Page 49 of His Forsaken Duchess
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Potts said firmly, her sharp eyes narrowing on him. “You’re drenched. You must change, or you’ll fall ill yourself.”
“I’m fine,” Cedric said, though his trembling hands betrayed him. “She?—”
“Will need you to be well if she’s to recover,” Mrs. Potts interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. “Go. Change into dry clothes and leave the rest to us.”
Cedric hesitated, his gaze lingering on Audrey’s still form. Every instinct screamed at him to stay, to keep watch over her. But Mrs. Potts’s words carried weight, and he knew she was right.
With great reluctance, he rose to his feet. “See to it that she is kept warm,” he said, his voice low. “And let me know the moment there is any change.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Mrs. Potts replied, her expression softening as she shooed him out.
Cedric cast one last glance at Audrey before stepping out of the room, the ache in his chest growing with each step.
Cedric’s steps were heavy as he walked down the dim hallway toward his father’s bedchamber, the past pulling him deeper into its shadowy grip. He paused at the door, his hand hovering over the brass handle. The air here always seemed heavier, as if the room itself carried the ghosts of those who had been lost.
With a measured breath, he pushed the door open. The hinges creaked softly, the sound echoing in the otherwise oppressive silence. Inside, the room was as it had always been: eerily quiet, the heavy drapes drawn to keep out the sunlight. The air smelled faintly of dust and something sharper, like regret.
Cedric’s gaze fell on the writing desk, where an assortment of liquor bottles sat in disarray, their gleaming glass surfaces catching the faint light from the fireplace. He crossed the room with deliberate steps, his boots sinking into the thick carpet as he approached the desk. Lowering himself into the worn leather chair, he leaned forward, his hands braced on his knees as he released a shaky breath.
The liquor stared back at him, a silent invitation. Cedric ran a hand through his damp hair, the ends still clinging to his forehead from his earlier exertion. His fingers trembled as he reached for a tumbler. He hesitated before taking one of the bottles, its label faded from years of neglect. The cork gave a soft pop as he pulled it free, and the sharp scent of gin assaulted his senses.
His stomach churned immediately, a wave of nausea rising unbidden. He almost put the bottle away, the temptation repelled by the bitter memory of his father’s indulgence. But something held him still, his grip tightening around the neck of the bottle as if it were a lifeline.
“Destruction,” he muttered, his voice low and hollow, the word both an accusation and a truth. It hung in the air, directed as much at himself as at the poison in the glass.
He poured a measure of the gin into the tumbler, the liquid gleaming as it settled. For a moment, he simply stared at it, his mind filling with unwelcome echoes.
This is what destruction looks like,a voice whispered in his head.This is what you’ll become.
The fire in the hearth crackled softly, its warmth doing little to chase away the chill in the room. Cedric leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. He hadn’t intended to summon the memory, but it came unbidden, crashing over him with the force of a tidal wave.
The bedchamber had been dim, the curtains drawn tight against the midday sun. Cedric entered cautiously, his boots sinking into the thick carpet. His father sat slumped at the writing desk, a tumbler clutched in one unsteady hand. His other hand rested limply on the desk, his fingers splayed as though even they lacked the energy to hold on to anything.
“Father,” Cedric said, his voice tentative.
The Duke barely stirred, lifting the glass to his lips and downing its contents in one long gulp. As soon as the glass was empty, he reached for the bottle, splashing gin into the tumbler with an unsteady hand. Some of it spilled onto his sleeve, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care.
“You shouldn’t do this,” Cedric said firmly, striding forward. He reached for the glass, but his father yanked it away, nearly falling off his chair in the process.
“Leave me be,” the Duke growled, his voice slurred yet sharp. “It’s all I have left.”
Cedric’s chest tightened, the words hitting him harder than he cared to admit. “That isn’t true,” he said, kneeling before his father. “I am here. I’m not going anywhere.”
The Duke laughed bitterly, the sound devoid of mirth. “You’ll go. Everything goes. Victoria, Cecilia… even the bloody sun has abandoned me. This”—he held up the tumbler, its contents sloshing precariously—“is the only thing that stays.”
Cedric reached for the bottle, but his father’s hand shot out, gripping it with surprising strength.
“Don’t you dare,” the Duke hissed. “Don’t you dare take it from me.”
“You have a life to live,” Cedric pleaded, his voice breaking. “You have me.”
The Duke’s eyes, bloodshot and empty, met his son’s. “A life without them is no life at all.”
Cedric’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. He wanted to scream, to shake some sense into the man who had once been his hero. But no matter what he said, no matter how much he begged, his father simply poured himself another drink.
Cedric watched, helpless, as the Duke drank until his words became a garbled mess, until his head slumped forward onto the desk, incoherent and unseeing.
When he finally left the room, his shoulders sagged with the weight of his failure. He had given everything, and still, it had not been enough. His father’s grief had consumed him, leaving only the shell of the man Cedric had once known.
