Chapter 21
Richard had not slept.
The storm had not passed. It lingered over Ashwood Hall as though reluctant to leave, the wind sighing through the eaves, the rain whispering against the tall windows like a restless spirit.
The candle at his desk had burned to its base, leaving only a stub of wax and the bitter scent of smoke. He sat before it, eyes bloodshot, hands clasped before him as though he were waiting for judgment. The brandy was gone.
He had played until his hands ached, until the sound itself began to mock him. Now the silence pressed in—thick, suffocating, absolute.
He had sent for no one. He had spoken to no one. In his solitude he had convinced himself he wanted it so. Yet every heartbeat felt like an accusation.
It was nearly dawn when the door burst open.
“Richard.”
He looked up, blinking against the sudden intrusion. “Sophia?”
She swept into the room without ceremony, her cloak dripping rain onto the carpet, her cheeks flushed with cold and fury. “You leave me no choice but to storm your tower like some besieging army,” she said, voice trembling.
He exhaled wearily. “I told you I wished to be left alone.”
“And I told you I have no patience for fools,” she snapped.
He leaned back in his chair, regarding her through the haze of sleeplessness. “Then you’ve wasted a journey, cousin. My foolishness is long confirmed.”
“Do you think this amusing?” she demanded. “You, drinking yourself into ruin while she–”
Her voice broke, and she pressed her lips together before continuing. “You know nothing of what that girl endures while you hide here pretending at martyrdom.”
Richard’s expression did not change, though the faint muscle in his jaw twitched. “I know enough.”
“Do you?” She strode forward, producing something from beneath her cloak. A folded sheet of paper, worn at the creases. She held it tightly, as though afraid it might burn her fingers even before it touched the fire.
“I found this beneath her pillow,” she said quietly. “It was the only thing she took with her from Ashwood.”
He frowned. “What is it?”
“See for yourself.”
She thrust it toward him. For a moment he hesitated before taking it. The paper unfolded stiffly, smudged with charcoal, and he felt his breath catch.
It was a sketch—rough, emotional, painfully vivid. His own likeness stared back at him, though twisted: the scar carved softer, the eyes brighter, the shoulders monstrous. In the drawing, he held a woman to himself, kissing her softly.
His throat closed.
“She drew this?”
“Yes,” Sophia said. “During the days before the wedding. I thought you should see what she imagined when she thought of you.”
He said nothing.
Sophia’s tone softened, though her gaze stayed steady. “You frightened her, Richard. That day by the lake, the anger in you—she captured it here. It terrified her, yet she could not stop sketching you. You haunt her.”
Richard’s fingers tightened on the page until it creased. “Why bring me this?”
“Because you must understand what she fights—her fear, her heart, her confusion. If you love her, you cannot let this–” She gestured to the sketch—“become the truth.”
He stared down at it again, and something inside him twisted. The artist’s hand had not lied; the shadows, the darkness, the anguish—they were all him.
Sophia turned toward the hearth, her eyes blazing. “If this is what you mean to keep becoming, then let it burn.”
Before he could stop her, she flung the drawing into the fire.
The paper caught instantly, curling black at the edges, the image of his own monstrous face twisting in the flames.
“No!”
Richard lunged forward, instinct overriding sense. He reached into the grate, seizing the burning page with his bare hand. The heat seared through his skin, pain exploding up his arm, but he refused to let go until he had smothered the flames against the stone floor.
“Richard!” Sophia cried, rushing to his side.
He crouched there, panting, the ruined paper in his scorched palm. His skin was blistered, the edges raw, but he did not seem to notice. He stared at what remained of the drawing—the faint lines still visible beneath the ash.
His own face, half burnt, half preserved.
The smell of char and singed flesh filled the room.
Sophia knelt beside him, horrified. “You fool!” She seized a cloth from the table and tried to take his hand, but he pulled away.
“Leave it,” he said hoarsely.
“Richard, you’ll scar.”
He looked at her then, and she saw tears glinting in his eyes. “Do you think I care for another scar?”
She froze.
He turned his gaze back to the ruined page. The edges still smoldered faintly, curling inward. He brushed them away gently, as if by doing so he might uncover some hidden forgiveness beneath.
“This,” he said softly, almost to himself, “is how she saw me.”
“She was frightened, yes,” Sophia said gently. “But she also stayed. She drew you again and again. She wanted you, even in fear.”
He let out a broken laugh, low and bitter. “And still she left.”
“She left because you pushed her away.”
He looked up sharply, but Sophia did not flinch.
“You told her she was free,” she said, voice trembling with feeling. “You told her she should not marry you. You gave her nothing to hold on to but this.” She gestured to the blackened sketch. “You made her believe this was all you were.”
Richard stared at the floor, at his burned hand still clutching the remains of the drawing. “Perhaps it is.”
“No.” Sophia’s tone hardened. “That is what you’ve let yourself become. But the man who dove into a lake to save her, who fought off his own cousin to protect her—that man is still there, whether you will admit it or not.”
He said nothing. The wind rattled the tower windows again, scattering a few embers from the hearth.
