Chapter 14
Caroline stood at the top of the grand staircase the following day, her gloved hands folded tightly before her as she watched the familiar family crest roll into view.
For a moment, she was no longer the Duke’s betrothed but the girl who had once eavesdropped on her father’s lectures and dreamed of freedom.
The door swung open, and Nicholas Fernsby stepped into the foyer with all the dignity of a man used to command.
His hair had grown grayer, his shoulders stiffer, but his eyes—sharp and assessing—had lost none of their power.
Behind him came her older brother, Evan, grave and dutiful in his dark blue coat.
He approached her, offering a polite bow before kissing her cheek. “You look well, sister. London agrees with you.”
“London agrees with no one,” she said lightly. “But Ashwood is kind enough.”
Nicholas’s footsteps echoed as he joined them.
“Ashwood is more than kind. It is magnificent.” His gaze swept the grand hall—the carved balustrades, the glittering chandelier, the sweep of marble leading into the gallery.
Satisfaction flickered briefly across his stern features. “You’ve done well, my girl.”
Caroline’s smile felt brittle. “I am told that often of late.”
He glanced at her sharply, as though to gauge the tone beneath her words. “You might try sounding as though you believe it.”
Before she could reply, a voice carried down the corridor. “Lord Fernsby.”
Richard had arrived.
He descended the staircase with that unhurried grace that made every movement seem deliberate. His dark coat fit him impeccably, his expression courteous yet controlled. The faintest trace of a smile touched his lips as he extended his hand.
“Your Grace,” Nicholas greeted, bowing with measured respect. “I must thank you for your hospitality—and for taking such good care of my daughter.”
Richard’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly. “It is I who should thank her—for tolerating me.”
A ripple of polite laughter followed. Evan nodded approval, John, who had just joined them, bit back a grin, and Nicholas clapped a hand on the Duke’s shoulder with paternal satisfaction.
Caroline watched the exchange, feeling oddly displaced. Once, she would have relished her father’s praise, but now it landed heavy as lead. The match that filled him with pride only deepened her confusion.
Richard caught her eye briefly. His look was unreadable—a flicker of understanding, perhaps apology—but it vanished the instant Nicholas turned to speak again.
“You’ve built quite an estate,” her father said, surveying the portraits that lined the walls. “Solid. Commanding. Just as a duke’s home should be.”
Richard inclined his head. “It is an inheritance of duty, not of pride.”
Nicholas chuckled. “A wise distinction. Though I daresay pride has its place—so long as one knows how to wield it.”
Caroline’s stomach tightened. Her father’s voice carried that familiar note of authority, the one that had once dictated her every decision, from the ribbons in her hair to the men she was allowed to entertain. Now it bound her again, only gilded with title and promise.
When they moved into the drawing room, servants arrived with tea and cakes, conversation flowing easily. John charmed the housemaids, Evan praised the Duke’s stables, and Nicholas spoke of lineage, politics, and duty.
Through it all, Caroline smiled, answered when addressed, and kept her thoughts tightly leashed.
Later, when the company dispersed to refresh for dinner, she slipped into the garden. The air was cool and damp, the scent of rain mingling with the sweetness of roses. For the first time that day, she could breathe.
She found John beneath the old elm near the fountain, tossing crumbs to the birds. He looked up when she approached, grinning as always. “Escaping already?”
“Temporarily.” She sank onto the bench beside him. “If I stay inside much longer, Father will begin measuring curtains for my nursery.”
John laughed. “You exaggerate.”
“Do I?” she asked quietly.
His laughter faded. “You’re unhappy.”
“I’m… uncertain.”
He studied her face, his usual levity softening. “About the Duke?”
“Yes. And about myself.” She drew her shawl tighter. “I do not know if what I feel is affection or simply fascination. He is… impossible. And yet I can’t seem to look away.”
John’s grin returned, though gentler now. “That sounds suspiciously like you might be falling for him.”
“Don’t say it,” she groaned.
He nudged her shoulder. “You’ve always run from cages, Caro. Perhaps this one isn’t as closed as you think.”
She looked toward the hall, where lights glowed through the windows and Richard’s silhouette moved behind one curtain. “It feels closed enough.”
John followed her gaze, his voice dropping. “He watches you, you know. As though you’re already his.”
Her heart gave a painful twist. “And what if I don’t want to be anyone’s?”
He smiled faintly. “Then make him earn it. You’ve always been good at making men chase.”
Caroline laughed softly, though her chest ached. “And you’ve always been good at oversimplifying.”
“Someone must.” He stood and offered her his hand. “Now come inside before Father sends the whole household to look for us. You know how he worries about appearances.”
As she rose, she cast one last glance toward the house. Somewhere within, she knew Richard would be preparing for the evening’s dinner—composed, unreadable.
Dinner that night was a masterpiece of civility, the kind that masks every undercurrent beneath crystal and candlelight.
The dining hall of Ashwood Hall glittered like a cathedral to refinement: silver candelabra casting soft halos across polished mahogany, crystal decanters catching the light like trapped fire, servants moving with a silent, choreographed precision.
Caroline sat between Richard and her father, feeling the tension of two worlds colliding—duty on one side, desire on the other.
