying. He led her through a side corridor lined with gilt mirrors and into a narrow dressing room that smelled faintly of powder and roses.
The door clicked shut behind them. Caroline glanced around, incredulous.
“How did you know about this room?”
His mouth curved faintly. “Does it matter?”
“Not really,” she admitted, crossing her arms. “So what’s wrong with me?”
He stepped closer, the lamplight catching the pale edge of his scar. “Isn’t it obvious, my lady?”
She blinked, defiant. “What?”
“You’re jealous.”
“I am not!”
His eyes gleamed. “No? You would never what—get possessive?” His voice dropped, the faintest smile playing on his lips. “Even though, I find it rather endearing.”
“It is not, because I am not possessive of you, that is ridiculous,” she shot back, her chin lifting.
“And what are you, then?”
For a moment they simply stared at each other, breathless. The silence grew heavy with everything neither dared to admit. His hand brushed hers once, deliberate, testing, and she didn’t pull away. The single touch lit a fuse.
Richard’s fingers curled around hers, warm, calloused, and certain. He drew her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips across her knuckles in a gesture so courtly it should have been chaste, except it wasn’t.
The heat of his breath, the faint rasp of stubble, the way his eyes never left hers; each detail coiled low in her belly like a promise. Caroline’s pulse stuttered. She tried to summon a protest, a reminder of propriety, but the words tangled behind her teeth.
Richard stepped closer, crowding her gently until the backs of her knees met a velvet-upholstered chaise. The room was small, intimate, the air thick with rosewater and the sharper note of her own anticipation.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, echoing the orangery, but this time his voice was velvet over steel.
She couldn’t. Instead, her free hand rose to the lapel of his coat, fingers curling into the wool as if anchoring herself to the storm. Richard’s gaze darkened. He released her hand only to cup her jaw, thumb sweeping across her lower lip until it parted on a shaky exhale.
Then he kissed her—not the fierce collision of before, but slow, deliberate, a savoring. His tongue traced the inside of her lip, tasting, teasing, until she leaned into him, helpless. When he pulled back, his breathing was uneven.
“Sit,” he said, the single word rough with restraint.
“What for?”
Richard looked at her in warning. “I’ll show you you have no reason to be jealous.”
“I was not-”
“Sit. Now.”