Chapter 16
The sun rose without mercy.
Its pale gold light crept through the damask curtains and across the bed where Caroline lay wide-eyed and unmoving.
The chirping of sparrows in the ivy outside sounded too cheerful, their careless music a cruel contrast to the heaviness pressing against her chest. She remained still, staring up at the ceiling as though she could will the day to end before it began.
It was her wedding morning.
The thought alone made her stomach twist. She had always imagined her wedding, if it must come at all, as something fierce and bright—a storm of laughter and independence, a defiant choice of her own making. Not this. Not a ceremony built on bargains and bloodlines.
A brisk knock rattled the door before she could sink further into dread.
“My lady?” came the voice of Anne, her maid. “May I come in?”
Caroline forced her voice steady. “Yes, Anne. Come in.”
The girl entered with the air of one marching into battle, arms full of linen and lace. “We must begin at once, my lady. Lady Ophelia has already sent word—the chapel is near ready. They say the Duke himself is awake.”
“Awake,” Caroline echoed faintly, sitting up. “How industrious of him.”
Anne set down the bundle of silks and dipped a nervous curtsy. “Shall I open the curtains?”
“You may as well,” Caroline said with a wry smile. “The sun seems eager to witness my ruin.”
The maid hesitated, uncertain whether to laugh, and then busied herself with the basin and towels. The sound of water pouring seemed far too loud.
When Caroline rose, the chill of the morning air struck her skin, sharp and bracing. She crossed to the mirror and studied the reflection. Her hair was tousled from sleep, her eyes rimmed with the faintest shadows. She looked older, she thought—not by years, but by weight.
Anne moved behind her, brushing her hair in long, practiced strokes. “You’ll be the most beautiful bride the county has ever seen,” she said softly.
Caroline smiled without conviction. “Beauty has never been my trouble.”
The maid faltered mid-stroke. “You don’t mean–”
“I mean,” Caroline interrupted gently, “that beauty is a poor shield. It brings admiration, not safety.”
Before Anne could reply, another knock sounded—two sharp raps this time.
“May we enter?” came a familiar voice.
“John,” she said with relief. “Yes, come in.”
Her brothers entered one after the other. John first, lively as ever, the faintest smudge of laughter in his eyes despite his formal attire. Evan followed more solemnly, his waistcoat immaculate, his expression already one of measured gravity.
John took one look at her and whistled. “Good Lord, Caro. The Devil himself will fall to his knees when he sees you.”
Evan frowned. “Mind your tongue.”
“Oh, come now, Evan. It’s a wedding, not a funeral.”
“That remains to be seen,” Caroline murmured under her breath.
John’s grin faded slightly. “You’ll do well, sister. He may be a Devil to the ton, but you’re no angel yourself.”
“That’s meant to comfort me?”
“It’s meant to remind you you’ve teeth of your own,” he said simply.
Evan, ever the moralist, stepped closer. “This match will protect you, Caroline. Father’s choice was wise. The duke commands respect—fear even. That will keep you safe.”
“Safe,” she repeated. “From what? From life?”
“From scandal,” Evan corrected primly.
John laughed. “Caroline creates her own scandal. Always has.”
“I should be proud of that, then?” she asked.
“If it keeps you yourself, yes,” John replied.
Before she could answer, the door opened again, and her father entered.
Nicholas was not a man easily ignored. His presence filled the room, stern and composed, the weight of years carried with iron dignity. His gaze swept over her and for an instant his expression softened.
“You look radiant,” he said. “Truly radiant.”
Caroline curtsied lightly. “Thank you, Father.”
He stepped forward, taking her gloved hands. “This is a fine day for us all. The Fernsby name will be linked forever to one of the oldest titles in England. You have done well to secure such a match.”
“I didn’t secure it,” she replied quietly. “You did.”
His mouth tightened. “Do not begin, Caroline. You have had every privilege, every protection. You will soon have a husband capable of keeping both. What more could a daughter ask of her father?”
“Freedom,” she said before she could stop herself.
Nicholas’s eyes cooled. “Freedom is a word for poets and paupers. Not for women of our station.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Evan shifted uncomfortably; John looked away.
Nicholas did not back down. “You will do your duty. It is more important than every fleeting passion you could ever have.”
She stared at him, her heart thudding dully. “Mother’s duty killed her.”