Nicholas, clearly in excellent humor, filled the room with his booming voice. “I must say, Your Grace, it has been many years since I’ve dined in such magnificence. Ashwood puts even Fernsby Manor to shame.”
Richard inclined his head. “It has taken years of restoration. I cannot take full credit. My mother managed the estate during my absence.”
“Ah yes, Lady Ophelia,” Nicholas said, glancing toward the other end of the table where Richard’s mother smiled graciously. “She is as elegant as the house itself.”
“Too kind,” Ophelia replied. “And I must say, Lord Fernsby, your daughter has brought life back into these halls. We were beginning to forget what laughter sounded like.”
Caroline managed a polite smile as the table murmured its approval, though she felt the heat of Richard’s gaze beside her. It was not unkind—merely unreadable.
Evan joined in the conversation, speaking of trade and estate management, while John amused Sophia with exaggerated stories from London’s more scandalous balls. The laughter rose, glasses clinked, and yet Caroline found herself detached from it all, watching as if from afar.
Her father was in his element. Every remark was measured, every smile perfectly placed. He treated her engagement as a triumph—not only for her but for the family name.
“Of course,” Nicholas was saying, “a union such as this elevates both our houses. It pleases me to know that my daughter’s stubbornness has found its match in so capable a man.”
Laughter rippled around the table, but Caroline felt it like a sting.
Richard’s response came in that calm, level tone of his that always seemed to hide more than it revealed. “Stubbornness, my lord, is not without its uses. It makes for an engaging conversation.”
“And a difficult marriage,” Nicholas said.
Richard’s eyes flicked toward Caroline. “I welcome the challenge.”
That earned a round of appreciative chuckles, but beneath the surface, the words crackled like a current. Caroline’s heart gave an unsteady beat. She met his gaze briefly—then looked away, unwilling to let him see that his composure only deepened her confusion.
As the courses passed, conversation drifted from politics to family news.
“Bridget sends her regrets,” Nicholas said, reaching for his wine. “She is with child again. A daughter this time, she hopes. The doctor insists on rest, so she could not travel.”
Caroline smiled faintly. “That sounds like Bridget. Always doing as she’s told—by her physician, if not her husband.”
John snorted into his glass, earning a stern look from their father. “And Valeria?” Caroline asked carefully.
Nicholas’s expression shuttered. “We’ve had no word. Her husband keeps her in the country. But it is a fine estate, and she is provided for.”
“Provided for,” Caroline repeated quietly. “How fortunate.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. The table fell momentarily still.
Her father’s gaze sharpened. “Caroline.”
She smiled quickly, feigning lightness. “I only meant that Valeria always did enjoy the quiet. I’m sure she is content.”
The tension broke with another ripple of conversation, but Richard’s glance lingered on her. He recognized the brittleness in her tone because he had worn it himself.
When the final course had been cleared and the servants withdrawn, Nicholas raised his glass. “To the future Duke and Duchess of Belford. May their union be long, fruitful, and a blessing to both our families.”
The toast was echoed all around, glasses raised, voices warm. Caroline lifted her own glass with a smile that trembled at the edges.
Richard’s glass brushed hers with a soft chime. His eyes met hers over the rim—steady, unreadable, as though he were searching for something he could not name.
She looked away first.
The wine was rich and heavy on her tongue, but it might as well have been ash.
Later, when the party drifted toward the drawing room for music and cards, Nicholas detained her with a firm hand on her arm.
“Walk with me, Caroline.”
She obeyed, heart sinking. They stepped into the side corridor, the candles flickering in the drafts. Her father’s expression had softened from pride to something almost tender.
“You’ve done well, my dear,” he said, voice low. “I know this may not be the path you imagined, but you have secured your future. A duke’s wife—think of what that means for our family. You’ll want for nothing.”
“I never wanted for much before,” she said quietly.
He smiled, missing—or ignoring—the undertone. “You’ll understand in time. Marriage is duty first, happiness second. The rest follows.”
Caroline’s throat tightened. “And if it doesn’t?”
Nicholas’s eyes hardened slightly. “Then you make it so. You have my strength, my wit. You will manage him, as your mother managed me.”
She almost laughed at that. “I doubt anyone has ever managed the Duke of Ashwood.”
“Then be the first,” Nicholas said. “But mind this, Caroline.” His tone dropped to that old, commanding gravity that could silence a room. “No more defiance. The wedding is tomorrow. Your reputation—and ours—rests on it.”
He turned to go, then paused at the door. “You’ve always fought too hard against your blessings, child. Don’t make the mistake of fighting this one.”
When he was gone, Caroline stood alone in the corridor, her hands shaking. The echo of his words settled like chains around her heart.
Inside the drawing room, laughter resumed. Someone struck a lively tune on the pianoforte, Sophia’s voice rising in song. But Caroline could not bring herself to enter.
Instead, she turned toward the darkened window and pressed her palm against the cool glass. Outside, the gardens stretched into shadow, and beyond them, the faint light of Richard’s study glowed from an upper window.
He was still awake.
She wondered if he, too, felt the weight of tomorrow.