Page 36 of His Forsaken Duchess
Stevenson walked over to the chaise and draped the coat neatly over its back. “Indeed, Your Grace. Ordered the carriage to be readied at once. Declared she would not remain here a moment longer.”
Cedric scowled, though his clenched jaw betrayed his unease. “Where is she now?”
“In her chambers, Your Grace,” Stevenson replied calmly as he returned to the wardrobe, his hands gliding across the fabric of several waistcoats. “The storm, as it happens, had other plans.”
Cedric leaned back in his chair, sighing heavily as relief warred with frustration. “I hadn’t heard anything about this.”
“No?” Stevenson asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, I can only wonder what pushed her to make such a hasty decision.”
Cedric’s jaw tightened further, the vein in his temple throbbing. “Don’t start, Stevenson.”
Before the valet could respond, Potts appeared in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral.
“Your Grace,” he said, stepping inside. “Might I speak freely?”
Cedric waved his hand impatiently. “It seems you already do.”
Potts exchanged a look with Stevenson before speaking. “It was rather… alarming, Your Grace, that Her Grace felt compelled to leave in such inclement weather. She seemed quite… resolute.”
Cedric shrugged, but the movement was stiff. “Perhaps if the weather had been kinder, she might have succeeded. Then, I would have one less thing with which to concern myself.”
“Pardon my impertinence, Your Grace,” Potts said carefully, “but it seems this could have been avoided had tempers been held in check.”
Cedric’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Impertinence, indeed,” he said, though there was no heat in his voice. “You forget yourself, Potts.”
The butler bowed his head. “Forgive me, Your Grace. It was not my place to speak so boldly.”
“It wasn’t,” Cedric muttered. He paused, then let out a heavy sigh. “But… perhaps you’re not entirely wrong.”
Stevenson, who had been quietly laying out the rest of Cedric’s ensemble, decided to chime in. “You see, Your Grace? Losing one’s temper never yields favorable results. Might I suggest a bit more… decorum in future interactions with Her Grace?”
Cedric shot him a withering look. “Do you mean to dress me or lecture me, Stevenson?”
“Both, if necessary,” Stevenson replied smoothly. “Now, if you’ll allow me…”
The valet stepped forward and helped him into his coat, then he began tying Cedric’s cravat with practiced precision.
Cedric stood silently, his thoughts churning as Potts remained in the corner.
The implication of their words settled over him uncomfortably. He had been harsh—too harsh. Dragging her into the sorrow and shadows that haunted this family was unfair.
When Stevenson finished, Cedric turned toward the mirror. He inspected his reflection, smoothing the lapels of his coat.
“Do I look presentable?” he asked, glancing at Stevenson over his shoulder.
“Quite presentable, Your Grace,” Stevenson replied with a smirk.
“Handsome, even,” Potts added with a rare trace of humor.
Cedric shook his head but allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “Very well.”
He left the room but paused when he found Peter Potts, the butler’s seventeen-year-old son, waiting in the hallway.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Peter said brightly, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Peter,” Cedric returned as he began walking. “What brings you here?”
Peter fell into step beside him, his youthful energy the opposite of Cedric’s brooding. “I wanted to ask how your evening is going.”
