Page 48 of A Virgin for the Forbidden Duke

“Oh course, Your Grace. Your understanding is most gracious. I’ll convey your sentiments to Agnes.”

Even her gratitude was fake.

But before he could say anything else, Mary did the unthinkable. She slammed the door in his face.

The echo of the wooden door closing resonated in the corridor, leaving Matthew standing there, seething in silent indignation. He had always known Mary to be a wicked and proud person, but how could she act like this even to him? He might not be an elite from birth, but he was a duke!

His respect for Agnes made him decide not to cause any trouble. So, he turned away, preparing to depart Grouton Manor, when the door swung open again.

His heart leaped, and he turned back, hoping for Agnes to appear.

Agnes?

But disappointment replaced anticipation, as it was only a servant with a basin of laundry. Matthew sighed and turned again, taking a couple of steps away, resigned to the situation. However, fate had another twist in store.

The servant, in her haste, collided with Matthew, sending the basin crashing to the floor. Dirty laundry sprawled across the tiles, creating a chaotic scene of linen and fabric. The servant, visibly flustered, began apologizing profusely, kneeling to gather the scattered clothes.

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace! I’m sorry, pardon me!” she repeated over and over.

Matthew, suppressing his frustration, knelt beside her, assisting in the endeavor to restore order to the strewn laundry. As he lent a helping hand, the servant quickly shifted near him and slipped a small piece of paper into his hand.

She whispered to him, “My name is Peggy, Your Grace, Miss Agnes’s handmaiden. She asked me to give you this.”

Surprised and intrigued, Matthew could only watch as Peggy swiftly gathered her basin, offering another quick apology, and scurried away, disappearing around the corner. Matthew, left alone with the mysterious note, palmed it tight in his hand. Then, he looked around and up.

There, by the window, Agnes stood and watched him, sadness and devastation in her eyes.

Anger washed over him.

What were they doing to her?! Why did she look so out of it?!

He made to walk back to the door and cause trouble till he was allowed to meet her, but she shook her head quickly, her eyes widening in fear and sadness.

Matthew growled. He turned and walked back toward his carriage before he unfolded the paper in his hand.

The message, written hastily but with urgency, conveyed Agnes’s predicament. It explained that Mary’s claim of her being indisposed was a ruse. Agnes was, in fact, confined against her will. She also added in the note that she would find a way to escape and they should meet at night.

By the town’s garden. Your Grace.

Matthew’s shock and concern deepened as he absorbed the contents of the clandestine missive. A surge of anger overtook him, and he worked so hard to calm himself.

He looked back once. She still stood by the window. She looked so sad that it took all Matthew’s control not to match over.

He nodded once and then turned again, jumped into his carriage, and rode off.

On the way out of the manor, Mike, not knowing of the Duke’s turbulent mood, inquired with a respectful tone, “Where to next, Your Grace?”

Matthew cast a steely gaze at the driver. “The pub,” he snarled, the words laced with a raw intensity that left no room for further inquiry.

Mike, sensing the Duke’s need for a reprieve, promptly steered the carriage in the direction of the familiar establishment, the wheels rattling on the cobblestone streets as they made their way through the dimly lit evening.

The carriage rolled to a halt in front of the pub. Matthew descended from the carriage with an air of hostility and anger, causing people to instinctively part and make way for him.

His strides were purposeful, each step echoing the turmoil within him. The pub’s entrance loomed ahead, a haven for those seeking solace or, in Matthew’s case, a temporary escape from the vexations that plagued him.

Entering the pub, he scanned the dimly lit interior, the flickering candlelight casting shadows that danced across the worn wooden surfaces.

Matthew approached a nearby waitress, his gaze sharp and unwavering. “Fetch me a drink,” he commanded, the terseness in his voice unmistakable.

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