Chapter 12 #2
Sophia’s fork clattered to her plate. “Next week?”
Lady Ophelia blinked rapidly, as if uncertain she had heard correctly. “Richard, surely you mean–”
“I mean precisely what I said,” he replied, his tone smooth as glass. “There is no reason for delay.”
Caroline’s voice rose, sharp and incredulous. “No reason? You speak as though I am some contract to be executed, not a woman with–”
“–a will of her own?” he finished quietly.
Her cheeks burned. “Precisely.”
He held her gaze, steady and unflinching. “Then exercise it. Say you refuse, and I will retract the announcement.”
The room went deathly quiet.
Caroline stared at him, fury and confusion warring inside her. He knew she couldn’t refuse—not with the eyes of the ton already watching, not with her father’s reputation and her family’s prospects tied to this union.
“You are despicable,” she whispered.
His expression didn’t change, but a flicker of pain crossed his eyes before he masked it. “So I’ve been told.”
Lady Ophelia’s hand flew to her chest. “Richard–”
“Enough,” he said gently, though his voice carried finality. “The matter is settled.”
He rose from his chair, bowed briefly, and left the room in silence.
The door closed softly behind him.
Caroline sat motionless, her pulse thundering in her ears. She could still hear the echo of his words—say you refuse—and the impossible temptation they carried.
Sophia reached for her hand. “Oh, Caro...”
Caroline drew a long breath, forcing a brittle smile. “I suppose I shall need a new gown sooner than I thought.”
But beneath the forced humor, something sharp and raw twisted in her chest—anger, yes, but beneath it, something dangerously close to heartbreak.
The storm broke in the corridor.
Caroline’s slippers struck the marble with sharp, furious precision as she left the dining room. Her gown, the soft blue muslin she’d chosen to appear calm and composed, now clung to her as though it, too, shared her rage.
The servants she passed scattered like startled birds, one maid dropping a tray in her haste to bow. Caroline barely noticed. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of humiliation and disbelief.
Next week.
He had said it with the same casual authority one might use to order supper.
At the end of the west wing corridor, she found the door she wanted—the Duke’s study—and pushed it open without knocking.
Richard stood by the fire, his jacket removed, the light painting his white shirt in gold and shadow. He did not seem surprised to see her.
“I was wondering how long it would take,” he said quietly.
Caroline’s voice trembled with contained fury. “You made a mockery of me before your entire family.”
His gaze did not waver. “I made a decision.”
“You made a spectacle.”
“I was sparing us both a scandal. You heard what Jasper implied.”
“You’re creating a different scandal.” she shot back. “The ton will think I schemed to trap you—some desperate debutante clawing for a title!”
His jaw tightened. “The ton already thinks what it wishes. I am beyond their concern.”
“Well, I am not!”
The admission escaped her before she could stop it. For a moment, silence stretched between them—her chest heaving, his eyes unreadable.
He crossed the room, his steps slow but unrelenting. “Would you rather I let them tear you apart with gossip? Or watch you parade before suitors who see only the weight of your dowry?”
Caroline stiffened. “Do not pretend this is some act of gallantry. You're only doing this because you want an heir.”
He flinched, though barely. “That was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before you.”
The words landed between them like a spark on dry parchment.
Caroline’s breath caught. “Do not say things you do not mean.”
“I have never been a man for empty words.”
She turned away, pressing her hands against the mantel to steady herself. The firelight shimmered against the gold trim of her gown, reflecting in her eyes. “Then why decide without me? Why rob me of choice?”
His voice softened. “Because choice is a luxury I cannot afford. Nor can you. You think the world will grant you freedom because you demand it so fiercely? They will smile, applaud your spirit, and then sell you off like a horse at market. I would rather give you my name than let another man take your freedom in exchange for coin.”
Caroline spun, eyes blazing. “That is not freedom! That is your pride dressed as protection!”
He stared at her for a long, terrible moment—then exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Perhaps it is,” he said. “But my pride has teeth, Caroline. And it guards what it wants.”
She froze.
He seemed to realize what he’d said only after it escaped him. “Forget that,” he muttered, turning away.
“Forget?” Her voice trembled. “You tell me you want me and expect me to forget?”
“It was not a declaration.”
“Then what was it?”
“A mistake.”
Her throat constricted. “You call that a mistake?”
His eyes lifted to hers, dark and bleak. “When it leads to ruin—yes.”
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The fire crackled; the clock ticked once, softly.
Then Caroline crossed the room in two steps and struck her hand flat against his chest—not in violence, but in fury and heartbreak all at once. “You are the most infuriating man alive!”
He caught her wrist, holding it against his heart. “And you are the only woman who dares to tell me so.”
“Let go.”
“Say you will not marry me.”
She stared up at him, bewildered. “What?”
“Say it,” he murmured, voice rough. “You called me despicable. You want choice—take it. Refuse me.”
“I–”
But she couldn’t. The words caught in her throat, trapped by the maddening contradiction of her heart. She wanted to hate him, yet every part of her still ached toward him—the warmth of his hand, the rough edge of his voice, the truth that he had stood before his family and claimed her as his.
“Why can’t you?” he asked, his breath brushing her cheek.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
“Because,” he said softly, answering for her, “you know what I do. You belong with me. You always have.”
He released her hand and stepped back, his expression shuttering once more. “The invitations have gone out. You may rage as you please, but the matter is done.”
Caroline stared at him, trembling. “You think you can command me into wanting you?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I think you already do.”
Her hand lifted of its own accord—whether to strike him or to touch his face, she never decided—because in the next breath she was gone, her skirts whispering through the doorway, leaving him alone with the echo of what he had not meant to confess.
Richard sank into the nearest chair, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He had faced death without fear, defied kings, and buried his own father with dry eyes—but one woman had managed to undo him with nothing more than truth.
He looked outside. The first stars had begun to bloom over the horizon, cold and distant.
“I should never have come home,” he murmured.