Chapter 29
Later that night, Richard sprawled in his shirtsleeves near the fire while Caroline sat cross-legged on the carpet, sketchbook propped on her knees.
"Hold still," she instructed, her voice carrying a touch of playful authority as she tapped her pencil thoughtfully against her chin. She was sketching, capturing his likeness on paper, and she needed him to stay perfectly motionless.
"I have been holding still for ten minutes," he complained, his voice tinged with exaggerated irritation. "My patience is not infinite, you know." He shifted slightly in his seat, trying to keep the stiffness from settling in his muscles.
"Then try harder," she replied, her tone turning sweet, almost teasing as she attempted to coax him into compliance. She glanced up from her sketchpad, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, enjoying this little game.
“This is not what I had in mind for our wedding night, you know.”
He scowled at her—his expression deliberately over-the-top, with his eyebrows furrowing dramatically and his lips pressing together in an exaggerated pout. The sight was so absurdly comedic that she couldn't hold back any longer.
Suddenly, laughter bubbled up from within her, spilling out in a joyous, infectious cascade of giggles.
The sound was so unexpected and full of delight that it took him by surprise.
She laughed so hard that her pencil slipped from her fingers, streaking a bold line across the page, bisecting his nearly finished portrait.
"You’ve ruined it," she gasped, trying to catch her breath between fits of laughter, her cheeks flushed with amusement and her eyes sparkling with tears of mirth.
“I warned you,” he said, though his lips curved in reluctant amusement. “Perhaps you should sketch something less stubborn.”
“Impossible. You are my favorite subject.”
He gave a low sound. “Flattery ill suits you, Duchess.”
“It isn’t flattery,” she said softly, meeting his gaze. “It’s fact.”
For a long moment, there was only the crackle of the fire between them. Then Richard leaned forward, his voice roughened with affection. “Then draw me again.”
And she did.
For the first time in Caroline’s life, happiness felt not like a fleeting dream, but a daring rebellion. And beside her, the Devil of the Ton looked almost human—smiling, teasing, utterly hers.
The fire burned low, its amber glow softening the edges of the room.
Caroline sat on the rug, her sketchbook open across her lap, sheets of charcoal and half-finished portraits scattered around her like petals after a storm.
The quiet intimacy of the evening—the laughter, the warmth, the lingering scent of sandalwood from Richard’s coat—made her chest ache with a strange, aching contentment.
Richard lounged behind her on the settee, half reclined, watching her with that steady, unreadable gaze that always made her pulse quicken.
He had abandoned his cravat hours ago, the top of his shirt loosened just enough to reveal the dark line of his throat.
There was a rare peace in him tonight; his eyes were softer, the tension at his shoulders eased.
Caroline smiled faintly as she brushed a stray lock of hair from her brow and began sorting through her sketches.
Some she kept—portraits of him brooding near the window, laughing over breakfast, bent over the piano.
Others she set aside, little practice pieces, drawings of flowers and hands, the occasional imperfect likeness.
“"Show me," Richard said with a lazy drawl, reclining comfortably in his chair as he observed her with relaxed curiosity.
She glanced up from her work, a hint of surprise in her eyes. "Show you what?" she asked, slightly puzzled by his request.
"Whichever one makes you smile like that," he clarified, nodding toward the papers or perhaps a book she held.
A moment of hesitation washed over her, as she was caught between feelings of shyness and a hint of pride in her accomplishments. She bit her lip slightly, considering whether to share this piece of herself with him.
"You will laugh," she warned, her voice carrying a mixture of anticipation and a dash of vulnerability. She knew him well enough to predict his playful nature.
"Undoubtedly," he replied with a slight grin, reassuring her with his eyes. "But I'll like it," he added.
She turned the sketchbook so he could see—a rough, playful sketch of him sitting in that very chair, arms crossed, scowling in mock irritation. Across the top she had written, ‘The Devil at Leisure.’
He huffed, pretending disapproval. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet you asked to marry me. Twice,” she countered.
“I was bewitched,” he muttered.
Her laughter filled the room, light and sweet. She reached for another sheet to tuck away, still grinning, but as she moved the pile, one sketch slipped free and drifted to the floor.
Richard leaned forward to catch it before it touched the carpet. He glanced down—and then froze.
The charcoal lines were softer, more deliberate, as though her hand had trembled over every detail. It was unmistakably them—him and Caroline, drawn together in tender repose. But in her arms, nestled against the folds of her gown, was an infant.
The firelight caught the faint sheen of graphite on the child’s curls. The image was so intimate, so impossibly gentle, that for a long moment Richard could not breathe.