Chapter 13 #2
He had crossed the room without her noticing. Now the crowd parted around him as if the very air recognized his authority. He stood before her, towering and composed, but his gaze was a storm barely contained.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice low and deceptively calm.
“Immensely,” she said, lifting her glass of punch. “Lord Hensley is a charming dancer.”
“Charming,” he repeated, his tone making the word sound obscene.
“He did not step on my toes once,” she added sweetly. “A rare feat this evening.”
His jaw tightened. “And was it worth the risk of spectacle?”
“Spectacle?”
“You knew what you were doing.”
“I rarely act without purpose.”
The faintest flicker of something—amusement, admiration, frustration—crossed his face before he leaned closer. “You mean to punish me, then?”
Her chin lifted. “If I did, it would not be for your benefit.”
The air between them thickened. Every word, every glance carried the weight of the unspoken.
Richard’s voice dropped, meant only for her. “You think to play games with me in public, Caroline?”
Her pulse jumped. “What do you call it when you announce a wedding without my consent?”
“Protection,” he said simply.
“Control,” she corrected.
“Both.”
“Then you may keep your protection, Your Grace,” she whispered. “I neither need nor want it.”
He stared down at her, expression unreadable, before extending a gloved hand. “Dance with me.”
“I believe I’ve had my fill of dancing.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
Her eyes flashed. “You presume too much.”
He smiled—slow, dangerous. “Always.”
And before she could refuse again, he took her hand.
The orchestra struck the opening notes of a new waltz. The crowd parted instinctively as the Duke of Belford led his betrothed onto the floor. The sight alone drew a fresh wave of whispers. The Devil dances at last.
Richard’s hand settled firmly at her waist, the other clasping her gloved fingers. The first steps were perfectly measured—no words, no falter in rhythm. But beneath the formality lay something taut, alive.
“You’ve made quite the impression tonight,” he murmured.
“Is that jealousy I hear?”
“Observation.”
She met his gaze, a half-smile playing at her lips. “You observe far too closely.”
“It’s a soldier’s habit.”
“And what do you see?”
He leaned in slightly, his breath warm near her ear. “A woman who delights in defiance but trembles when I’m near.”
Her heart stuttered, though she forced her voice steady. “And a man who mistakes curiosity for conquest.”
Their gazes locked again, and for a moment, the world around them dissolved. Only the two of them existed—moving in perfect rhythm, anger and desire bound in every turn.
The waltz quickened. His hand tightened at her waist. Her breath caught, her balance shifted, and she stumbled—only slightly—but his grip steadied her instantly.
He didn’t let go.
“Careful,” he said softly. “I’d hate to have you fall for me.”
She flushed as his smile turned knowing.
When the final chord faded, they stood still for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed. Neither bowed nor curtseyed. Neither could quite look away.
Applause rippled around them, but it sounded distant, hollow.
Richard released her hand last, his thumb grazing her knuckles before he turned away. “You play your games dangerously well, Caroline.”
“And you play them as though you invented them,” she retorted.
He gave a single, dark laugh. “Perhaps I did.”
Then he was gone—striding toward the far end of the room, leaving her alone amidst a hundred watching eyes.
Caroline exhaled slowly, aware that her pulse was racing and her cheeks burned. She turned toward the nearest open window, desperate for air.
Behind her, she heard the faint clink of glass—a servant pouring Richard another drink.
The music swelled again, the laughter resumed, and the ball carried on as though nothing had happened.
But nothing, Caroline thought, could ever be quite the same again.
The ball went on, bright as ever, but the glitter seemed brittle now.
Laughter rang a little too loudly; perfume hung thick in the air.
Caroline lingered near the French doors, half-hidden by a sweep of drapery, watching couples whirl across the floor.
From a distance she might have looked serene, yet inside, her pulse still stumbled in the rhythm Richard had left behind.
Every nerve in her body remembered his touch—the command in his hand at her waist, the heat of his breath against her ear. But so, too, did she remember the coldness in his eyes when he’d walked away.
Sophia found her first, cheeks flushed, curls loosened by dancing. “There you are! Everyone is asking for you. The gentlemen are forming a queue.”
“Let them form it,” Caroline said. “Perhaps they’ll amuse one another.”
Sophia’s brow furrowed. “Has he said something again?”
“He says plenty without words,” Caroline murmured.
Her friend followed her gaze. Richard stood near the musicians, speaking to no one, a glass of brandy in hand. He looked formidable even in stillness—the set of his shoulders, the perfect precision of his coat. But the muscle that flickered once in his jaw betrayed the temper beneath.
Sophia sighed. “You two could set fire to a room merely by standing in it.”
Caroline managed a brittle smile. “Then let us hope the roof will survive.”
