Chapter 19
The doors of the chapel closed behind them with a sound like thunder.
The murmur of voices inside still echoed faintly, the ton’s scandal-hungry whispers leaking through the stained glass, but out here the air was sharp and cold, the sunlight cruelly bright.
Caroline drew in a shuddering breath as Richard’s arm guided her forward, though his touch was impersonal—more duty than comfort.
He did not look at her. Not once.
His stride was long and purposeful, boots striking the gravel path that curved through the gardens of Ashwood. Somewhere behind them, bells tolled a distant hour, indifferent to the ruin of what was meant to be the happiest day of her life.
Caroline clutched his arm because she could not yet trust her legs to hold her. She could still feel Jasper’s hand on her wrist, the sudden violence, the terror that had clenched her stomach. Yet it was not that memory that haunted her—it was the image of Richard’s face when rage consumed him.
When he had become the Devil every whisper had promised.
His jaw was tight now, his profile severe against the late-morning light. Guilt rolled off him in waves so heavy she could almost feel it pressing the air between them.
“Richard,” she began softly.
He did not answer.
“Richard,” she tried again, firmer this time. “You saved my life.”
His steps faltered for a moment, but he did not turn. “No,” he said at last, his voice rough. “You were in danger because of me. Because I brought you into my cursed name, into a family already rotting from within. I should have known better.”
“You cannot blame yourself for his madness.”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Can I not? He hated me because of what I am, because of who I was destined to become, a Duke. I rubbed it in his face. I didn't make it easy for him.”
Caroline stopped walking, forcing him to do the same. “You speak as though you created his sins. You did not.”
Finally, he looked at her. The gray of his eyes seemed colder than the stone chapel they had left behind. “And yet they follow me, wherever I go. You saw what I am, Caroline. You saw what happens when I lose control.”
Her breath caught. “You stopped.”
“I almost didn’t.” He stepped back, putting distance between them as though afraid to touch her. “I should never have claimed you. You would have been safe had you never borne my name.”
Something inside her twisted sharply. She stared at him, waiting for the words to soften, for some flicker of remorse that would reach out to her. None came.
“You mean to say,” she asked quietly, “that your solution to guilt is to cast me aside?”
He didn’t flinch, though the muscles in his jaw tightened. “Yes.”
The word struck like a physical blow.
Caroline drew herself up, spine straightening beneath the weight of her shock. The wind tugged at her veil, whispering through the hedges as though mocking the silence between them.
“So, this is to be my wedding day,” she said, her tone measured but trembling at the edges. “A ceremony that ends not with vows but with abandonment.”
Richard turned away, pacing a few steps before stopping, his hands fisted at his sides.
“You think I wish it? That I enjoy seeing you humiliated before all of London? I would tear out my own heart if it would undo this day. But I will not bind you to me out of pity, nor out of scandal’s convenience. ”
She blinked at him, disbelief giving way to anger. “Convenience? Do you think I sought this for convenience? That I endured the ton’s leers, the gossip, the pity, because it amused me?”
He looked back at her then, and she saw the flicker of pain he tried so hard to mask. “No,” he said quietly. “Because you were brave enough to face me when no one else dared. And I will not repay that courage by chaining you to a monster.”
The word hung heavy between them.
She wanted to argue, to tell him that she did not see a monster, that she saw a man—flawed, broken, but still a man worth choosing. But the way he stood there, rigid and distant, told her it would be useless. He had already decided.
“And what of me?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Do I have no say in this? Must you always decide what I need, what I want, without even asking me?”
His expression hardened. “You deserve peace. Freedom. Not whispers and fear every time you enter a room.”
Her laugh came sharp and bitter. “Freedom? Is that what you call this? Dismissing me like a servant, as though I were some inconvenience?”
Richard’s face flickered with something that might have been shame. “I’m giving you a choice.”
“No,” she said, stepping closer. “You are taking one away. Again.”
The words struck home; she saw it in the way his eyes narrowed, the breath he drew too sharply. For a moment she thought he might reach for her, might argue, might beg her to understand—but he only shook his head.