He stiffened. “Do not speak of her that way.”
“I only mean,” Caroline pressed, her voice trembling slightly, “that she followed duty into the grave. I cannot pretend I don’t think of her today.”
For the first time, her father’s expression faltered. “Your mother would be proud,” he said at last. “Do not let fear dishonor her memory.”
Then, without waiting for her reply, he turned and left.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded far too final.
John approached her, his smile tinged with melancholy. “You’ll be all right, Caro. You always are.”
She tried to smile. “And if I’m not?”
“Then write to me,” he said, pressing her hand. “And I’ll come with a pistol.”
She laughed through the tightness in her throat. “You’re impossible.”
“Undeniably so,” he said with a bow. “And proud of it.”
When both brothers had gone, Caroline stood before the mirror again. The gown gleamed in the morning light—silk white as frost, embroidered with silver thread. Anne fastened the final clasp, her hands gentle but quick.
Caroline stared at her own reflection until the room blurred.
“I suppose this is it,” she whispered.
Anne dabbed her eyes discreetly. “You’ll make a beautiful duchess, my lady.”
Caroline drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Yes,” she said softly. “A beautiful duchess in a beautiful cage.”
Then, gathering her skirts, she turned toward the door.
“Let us go,” she said. “The Devil waits.”
Richard had not slept.
The night had been long, thick with restless thought, and though dawn had crept pale and quiet through the tall windows of Ashwood Hall, it had brought him no peace.
He had watched the light crawl across the floor like a trespasser.
He sat now on the edge of his bed, bare-chested, the sheets tangled around his waist, his mind as heavy as the silence that filled the chamber.
Today, the Devil would marry.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaling slowly.
Somewhere below, the household was already coming alive with motion.
Voices echoed faintly through the corridors; the clink of silver trays, the distant trill of laughter.
The world was preparing for ceremony and spectacle. But he was not made for such things.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Enter,” he said.
His valet stepped in—small, gray, and unobtrusive. “Good morning, Your Grace. I have drawn your bath. The garments are pressed and ready.”
Richard nodded, his tone clipped. “Leave them.”
“Would you wish for assistance, Your Grace?”
“No. I can manage.”
The man hesitated a moment longer, then bowed and withdrew.
Richard rose and crossed the room. The mirror loomed on the far wall, tall and merciless. He paused before it, the morning light striking his face. The scar caught the glow like lightning frozen in flesh—a harsh reminder of the years that had carved him.
It began at the corner of his brow and cut down along his cheek, stopping just above the jawline. A blade had done that. A man’s hatred. And time had preserved it, not softened it.
He had been twenty-five then. Eight years ago. Young enough to believe in glory, old enough to learn that it was a lie.
He touched the mark absently. It had long ceased to pain him, yet the ache beneath it—the one pride never quelled—lingered. He had fought for survival, for his name, for control over what remained.
And now he would fight for an heir.
That was what this marriage was: a transaction, a necessary step. He told himself he did not care about the whispers that followed his name—about the Devil of the Ton and the women who flinched from his gaze. What mattered was legacy. Stability. Continuance.
Still, he could not quiet the small voice that asked if he was building his legacy upon another’s unhappiness.
He ignored it.
Moving with deliberate precision, he stripped off his nightshirt and stepped into the bath. The water steamed faintly, scalding against his skin, but he did not flinch. He had long ago learned to bear discomfort in silence.
He washed and dressed swiftly—white linen shirt, black waistcoat, a coat of deep midnight blue trimmed in silver.
The cravat gave him more trouble; he tied and retied it twice before the knot satisfied him.
It was not vanity that drove him—it was the armor of presentation, the careful construction of the man the world expected to see.
When at last he slid the heavy signet ring onto his finger and adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, he looked every inch the Duke of Ashwood. Only the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
He turned toward the window, gazing out over the grounds.
The chapel stood visible in the distance, small and gleaming amid the sea of green.
Carriages were already arriving along the gravel drive—fine ones, emblazoned with the crests of old families.
The ton had come to watch the Devil wed his unwilling bride.
He almost smiled.
Behind him, the door opened again.
“Ashwood,” came a familiar voice.
Richard glanced over his shoulder to find Edmund leaning against the frame, suit immaculate, expression half amused.
“So it is true,” Edmund said. “You are going through with it.”
Richard’s brow lifted. “You doubted it?”