Chapter 13
The night of the Ashwood Ball dawned with all the opulence society demanded—and all the dread Caroline could muster.
In the hours before the first carriage arrived, the manor buzzed with servants polishing silver and hanging garlands of roses.
Yet upstairs, in her borrowed chamber, Caroline could not summon an ounce of excitement.
She sat before the mirror as Sophia helped with her hair, watching her own reflection with a heart caught between fury and longing.
“You’ll be the envy of every woman tonight,” Sophia said cheerfully. “Even the Duchess of Wetherby will gnash her teeth.”
Caroline tried to smile, but her voice betrayed her. “Envy seems a poor prize when I haven’t chosen any of this.”
Sophia stilled, hands pausing on the fabric. “You mean the wedding?”
Caroline gave a bitter laugh. “What else? One moment he is distant and brooding, and the next he announces our marriage as though I were another estate to be managed. He did not even ask me. And now he’s back to avoiding me.”
Sophia sank onto the stool beside her. “My cousin does not often ask, Caro. He declares. It is his curse.”
“It is arrogance,” Caroline snapped, then softened. “Or perhaps fear.”
Sophia’s brows lifted. “Fear? Of what?”
Caroline toyed with the jeweled comb in her hair, her tone distant. “Of losing control. Of admitting that he might care.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. The air hummed with the faint sounds of the orchestra tuning belowstairs. Finally, Sophia reached for Caroline’s hand, squeezing lightly. “He’s spent years believing control is the only way to survive. You unsettle him. That is no small thing.”
Caroline turned to her, eyes shimmering. “Then why does it hurt so much to be the only one who seems to bleed from it?”
Sophia’s expression softened with sympathy. “Because caring for people—really caring—always draws blood. But if it helps, he’s been impossible all day. Pacing. Snapping at the footmen. Muttering about florists.”
Despite herself, Caroline laughed, the sound shaky but real. “Florists?”
“Apparently the lilies were too pale. Imagine—Richard Belford, scourge of the battlefield, terror of the ton, arguing about flowers.”
The absurd image coaxed another reluctant smile. “Perhaps there’s hope for him yet.”
Sophia grinned, satisfied. “There’s always hope where you’re concerned. Now we must hurry. Let’s make the ton remember why they call him the Devil.”
From morning, the house had been a flurry of servants, flowers, and anxious bustle.
Chandeliers were polished until they blazed, musicians tuned their instruments, and the great marble foyer had been transformed into a glittering expanse of elegance.
The event, announced as a celebration of the Duke of Belford’s betrothal, promised to be the most anticipated affair of the season.
Caroline stood before her mirror as her maid laced her gown and Sophia clapped her hands excitedly once more.
The dress—a rich shade of deep green silk that shimmered like forest leaves at twilight—fit her like a promise.
Her hair was now piled high, curls artfully escaping to frame her face.
She looked every inch the duchess she refused to become without choice.
And yet, beneath the finery, her pulse drummed restlessly.
When she entered the ballroom, every head turned. A hundred candles blazed above, throwing light upon jewels, gowns, and the delicate flutter of fans. Conversation faltered for a moment, replaced by a collective murmur. The Duke’s intended.
Richard was already there. He stood near the head of the room, impeccably dressed in black and silver, his dark hair tied back, his expression carved in ice. He looked every inch the war hero and every bit the devil society named him.
Their eyes met across the crowd.
Something within her stilled.
He inclined his head in the faintest of acknowledgments, nothing more. Not a word, not a smile.
She, in turn, offered a dazzling one—the kind that could shatter hearts or hide them.
If he meant to maintain distance, she would match him step for step.
The first hour unfolded in a blur of waltzes, laughter, and polite deceit. Caroline was never without company. Lords and officers queued for her attention, eager to claim a smile, a glance, a dance. She gave them all freely, though her heart was nowhere in it.
Sophia, radiant in lavender silk, fluttered at her side. “You’re a sensation, Caro! Even Lord Hensley can’t keep from staring, and he hasn’t blinked at a woman in three years.”
“Then he should see an apothecary,” Caroline murmured, though her gaze drifted past the crowd—to him.
Richard was speaking with Louisa and a few gentlemen of rank. His expression never wavered, yet Caroline saw his hand tighten once around his glass when one of her admirers laughed too loudly at her jest.
Sophia caught the direction of her glance and grinned. “Ah, the Duke glowers. Take care, or he’ll frighten half the room.”
