Chapter 26
Later that day, Richard sat at the instrument, broad shoulders bowed slightly as his fingers glided across the keys. Caroline, seated nearby with her sketchbook, worked in stillness that mirrored his—each note he played seemed to guide her hand.
She had thought passion must always come loud, reckless, and consuming, but here, in these quiet evenings, she found something else—something deeper.
The subtle warmth of his gaze when her pencil faltered, the steady rhythm of his music, the way his presence steadied the restless corners of her heart—all these spoke more of love than any grand declaration could.
Even though she had yet to hear that word from him.
Or say it. Though they cared for each other, they didn’t seem ready to completely let go, yet.
Or so she would like to think. Because he had already claimed her as his, in more ways than one.
The words didn’t matter. Or maybe she’d hear them after they were truly married.
But what if he couldn’t say them because she wasn’t ready to give him children?
No. Richard wasn’t like this. She knew that now. Maybe she just had to tell them first.
After all, there would be no games, no defiance, no need to guard herself with wit or pride now.
Caroline found herself sketching him without hesitation, not as the Devil of the Ton, but as the man who hummed under his breath as he played, lost to thought.
She lingered on his scar—the mark that had once repelled her and now only reminded her of his strength.
Richard, for his part, would glance up from time to time and find her bent over her work, a small frown of concentration creasing her brow.
The tune he was playing carried a faint trace of melancholy, and as it filled the room, Caroline’s chest grew tight. Her pencil slipped from her fingers and rolled across the table, but she did not reach for it.
Her voice broke the stillness before she could stop herself. “Richard.”
He did not stop playing at first, only lifted his head a little, humming under his breath in answer.
“I have to ask you something,” she said softly.
The music faltered. He turned his head, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “You sound grave. What weighs so heavily?”
Her heart beat faster. The words came haltingly, heavy and raw. “It’s about… children.”
The music stopped completely. His fingers lingered on the keys for a moment, then stilled. The last note lingered before fading into silence.
Richard closed the piano lid gently, the small sound impossibly loud in the hush that followed. He turned in his seat, studying her face. “What of them?”
Caroline swallowed hard. Her throat felt dry. “You must have thought of it,” she whispered.
He said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—steady, gray, and searching—held her captive.
“I thought I could bear it,” she continued, her words tumbling out faster now. “That I could pretend not to be afraid. But I can’t, Richard. I am afraid.”
He rose from the piano slowly, his shadow stretching long across the carpet as he crossed the room toward her. Caroline gripped the edge of her sketchbook until her knuckles whitened, willing herself not to shrink back.
When he reached her, he stood silent for a long moment. The light from the fire caught the scar that cut across his face, sharp and pale against his skin. “I know” he said finally, his tone quiet but unyielding.
Her breath trembled. “I am so afraid of childbirth,” she continued. “Of dying.”
Richard’s brow furrowed slightly, but she pressed on, the words spilling out before she could think better of them.
“My mother died bringing me into the world, I’ve told you as much.
I never knew her—only the stories my father told.
She was young, strong, healthy. It should have been safe.
But it wasn’t.” She took a shaky breath.
“They say I was lucky to live, but sometimes I wonder if I stole her life for mine.”
Her voice broke on the last word, and the room seemed to shrink around her.
Richard did not answer immediately. He stood very still, the firelight flickering across his face, revealing the faint tremor of his jaw. Then, slowly, he knelt before her.
Caroline’s breath caught. The Duke of Ashwood—this man who commanded rooms with a glance—was kneeling at her feet, his hands resting lightly on her knees.
“Caroline,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”
She did.
The storm outside pressed against the windows, rain pattering in steady rhythm, but within the room, there was only stillness. His voice, when it came again, was low and deliberate, each word carved with care.
"When you’re ready," he repeated gently, his voice calm and reassuring. "Not before," he added, emphasizing his words with a gentle nod.
She stood there, her lips parting as if she were about to speak, but no words came out. Her emotions were so intense that they seemed to catch in her throat, leaving her momentarily speechless.
He continued speaking, his eyes fixed on hers with a steady, unwavering gaze. "You’ll never be forced," he promised, his voice sincere and full of warmth. "Not by me. Not ever."
Hearing his words, tears began to blur her vision, making the world around her shimmer. The emotion she felt was overwhelming, yet also comforting. She reached up instinctively, her fingertips trembling slightly as they hovered in the air between them.
"Do you mean that?" she managed to whisper, her voice filled with a mix of hope and vulnerability. Her fingers remained unsteady, as if she were trying to find something solid to hold onto.
His expression softened, though his voice remained steady. “I do. You are a person, Caroline, not my trophy. Not my means to an heir. You will choose what happens to your body and your life. That choice will always be yours.”
