Chapter 12
Caroline could not summon tranquility. She sat in the morning room the following day opposite Sophia, surrounded by an explosion of silk and muslin. Bolts of fabric in every shade—from mist-blue to pale rose—spilled across the sofa and over the table like the aftermath of a fashionable battle.
Sophia, perched like a sparrow amid the chaos, waved a scrap of lace. “You must choose something flattering, Caroline. Richard’s household cannot be forever haunted by the memory of that ink-dress of yours I read about in the gossip columns. I even saw sketches of it.”
Caroline laughed despite herself. “I liked that dress. It was original.”
“It was scandalous,” Sophia corrected with mock severity. “The ton is still debating whether it was an act of rebellion or madness. Writing sonnets on your own gown! I daresay, if you’d been any less lovely, they would have called you eccentric instead of bold.”
Caroline’s lips curved. “And yet here you are, begging me to scandalize them again.”
Sophia grinned. “Of course I am. London thrives on scandal, and Richard has been too somber since returning from the war. He needs a bit of mischief in his life.”
Caroline pretended to study a bolt of ivory silk, though her pulse quickened at his name. “He has mischief enough without my help.”
“Ah, but you enjoy provoking him.”
“I do not,” Caroline protested—too quickly.
Sophia tilted her head, catlike. “Then why do you blush every time someone mentions his name?”
“I do not blush.”
“Then why are you blushing now?”
Caroline groaned, hiding her face behind a piece of lace. “You are insufferable.”
Sophia only laughed. “Come now, confess it. You like him.”
“I tolerate him,” Caroline said primly, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her.
“Tolerate? My dear, no one tolerates the Devil of the Ton. They either loathe him or they love him.”
Caroline hesitated. The laughter faded from her eyes, replaced by something softer, more uncertain. “I don’t loathe him,” she said at last.
Sophia leaned forward, sensing victory. “Then...?”
Caroline traced a finger along the embroidered hem of her gown. “I don’t know. He infuriates me. He frightens me, sometimes. But...”
“But?”
Caroline exhaled. “He listens. He truly listens. When I speak, he doesn’t smile politely and drift into thoughts of dowries or titles. He looks at me as if I am the only person in the room. As if my words matter.”
Sophia laughed softly. “That’s quite the compliment from you.”
Caroline hesitated, toying with her wine glass. “It’s strange,” she said finally, voice low. “I spent years certain no one could truly see me without seeing my mother’s death as well. Father never could. Every time he looked at me, I think he saw her grave.”
Sophia’s mirth faded. “Caro…”
Caroline gave a small, brittle shrug. “That’s why I swore never to marry. Never to become another portrait above a fireplace. But he–” she stopped, shaking her head. “He looks at me as though I am alive. It’s… unsettling.”
Sophia’s teasing expression melted into something gentler. “Oh, my dear, you are lost.”
“I am not lost,” Caroline said quickly. “I’m merely... curious.”
“Curious,” Sophia repeated with a knowing smile. “Yes, that’s what every woman says before she falls.”
Caroline laughed, a little too brightly. “That is not in question here. He and I are–”
“A perfect disaster,” Sophia supplied. “Which makes you a perfect match.”
Caroline threw a cushion at her.
They dissolved into laughter, the easy kind that softened sharp truths into something bearable.
But even as she laughed, Caroline could not quite shake the flutter beneath her ribs—the one that began each time she remembered the music in the tower, or the way his voice had roughened when he said her name.
Richard stood very still at the doorway.
He had come to fetch a ledger from his study but had halted when he heard their voices. The sound of Caroline’s laughter—light, unguarded—had frozen him in place.
He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the words caught him before he could turn away.
“Then why do you blush every time someone mentions his name?” Sophia was saying, amusement threading through her voice.
Richard’s brows drew together. Whose name?
“He infuriates me. He frightens me sometimes, but….”
Richard’s breath stilled. He closed his eyes, letting the words settle deep. Surely she couldn't have been talking about him?
Then he heard her say, “He looks at me as if I am the only person in the room.”
He stepped back. He couldn't bear to listen anymore.
For years, he had thought himself incapable of inspiring affection—only fear, respect, perhaps desire, but never tenderness. Yet here was Caroline, bright and defiant, confessing the very thing he could not admit to himself: that she had become his weakness.
A flicker of warmth touched him… quickly followed by guilt.
