Page 38 of His Forsaken Duchess
“You startled me, Duke,” she said evenly.
“I seem to have a habit of doing that,” Cedric replied, stepping into the room with a faint smile. “I did not mean to interrupt.”
Her posture straightened further if that were even possible, and she clasped her hands neatly in her lap. “You are not interrupting. I was merely practicing.”
“Practicing?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You play as if you’ve mastered every piece in existence.”
A faint smile touched her lips, but she lowered her gaze. “Thank you, Duke. I have played since I was three. I suppose it is one of the few accomplishments I truly enjoy.”
He nodded, stepping closer. “You play well. Perhaps too well. It seems unfair that the pianoforte should be so well-loved when the rest of us are subjected to scorn.”
She arched a delicate eyebrow. “Scorn, Duke?”
“Well,” he said with a mock-serious expression, “you did attempt to leave the castle during a snowstorm. I might be forgiven for assuming you were displeased.”
Her composure faltered for the briefest moment, and her lips pressed into a thin line. “I did not decide to leave on a whim,” she said, her voice frosty. “You shouted at me, Duke. I do not tolerate such behavior.”
Cedric sighed, the guilt twisting in his chest again. “I was wrong to shout at you. You have my apology.”
She studied him for a moment, her gaze searching his. “Thank you, Duke,” she said at last. “I accept your apology.”
However, the stiffness of her mouth betrayed the fact that her quick forgiveness was mostly a habit.
There was a beat of silence between them before he said, “I did not know that music was one of your accomplishments.”
Her face softened as she glanced down at the pianoforte. “It has always been a solace,” she admitted. “A sanctuary from… everything else.”
Cedric hesitated, then asked, “Everything else, Duchess?”
She drew a deep breath, her fingers moving lightly over the keys. “Expectations. Judgments. The pressure to always appear perfect, even when it feels impossible.”
He furrowed his brow. “This is about the ton, isn’t it?”
She turned her head slightly, glancing out the window. The pale light framed her profile, and for a moment, Cedric wondered what thoughts flickered behind her composed exterior.
“It always is,” she said softly. “The ton thrives on cruelty, Duke. They thrive on whispers and scandal, no matter how untrue or undeserved. My sister… Lilianna…” She paused, her voice catching briefly. “Her letters to Lord Rashford were stolen. Someone sent them to the gossip sheets, and they printed every word. They painted her as a shameless seductress, a thief of affections.”
Cedric’s jaw tightened. “And Lord Rashford?”
“Engaged,” she said bitterly. “To a young lady who has not even debuted yet. He led my sister to believe that he would marry her, that he cared for her. And now she is the one who bears the brunt of the ton’s scorn.”
Cedric’s fists clenched at his sides. “The man sounds like a coward.”
“He is,” she said, her voice trembling with anger. “And yet it is my sister who suffers. Lilianna is young and impulsive, but she is kind. She doesn’t deserve this.”
“No,” Cedric agreed quietly. “She doesn’t.”
The Duchess turned back to him, her expression weary. “You understand this, don’t you?” she said softly, her gaze searching his. “The way they whisper, the way they twist and destroy everything.”
His chest tightened. He had seen it—lived it through Cecilia.
Cedric studied the Duchess for a moment, noting the tension in her posture and the way it betrayed the significance of her words, the way her fingers brushed lightly over the pianoforte’s keys as if grounding her. The sight gave him pause, and an unfamiliar sense of duty settled over him.
Now that she’s speaking openly about her sister,it seems only right to clarify another matter between us.
“Duchess,” he said cautiously, his voice measured. “There is something I should tell you about the necklace—the one you wore when you first arrived.”
Her fingers stilled in her lap as she turned to face him fully. “Yes?”