“He is welcome to glower,” Caroline said airily. “It is his second-favorite pastime.”
“And the first?”
“Commanding everyone else.”
Sophia giggled, then was swept into a dance by a dashing colonel, leaving Caroline momentarily alone.
Before she could take a breath and move towards her betrothed, though, Jasper appeared.
He moved through the crowd with the ease of a man who belonged everywhere and trusted no one. His smile was charming; his eyes, cold. “Lady Caroline,” he drawled, bowing low. “Might I claim a moment of your company? I promise not to bite—unless invited.”
“Then I am quite safe,” she replied, though she allowed him to lead her toward the edge of the floor.
The orchestra began a new waltz, the violins swelling, and the dancers spun like petals in motion. Jasper leaned in, voice a velvet whisper meant for her alone.
“You look exquisite tonight. No wonder my cousin can’t take his eyes off you.”
Caroline’s chin lifted. “You exaggerate.”
“Do I?” He smirked. “Ah, but you are still new to his moods. I’ve known Richard since childhood. I can read him better than most.”
“I doubt anyone truly can.”
“That, my dear, is precisely the danger.”
She arched a brow. “And what danger do you imagine me in?”
“The same that has undone every woman who thought she could tame him,” Jasper said smoothly. “He may look at you as if you are his salvation, but you are merely his solution.”
The words struck like frost. “I beg your pardon?”
He smiled faintly, eyes glittering. “Do you think I don’t know why he returned?
He needs an heir and while that is to be expected of any duke, it appears he may have convinced you there is more.
He chose you not for love, but for convenience.
A sensible match—a lively beauty with a respectable name and a fortune that might mend the family coffers. You fit the role perfectly.”
Caroline forced a light laugh, though her pulse faltered. “You must enjoy gossip, my lord.”
“Not gossip,” he said softly. “Truth. You should know it before it breaks your heart.”
Before she could reply, he bowed and stepped back, leaving her with the echo of his words and a hollow flutter in her chest.
She turned away, fighting to steady her breathing. He lies, she told herself. He seeks only to wound.
And yet… wasn’t that the very fear she’d harbored from the beginning?
That she was not a woman to him, but a means to an end.
Across the ballroom, Richard’s gaze caught hers again. The crowd between them blurred and vanished in her mind. For an instant, everything else—the music, the chatter, the sting of Jasper’s words—fell away.
His eyes, dark and unguarded, said what his lips never could: I see you.
She looked away first.
The waltz swelled into a crescendo, a glittering storm of sound and color.
The air in the ballroom shimmered with heat, perfume, and whispered speculation.
Caroline stood at the edge of it all, the perfect image of composure—though inside, her pulse beat unevenly, the echo of Jasper’s words still clawing through her.
She needed distraction, something to banish the echo of: He needs an heir.
When Lord Hensley approached with an eager smile and a bow that barely avoided clumsiness, she accepted his offer before he’d finished speaking.
The crowd murmured.
Across the room, Richard turned at once.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him—motionless, glass in hand, watching her with a stillness that was more dangerous than fury.
If he had wished to maintain distance, she would test just how far that restraint could stretch before it broke.
Lord Hensley guided her onto the floor. He was a tall man, good-natured but graceless, his steps heavy and rhythm uncertain.
Caroline’s smile remained serene as they joined the dance.
Around them, silk skirts swirled, jewels glittered, laughter rippled.
But her attention was fixed only on one man—the one who hadn’t moved.
As they turned, her gaze sought him through the shifting couples. Each time she found him, the intensity of his stare made her breath falter.
He wasn’t smiling.
He wasn’t even pretending to be civil.
His eyes burned—dark, watchful, possessive—the look of a man waging a battle between pride and desire.
“His Grace seems to be in a mood tonight,” Lord Hensley ventured awkwardly, noticing her distraction.
“Does he?” she asked lightly.
“Indeed. He’s been glowering at the crowd since you entered. I’m not certain whether to be flattered or afraid.”
Caroline laughed softly, though the sound rang hollow even to her own ears. “Fear becomes most men in his presence, my lord. It’s half his charm.”
Hensley chuckled, oblivious to the undercurrent. “And the other half?”
Caroline’s eyes flicked back toward Richard. “Is none of your concern.”
The dance ended. She curtseyed with perfect grace, murmured her thanks, and slipped free of her partner’s grasp before he could suggest another turn.
When she turned toward the refreshment table, Richard was there.