Before Sophia could press her further, a familiar voice cut through the hum of conversation.
“Lady Caroline.”
Jasper.
“Sister, I believe Louisa was looking for you. Please, go,” he told Sophia. He appeared from the crowd with a glass of champagne and that same smooth composure that never quite masked the cruelty beneath. His smile was all charm; his eyes, anything but.
“You seem... out of spirits,” he said softly when they were alone. “I would offer comfort, but I suspect my cousin would consider it treason.”
“I require no comfort,” Caroline replied.
“Everyone requires something. Even Richard.” Jasper sipped, studying her over the rim of his glass. “You may think him invincible, but he bleeds like any man. He drinks to forget that.”
“To forget what?”
“Everything,” Jasper said simply. “The war, the things he’s been through. He hides behind duty because he cannot face what’s beneath it.”
She looked away. “Your cousin needs neither your defense nor your pity.”
“I give him neither,” Jasper murmured. “But I am concerned for you, my Lady. You didn’t listen to what I told you, but you should be careful. He wants an heir. Not a heart. He has none left to give.”
Caroline’s hand tightened around her fan until the ivory sticks bit into her palm. “Your concern is misplaced, my lord.”
He bowed lightly. “Perhaps. But when the Devil takes what he wants, he seldom leaves anything behind.”
Then he was gone, swallowed by the swirl of dancers.
Caroline stood motionless, the words echoing through her like the toll of a bell. He wants an heir. Not a heart.
The music blurred. Voices became distant.
She forced a breath, forced a smile, and stepped back into the crowd as though nothing had happened.
If Jasper sought to wound her, she would not grant him the pleasure of seeing it.
She laughed too brightly at Lord Hensley’s next jest, accepted a glass she did not want, and turned the color in her cheeks into armor.
Yet whenever she glanced across the room, Richard’s gaze found her.
It was a look that burned through every defense—a mixture of hunger and something darker, older. A man torn between claiming and retreating. The sight of him set every warning in her mind alight.
Richard drank more than he should have. He hated the taste of brandy, but it dulled the noise in his head—the memory of her laughter with another man, the echo of Jasper’s smirk, the vision of her gown sweeping past him as she walked away.
He told himself he didn’t care, that she wanted spectacle and he would give her one. Yet every time he saw her smile at another, his fingers tightened around the glass until the stem creaked.
Edmund found him near the terrace. “You look ready to duel half of London,” he said dryly.
Richard’s mouth curved without humor. “If half of London would stay still long enough, I might.”
Edmund’s glance followed his cousin’s line of sight. “Ah. The lady. Of course.”
“Don’t.”
“Someone must,” Edmund said quietly. “You’re behaving like a fool.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Perhaps,” Edmund replied, “but rarely by someone who matters.”
Richard turned on him. “You think she matters?”
“I think she matters more than you’ll admit.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Richard tossed back the rest of his drink. “You don’t understand.”
He looked away toward the open doors where night wind spilled in, cooling the fever of the ballroom. Beyond, Caroline stood by the balustrade, the moonlight catching on the pearls at her throat.
Richard set his glass down. “Excuse me.”
He crossed the floor, the crowd parting as before. Caroline turned at his approach, her composure flawless.
“Your Grace,” she said evenly. “Should you not be charming your guests?”
“They came for the spectacle,” he said. “You provide enough of one.”
Her smile sharpened. “Then consider the evening a success.”
“I would rather consider it over.”
“Are you dismissing your own ball?”
“Only its purpose.”
“And what purpose is that?”
“To parade you before men who are not me.”
She drew a slow breath. “You cannot command who I speak to, Richard.”
“I can try.”
The words were a mix of a jest and a warning, and she felt the tremor of both. Around them, the orchestra began another waltz, but they did not move. They simply stood, two figures locked in battle while the world danced on.
“Tell me something,” she said suddenly. “If I were not the daughter of a titled family, if I had no dowry at all, if you didn’t need an heir soon, would you still want me?”
He didn’t answer at once. The truth warred visibly within him. Finally, he said, very quietly, “Yes.”
She blinked. “That quickly?”
“Yes,” he repeated. “And that is precisely the problem.”
Before she could speak, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing amid the music and laughter, feeling as though the ground beneath her had shifted.
Later, when the guests had gone and the last candles guttered low, Caroline lingered alone in the deserted ballroom. The air smelled faintly of wax and roses.
From somewhere down the corridor came the faint crash of glass—Richard’s temper breaking loose at last.
She closed her eyes. Jasper’s poison still coiled in her mind, but another truth whispered beneath it: she had seen the look in Richard’s eyes, and it had not been the look of a man thinking of heirs.
Still, doubt was a treacherous companion.
She whispered into the empty room, “Do I even know him at all?”
No one answered.