Something in her chest loosened, an ache that had been locked away since girlhood. Her tears fell freely now, tracing warm paths down her cheeks. She had expected promises of safety, of doctors, of all the things men said to quiet women’s fears—but not this. Not the simple gift of agency.
He reached out with his hands, marked by old scars, each one telling its own story. With gentle, steady movements, he used those strong hands to softly brush away her tears. "You’ve been brave all your life," he said, his voice full of admiration and warmth.
"You faced me when others feared me," he continued, speaking clearly and truthfully. "You speak out when others would rather stay silent." His eyes held hers, showing he truly meant every word. "You are stronger than you think," he added, his voice a firm and comforting assurance.
She gave a choked laugh, surprised by his faith in her. "You make me sound fearless," she responded, humor and disbelief mingling in her voice.
"You are," he affirmed, his expression serious and sincere. He didn’t hesitate, speaking like he was stating a plain fact.
His words seemed to touch something deep inside her, causing a flicker of hope and strength to rise. Feeling a warmth spread through her heart, she leaned forward, her hands trembling slightly as she tenderly grasped his shoulders for support.
For a moment, she simply held him close, finding comfort in the solidness of his presence. Her forehead rested gently against his, a small sigh escaping her lips as the closeness allowed her to feel safe and understood.
"Thank you," she whispered softly, her voice filled with gratitude and affection. These simple words carried all she felt but could not fully express.
He said nothing more. He didn’t need to.
They stayed like that for a long time—her tears quieting, his breath warm against her cheek, the storm outside softening to a gentle drizzle. When she finally drew back, there was peace where fear had been.
Richard rose, his movements deliberate, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Rest now,” he said softly. “You’ve carried this too long.”
Caroline nodded, unable to speak.
He lingered a moment longer, his eyes tracing her face as though memorizing it, then turned toward the door. The soft sound of his footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving her alone with the quiet crackle of the fire.
When Richard’s footsteps had faded, the chamber felt larger for his absence.
The hush that settled afterward was not the heavy silence of loneliness, but something gentler—a pause, as though the house itself were holding its breath.
Caroline remained seated a while, staring at the fire until the last sparks crumbled into soft gray ash.
Her eyes still burned from tears, yet a strange calm had taken root within her chest.
Her sketchbook lay upon the table where she had left it, a few loose sheets curling at the edges from the warmth of the fire.
She sat once more and drew it toward her, opening to a blank page.
The emptiness of it beckoned, asking to be filled.
For years she had drawn her fears—shadows, beasts, brides trapped behind bars of ink—but tonight her hand moved differently, lighter, as though the darkness had loosened its grip.
She began with the familiar outline of the pianoforte, its lid open, the keys gleaming pale beneath candlelight.
Then she shaped the tall figure seated before it, head inclined, shoulders relaxed.
The man’s face was turned slightly away, enough that the scar lay half hidden in the light.
Behind him she placed a second figure—herself—standing near his shoulder, not cowering as in the old sketches, but leaning forward to listen.
The pencil glided steadily, sure where once it had hesitated.
Line by line the drawing took life. Richard’s hands she traced with particular care: broad, strong, scarred, yet graceful upon the keys.
In her memory she could almost hear the music again, low and resonant, wrapping the room in warmth.
A small smile curved her mouth as she shaded the space between them—the shared light, the shared peace.
When at last she paused, she saw that the faces in the sketch were smiling.
Not the strained smiles of society portraits, but quiet ones, content, born of recognition rather than pretense.
The woman’s eyes were turned toward the man; his toward the music.
It was a simple composition, yet something in it steadied her heartbeat.
Caroline set down her pencil and studied the image.
Hope, she realized, was a fragile thing—it did not arrive with trumpet or drum, but crept softly into the soul, like dawn seeping through shutters.
Tonight it had come to her, unannounced, borne upon the promise Richard had spoken: When you’re ready. Not before.
She touched the corner of the page with careful fingers, smudging a faint shadow where the graphite was still soft. In that moment the sketch seemed less a picture than a vow. For the first time since childhood, she believed that the future might be kind.
In her bedchamber the sheets were cool against her skin.
Richard had told her he wouldn’t lose control with her again until they were properly married, which only seemed to make her want him more.
Perhaps she could consider this one last game.
She couldn’t lose. She could wait. She lay on her bed, facing the window, listening to the whisper of the rain.
Images drifted through her half-drowsy mind: Richard at the piano, the strength of his hands, the steadiness of his voice as he spoke her name.
Each memory brushed away another layer of fear.
Sleep came slowly, yet peacefully, carrying her into dreams untroubled by the specter of loss.
When dawn came, pale and clean, Caroline woke with the sense that something within her had changed shape. The fear remained—it always would—but it no longer ruled her.