Page 104 of His Forsaken Duchess
“Why must it always be you?” Cedric growled, his voice echoing through the cavernous study.
His hands gripped the edge of the desk, the wood biting into his palms, but he welcomed the pain. It was a tether to reality, to the cold, unyielding truth he couldn’t escape.
He released the desk and stalked toward the fireplace, grappling with his responsibility to avenge and uphold honor, to bear his family’s tragedies, and to deal with Rashford. He yanked his cravat loose, tossing it onto a nearby chair, his movements sharp and unrefined—unlike the poised façade he had presented at the ball.
Audrey’s voice echoed in his mind.“How can you think that this will solve anything? You think Cecilia would want this?You think she would want you to die for her honor?”
He flinched, the memory slicing through him as cleanly as a blade. He ran a hand through his dark hair, gripping the strands at the crown of his head as if he could wrench the thoughts from his mind by sheer force. But they lingered, tormenting him endlessly.
“She doesn’t understand,” he muttered, his voice low and hoarse. He dropped his hand, clenching it at his side. “She cannot understand.”
And yet, a part of him—a small, insistent voice buried deep within—whispered that she did understand. That was what terrified him the most. Audrey’s eyes, wide with anguish, had seen through every wall he had painstakingly built. She had seen his pain, his guilt, his fury. And worst of all, she had seen the truth: that this was not just about Cecilia. It was about himself, too. About the man he had become and the man he could never hope to be.
He turned away from the fireplace and strode to the sideboard, where a decanter of whiskey gleamed amber in the firelight. For a long moment, he stared at it, his chest rising and falling with erratic breaths. He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since his father’s death, had sworn to never let it dull his senses or loosen his restraint. But tonight, the thought of facing the hours ahead without its numbing effects was unbearable.
Cedric reached for the decanter, his hand steady despite his inner turmoil. He poured the whiskey into a glass, the liquid catching the light like molten gold. The scent invaded his nostrils, sharp and familiar, and for a moment, he hesitated.
Then, he drank.
The burn was immediate, scorching his throat and settling like fire in his chest. He closed his eyes, the sensation both painful and oddly comforting. The glass was empty before he knew it, and his hand moved to refill it almost on instinct.
Audrey’s face flashed through his mind again—her pale cheeks, her trembling lips, her voice breaking as she pleaded with him to reconsider.
“How many people will lose you, Cedric?”
The glass trembled in his hand, but he tightened his grip on it. He downed the second drink in a single swallow, the heat spreading through him with a false sense of clarity.
He placed the empty glass on the desk with deliberate precision, his movements slow and controlled, though his mind was anything but. The edges of his anger had dulled, but his decisions remained, pressing down on him like an iron shackle.
“This is what honor demands,” he murmured to himself, the words hollow and heavy. His gaze fell to the letter from Belleville, which lay open on the desk beside him. The arrangements were set. Green Park. At dawn.
Cedric turned back to the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. He stared into the flames, his expression hardening. He knew he was right to challenge Rashford. He knew the man deserved toanswer for his crimes, to face the consequences of his actions. His sister had been just one of many. Lilianna might have been next. And he would not—could not—stand by and let it happen again.
But Audrey…
His breath hitched, and his hands clenched into fists. She had followed him to the study, her presence a force of nature he hadn’t been prepared for. Her determination, her defiance—it had shaken him. And when she had called him out, her words cutting through his defenses, he had been unable to meet her gaze.
“Is that all I am to you? A stranger? A woman you are saddled with through duty and nothing more?”
The memory twisted like a knife in his gut. He had wanted to tell her—needed to tell her—that she was wrong. That she was more to him than he had ever intended. But the words had stuck in his throat, a barrier he couldn’t overcome. Because to admit it would be to invite hope. And hope was a luxury he could not afford.
His jaw tightened as he turned away from the fire, his strides purposeful as he returned to the desk. He opened the top drawer and withdrew a small, unadorned box. Inside was a dueling pistol, its polished surface gleaming in the flickering light. He traced a finger over the cool metal, his expression unreadable.
For years, he had avoided confrontation, choosing solitude over entanglement, silence over conflict. But this… this was different. This was justice.
A knock at the door startled him, and his head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Who is it?” he barked, his voice harsher than he had intended.
The door opened cautiously, and Belleville stepped inside, his expression grim. “Haremore,” he said quietly. “Are you certain about this?”
Cedric met his gaze, his jaw set. “I am.”
Belleville sighed, closing the door behind him. He crossed the room, his footsteps soft against the floorboards, and stopped a few paces from Cedric. “You’ve thought this through?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve considered the consequences? The scandal? The risk to your title, your estate, your?—”
“This is not about titles or estates,” Cedric interrupted sharply. “This is about what’s right. Rashford has gone unchecked for too long. If I do not stop him, who will?”