Sophia rose slowly, watching him with a mixture of pity and fierce affection. “I brought you this not to torture you, but to make you choose. Either you let this version of yourself consume what’s left of your heart—or you fight for her.”
He did not answer.
She turned toward the door, pausing only once to look back. “I know which choice she would make, if she believed you still cared.”
When the door closed behind her, the silence returned. But it was no longer empty—it was weighted with the echo of her words.
Richard sat back slowly, the charred paper trembling in his fingers. The fire cast its glow across his face, painting him in alternating gold and shadow.
He thought of Caroline’s voice, soft and defiant, of the way she had looked at him not with horror but with challenge. Of the way she had trembled beneath his touch, not out of fear but because she had felt something too.
He pressed the ruined drawing to his chest. The pain in his palm was sharp, real, grounding.
“Caroline,” he whispered, her name breaking like prayer.
The wind rose outside, tearing through the trees. The candles flickered.
For a long time he sat there, motionless, staring into the dying fire until his reflection blurred into the embers.
When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible.
“I can’t lose her.”
The admission hung in the air, soft but absolute, the first truth he had spoken aloud in months.
He bowed his head, the paper still clutched against his heart, and for the first time since returning from war, the Duke of Ashwood wept.
The dawn that broke over Ashwood Hall was thin and pale, casting a brittle light through the windows of the tower.
Richard had not moved from his seat. The hearth still glowed faintly, its embers cooling into gray dust. The ruined sketch lay before him, blackened at the edges like a relic from a fire that refused to die.
He stared at it as though it were a mirror.
Sophia’s words still echoed in his head, cruel in their truth. You made her believe this was all you were.
All his life he had been praised for control—over his estate, over men, over every impulse that might betray weakness. But what had that mastery brought him? A hollow title, a house full of ghosts, and a woman who had walked away because he had been too proud to tell her he loved her.
The pain in his hand throbbed dully, but he welcomed it. It reminded him he still lived—that his body, at least, had not yet surrendered to the numbness consuming his heart.
He rose slowly, the chair scraping against the floor.
The hall outside was silent, though somewhere below he heard the faint stirrings of servants beginning their morning rounds.
When he stepped to the window, the rain had eased.
The grounds lay drenched, glistening like glass, the air sharp with the scent of wet earth.
He had sent her away with words he did not mean, and she had believed him.
He had told her she was free, that she would not need to marry him.
It had been meant as protection — a desperate, self-inflicted wound to spare her from his own darkness.
But all he had done was teach her to doubt his heart.
And now, she was to be auctioned again.
The thought hit like a blade between his ribs.
He closed his eyes, gripping the window ledge so hard his knuckles whitened. Another auction. Another round of leering men, counting her dowry, measuring her worth in coin.
A low sound escaped him—something between a growl and a groan.
His reflection in the glass looked back, the scar across his face catching the light like a brand.
For the first time, he saw not the Devil, not the beast Caroline had drawn—but a man standing on the brink of ruin, about to let the only good thing left in his world slip through his fingers.
He turned sharply, striding toward the door.
But he stopped halfway across the room, his hand at the latch.
What if she did not want him? What if all he saw in her eyes had been pity—or worse, fear?
He swallowed hard, jaw tightening. “Better fear than indifference,” he muttered. “Better anger than silence.”
He needed air. And action.
When Richard descended the spiral staircase, the household froze in astonishment. None had seen the duke emerge from his tower in days. He passed them without a word, his boots leaving a trail of mud and ash across the marble floors.
In the hall, Edmund intercepted him. “Richard,” he said cautiously, “you look as though you mean to march into battle.”
“Perhaps I do,” Richard replied.
Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve heard, then. About Fernsby’s intentions.”
“I have.” The two words were sharp as steel.
“Then for God’s sake, think before you act. You can’t storm into that house like a conquering general. The scandal’s already enough to cripple half the ton.”
Richard turned to him, eyes burning with a grim kind of clarity. “Scandal is the least of what I’ve survived.”
“Don’t make this worse,” Edmund warned. “You’ll only drive her farther away.”
Richard gave a hollow laugh. “She cannot go farther than she already has.”
He moved past his friend, shoulders set, and disappeared into the courtyard.
The grooms startled when he appeared in the stables, demanding his horse. He did not wait for help. Within moments he had saddled the black stallion himself, his injured hand raw against the reins. The pain bit deep, but he welcomed it. It kept him awake—kept him focused.
When he spurred the horse into motion, hooves struck sparks from the stones, and the wind whipped through his hair like the breath of reprieve. The countryside blurred past in shades of green and gray, the road stretching ahead like judgment.
He rode harder than he had since the war.
Richard was drenched as he reined his horse to a halt before the manor gates. Breathless, the burn in his hand throbbing beneath the leather glove. But when he saw the house—the place where she waited, trapped again by pride and duty—his fear melted into purpose.
He swung down from the saddle, the gravel crunching underfoot, and stared at the door that would either damn or redeem him.
“I will not lose her,” he said quietly.