Page 43 of His Forsaken Duchess
Her eyes opened slowly, wide with confusion. And… was that disappointment he saw in their depths?
His throat tightened as he searched her gaze, desperate for certainty but finding only doubt.
“I—” He cleared his throat, his voice strained. “We will skate once the weather permits it.”
The words were stilted, hollow even to his own ears. He turned swiftly on his heel, leaving the room before she could respond, his boots striking the floor in brisk, deliberate steps.
As he retreated, the voice returned, quieter now but no less condemning.
You should never get close to Audrey. You have no right to.
Cedric’s jaw tightened as he stalked down the dim hallway leading to his study. The memories of the past dogged his steps, and by the time he pushed open the heavy oak door, he felt as unsettled as the storm raging outside.
The room was cold, the hearth darkened save for the faint embers in the grate.
Cedric stepped toward his desk, his gaze landing on the object that lay in its center—the ruby necklace, the brilliant stone glinting in the pale light.
His fingers brushed the chain, and a wave of memories flooded his mind, unbidden and merciless.
The night of Cecilia’s debut shimmered in his mind, the scene so vivid that he could nearly smell the faint scent of the gardenias his mother had insisted upon.
She descended the grand staircase with the grace of a queen, the ivory lace of her dress glowing in the candlelight. The ruby necklace rested against her throat, the brilliant jewel drawing every eye in the room. Behind her, their mother beamed with pride, her delicate features softening as she adjusted a pin in Cecilia’s hair.
Cedric, then a lanky nineteen-year-old, leaned casually against the banister, his arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold below.
“Why are you standing so stiffly?” he teased, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “Are you hoping to charm the ton by impersonating a statue?”
Cecilia’s steps faltered briefly, her cheeks flushing as she turned to glare at him. “This is how a lady stands, Cedric,” she retorted, her voice clipped. “One must have a perfect posture to command respect.”
He scoffed, straightening to descend a few steps. “Command respect? From whom? The ton?” He shook his head, his grin widening. “What nonsense. What do you care what Society thinks?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, her chin tilting upward in a gesture of defiance. “We are nothing without Society, Brother.”
Cedric rolled his eyes, letting out a low chuckle. “Silly girl,” he said, his tone affectionate despite the insult. “I’m the Marquess of Durnham, soon to be Duke of Haremore. What need have I for their approval? And as my sister, you needn’t care either.”
Cecilia’s glare sharpened as she brushed past him, her skirts swishing indignantly. “Not all of us have the luxury of such arrogance, Cedric. Some of us must actually try to make something of ourselves.”
He watched her go, an amused chuckle rumbling in his chest.
Their father’s voice drifted from the drawing room, rich with approval. “Exquisite,” he declared. “You’ll find a most worthy match this Season, my dear girl.”
Cedric rolled his eyes again, muttering under his breath. He felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder and glanced back to find her smiling at him.
“One day,” she said, her voice soft, “you’ll understand that you cannot live alone forever, Cedric. You may think you don’t need Society, but Society needs you.”
“I don’t,” he grumbled, though there was no real conviction in his voice.
His mother laughed softly as she moved past him.
Cedric blinked, the memory fading as the present crashed back around him. His hand gripped the necklace tightly, the edges of the ruby digging into his palm. His chest felt tight, the familiar ache of loss twisting within him.
“You loved Society, but it scorned you, Cecilia,” he whispered.
A knock at the door startled him, and he exhaled sharply, releasing the necklace as though it had burned him.
“Enter,” he called, his voice rough.
The door creaked open to reveal Potts, who inclined his head in greeting. “Your Grace,” he began, his tone measured. “Mr. Johnson is here. There is an estate matter that requires your immediate attention.”