“You will not have to continue the wedding and marry me. Luckily, we were interrupted before we could be joined,” he said finally.
“Luckily?”
“I knew it was Jasper. It was his button, the one we found that night. I knew he was beginning to lose himself in envy again, watching every moment we spent together.”
“But he loves Louisa,” Caroline whispered.
“And he hates it when I’m not suffering, it seems. I received a letter a few days ago that confirmed my suspicions.
The man that he paid to have me press-ganged confessed.
But this is good news for you. I don’t need to drag you into this mess, and you won’t have to marry soon.
The scandal will linger long enough to keep other men at bay.
Your family will have time to recover, and when it fades, you will be free to choose again. ”
“Choose?” she whispered. “As though choice were some bauble tossed at my feet. You would cast me adrift in disgrace and call it kindness?”
He looked pained, but his resolve did not waver. “Better disgrace than misery.”
Her throat tightened. “And you? What will you do?”
“I will bear what I have earned,” he said simply. “Alone.”
There it was—that wall she could never breach, the fortress of solitude that defined him. For all his power, for all the storms in his eyes, Richard was a man who refused to be saved.
Caroline’s breath came ragged now, her composure cracking under the weight of his words.
This was the freedom she had once claimed to want: no husband, no master, no binding contract.
Yet hearing it spoken aloud by the one man she—she could barely bring herself to finish the thought—by the man she felt for, it hollowed her.
“Very well,” she said at last, forcing steel into her tone. “If that is your wish, Your Grace, I will not burden you further.”
He looked at her sharply, perhaps expecting tears, but her eyes were dry, her chin lifted high in defiance.
“I thank you,” she continued, each syllable cutting like glass, “for releasing me.”
She turned away before he could see the tremor that threatened to betray her. The gravel crunched beneath her slippers as she walked down the path, the train of her ruined wedding gown dragging behind her like a shroud.
Richard took a half step forward, then stopped. His fists clenched helplessly at his sides, the urge to call her name battling with the belief that he no longer had the right. The words stayed unspoken.
The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of roses and candle smoke from the chapel. The garden was still except for the flutter of her veil as it slipped free and caught on a branch. He watched it there, pale against the dark leaves, until it stilled.
Caroline did not look back.
And for the first time in years, Richard felt the full measure of solitude he had always claimed to prefer. It did not feel like peace. It felt like punishment.
Caroline sat motionless inside the carriage that was taking her back home, her hands clenched in her lap, her gaze fixed on the fading countryside through the window.
The landscape blurred with every jolt of the carriage, but she barely saw it; her mind replayed the garden over and over—the roses, the sunlight, Richard’s face when he told her she was free.
That word—free—had never sounded so hollow.
When the carriage halted, John was already waiting on the steps. His usually playful expression faltered when he saw her pale face and the wilted remnants of her bridal gown. “Caroline…” he began softly, offering his hand.
She took it, though her fingers were cold. “You should not look at me like that, John. I’m not a ghost.”
He attempted a weak smile. “You look like one.”
“I feel worse,” she admitted, stepping down. Her skirts caught on the step, and John stooped quickly to untangle them—too quickly, as though desperate to do something, anything, to help.
Inside, the manor felt strange, as though time had skipped a beat. The servants moved quietly, eyes downcast, pretending not to notice that their mistress had returned in her wedding dress before the hour of luncheon.
Nicholas appeared in the hall, his face drawn but composed. “I came to see how you were coping after the incident.”
“An incident?” Caroline gave a bitter laugh. “That’s one way to name it.”
Her father’s mouth tightened. “Do I want to know the details?”
“No,” she said wearily. “You do not.”
He hesitated, then approached and took her hand. “You are safe—that is all that matters.”
“Safe?” she repeated softly. “I’m not certain that word applies to anyone involved.”
Nicholas sighed. “The scandal will be fierce, but short-lived. You, my dear, shall endure.”
She turned away before he could see the tears gathering in her eyes. “Endurance is such a tedious virtue,” she murmured, ascending the stairs with as much dignity as she could muster.
That night, the storm broke.