Page 20 of His Forsaken Duchess
She smoothed her skirts and sat down on the sofa with impeccable grace. The Duke hesitated briefly before lowering himself into a nearby chair. His movements were deliberate, his expression unreadable as he studied her. Audrey held her head high, determined to prove herself equal to this strange man.
“What is Oxford like?” she asked suddenly, her curiosity outweighing her decorum.
His eyebrow rose slightly. “Perhaps you should visit and find out.”
“I suppose I might,” she said airily. “But I have heard it’s terribly cold.”
“And terribly demanding,” he added, his tone faintly sardonic.
Audrey gave him a cheeky smile. “Then it suits you perfectly.”
To her astonishment, a quiet laugh escaped his lips, soft and unexpected. Her smile widened, though she noted with some satisfaction how quickly he regained his composure.
The arrival of tea interrupted the moment.
Audrey leaped to her feet, eager to show off her skills. She poured the tea carefully, her hands steady on the teapot. “How do you take your tea, Your Grace?” she asked primly.
“Plain,” he replied, watching her with an inscrutable expression.
She handed him a cup, her movements slow and deliberate. As he accepted it, he raised an eyebrow. “I am surprised you did not spill it.”
Audrey bristled, her spine straightening. “I can pour tea, play the pianoforte, embroider, and paint.”
“Impressive,” he said, though his tone was laced with dry amusement. “Shall I commission a portrait from you?”
“I could paint you with my eyes closed,” she declared, lifting her chin.
“How romantic,” he murmured, his sarcasm evident.
Audrey pressed her lips together, her cheeks burning with indignation.
Charming? Not in the slightest. He is insufferable.
She decided right then and there that there was no chance she would ever find him agreeable.
Audrey blinked now, the memory dissolving as she returned to the present. The letter still lay on her desk, a reminder of the man who had remained as detached at thirty as he had been at twenty.
Rising from her escritoire, she crossed to the door, her hand pausing on the handle.
Should I find him?she wondered as the cold from the castle walls seeped further into her skin.
Cedric pinched the bridge of his nose, glaring at the stack of papers on his desk. The figures blurred together, meaningless against the incessant irritation gnawing at him. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through clenched teeth. The study, his sanctuary for years, no longer offered the solace it once did.
She was everywhere.
He could hear her voice floating down the hall, light and melodic as she conversed with the staff. Laughter occasionally punctured the quiet, a sound so foreign to Haremore Castle that it sethis teeth on edge. And her scent—delicate, floral, maddening—seemed to cling to the very walls. Even now, he caught the faintest trace of it, as if mocking his attempts to focus.
He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping across the floor. His study suddenly felt too small, too close. A walk around the garden might have cleared his head, but the snow continued to fall relentlessly, trapping him within the very walls he had once chosen for solitude.
With a low growl, he stalked to the door, intent on escaping to… anywhere but here.
Then he heard it—the strains of music drifting through the hallways. The pianoforte.
Cedric stilled, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He hadn’t heard the instrument being played since his sister’s passing. His jaw tightened at the unexpected flood of memories, but the melody beckoned him, light and deft. Against his better judgment, he followed the sound.
The drawing room door was slightly ajar, and he paused outside, his hand resting on the frame. There she was, the Duchess, sitting on the piano bench. Her back was to him, her posture straight but relaxed as her fingers danced effortlessly over the keys. The firelight cast a warm glow on her figure, and the soft swish of her skirts as she moved with the music filled the room.
Cedric crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. The Duchess played with a skill that was both practiced andinstinctive, her focus entirely on the music. The melody shifted, bright and lively, as though the very castle itself had come alive under her touch. He had to admit—though begrudgingly—that it was beautiful.