He clenched his fists. He had no right to her admiration. He wanted her, yes—God help him, he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything—but the truth remained: he needed an heir. That had been the beginning of all this.
To want her for herself alone was impossible. To pretend otherwise was cruel.
He turned away, retreating silently down the corridor, his footsteps soundless on the carpet.
The rest of the day passed beneath a haze of restlessness.
Richard spent the afternoon in his study, seated at the great mahogany desk that had once belonged to his father. Papers lay before him in neat stacks—estate ledgers, letters from tenants, a missive from the solicitor in London—yet he found himself reading none of them.
His mind, traitorous and insistent, replayed Caroline’s voice again and again. He listens to me. He makes me feel seen.
The words clung to him like scent on skin.
He stared at the blank page before him and imagined writing something—an apology, a confession, he wasn’t sure which. But nothing he could put into ink would soften the truth: he had begun this courtship with cold calculation. A wife, an heir, stability. That was all he had told himself he needed.
Now he wasn’t certain if need had anything to do with it.
He rose and paced around the room. The afternoon light had dimmed into gold, washing over the lawns and gilding the edges of the world. Beyond the hedges, he could see the stables and, further still, the old path that wound through the woods—the one Caroline had taken on her morning walks.
He found himself wondering where she was.
It was intolerable, this constant awareness. He had endured battles, imprisonment, months at sea, and yet he could not endure her. The very sound of her laughter undid him.
He pressed a hand against the glass, exhaling sharply. “Fool,” he muttered under his breath.
He was a soldier, a duke, a man who had learned to master fear and pain. But this—this strange ache—was an enemy he did not know how to fight.
By the time dinner was announced, the house had settled into its evening rhythm. Servants glided through the corridors with trays and candles, voices hushed in deference to the hour.
The dining room blazed with light when Caroline entered.
The chandeliers sparkled, catching in the crystal decanters and silverware until the table seemed to glow.
The family had gathered already: Lady Ophelia at one end, Jasper seated to her right, Sophia beside Caroline’s empty chair.
Richard stood by the fireplace, a glass of wine untouched in his hand.
He turned when she entered. For a moment, their eyes met—a brief spark of recognition that neither could disguise.
Caroline inclined her head with perfect composure and took her seat. “You look as though the world has weighed heavily upon you today, Your Grace.”
“Only the parts of it that speak too freely,” he replied, tone deceptively mild.
Sophia stifled a grin. “You two truly cannot share a room without sparring.”
“It keeps the air lively,” Caroline said just as John entered behind her, apologizing for his tardiness.
“Blame the decanter,” he said cheerfully, sliding into the chair opposite Sophia. “Your butler guards it as if it were the crown jewels.”
Lady Ophelia laughed softly. “He guards everything my son values, Mr. Fernsby.”
“Then he ought to stand between your son and my sister,” John quipped, nodding toward Richard.
The table rippled with amusement—except for Richard, whose mouth curved in something not quite a smile. “If he did, your sister might protest the obstruction.”
Caroline met his gaze, unflinching. “I might indeed.”
Jasper poured himself wine, watching them with that unreadable half-smile she had begun to distrust. “Some might call this foreplay.”
“Jasper,” Lady Ophelia warned gently, though her lips twitched.
Caroline arched her brow. “How very enlightening, my lord.”
The exchange drew polite laughter, enough to ease the tension for a moment. The first course arrived—soup fragrant with herbs, served in delicate porcelain bowls—and conversation resumed. Sophia chattered about gowns, Louisa about garden parties, and Lady Ophelia about the opera’s success.
Richard said little.
When dessert was served—lemon syllabub and sugared almonds—Sophia leaned toward Caroline and whispered, “He’s staring again.”
Caroline blinked. “What?”
“Your Duke,” Sophia said with a grin. “If he glares any harder, the almonds might combust.”
Caroline refused to turn, though her pulse skipped treacherously. “He is merely lost in thought.”
“Indeed. And you, my dear, are the unfortunate subject of it.”
Before Caroline could retort, Richard set down his glass with a soft, deliberate clink that drew every gaze to him.
“I have a matter to announce,” he said.
The table stilled. Even the footman froze mid-step.
Richard’s gaze swept over them all, calm, commanding—and finally, it rested on Caroline. “I have obtained a special license. The wedding will take place next week. Invitations have already been sent.”
The words fell like thunder.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Caroline choked on her wine. “I beg your pardon?”