Page 50 of His Forsaken Duchess
Cedric’s eyes snapped open, the memory fading into the dim confines of the present. His breathing was shallow, his chest tight as though the air itself had turned against him. He glancedat the tumbler on the desk, the clear liquid taunting him with its stillness.
Audrey’s face swam before his mind’s eye, pale and lifeless as she had been on the ice. The cold terror he had felt then returned, clawing at him with relentless ferocity. For one harrowing moment, he thought he would lose her. The fear had gripped him, tightening around his heart like a vice.
“She could have died,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. The words cut him deeply.
He pushed to his feet, his movements stiff and deliberate as he crossed to the fireplace. The flames danced, their light casting long shadows over the room. Cedric stared into the fire, his jaw tightening.
Audrey’s near-death had made one thing painfully clear: he could not allow himself to care for her. He had already lost too much—his mother, Cecilia. The curse of his family seemed inevitable, an invisible specter that hung over every woman he had ever loved. He would not add Audrey to that list.
Helping her restore her sister’s reputation had already been decided. But now, it was more than a duty—it was anecessity. If he could free her from the clutches of the ton’s gossip, she could return to London, where she belonged. And he… he could retreat to the safety of his isolation, where no one else could be hurt.
Perhaps, by saving her sister, he might finally atone for Cecilia’s death. The thought was bitter, but it spurred him on.
Cedric reached for the tumbler, the cool glass smooth against his fingers. For a moment, he lifted it, his hand hovering near his lips. The firelight glinted off the liquid, but as he stared into its depths, his stomach churned with revulsion.
Destruction.
The word echoed in his mind. With a sharp, decisive motion, he turned and threw the contents of the tumbler into the fire. The flames hissed and roared, the liquid vanishing in an instant.
Cedric stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving as the silence settled over him once more. He had made his decision. Now, he only needed to see it through.
Sixteen
“… I
am telling you, Mr. Whittaker, she is not fine,” Cedric’s voice rumbled, firm and unyielding. “She is pale—unnaturally so—and I am certain she has a fever.”
“Your Grace,” the physician replied, his voice calm but laced with a note of growing impatience. “The Duchess has endured a significant ordeal. It is entirely expected for her to appear fatigued. Rest and warmth will see her right.”
Audrey’s eyes fluttered open, the soft murmur of voices pulling her out of the haze of sleep. Her body felt heavy, as though the bedclothes were made of iron rather than cotton and wool. The warmth of the room was a welcome balm against her exhaustion, but even as she stirred, her limbs protested weakly.
She blinked slowly, the morning light pressing against her eyes, sharp and unwelcome. The fire in the room cast long shadows, and her gaze swept unsteadily over the blurred figures nearthe door. As her vision adjusted, she recognized one of them—Cedric, his dark silhouette unmistakable.
“She is not usually this pale,” Cedric continued, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His voice was tense, the cords in his neck visible as he glared at the smaller man standing before him. “And I felt her forehead earlier. She was too warm, I am sure of it.”
The physician gave a slight bow of his head. “Your Grace, I assure you, I have seen no signs of fever?—”
“Cedric,” Audrey rasped.
Both men turned at once, their argument dissolving as they moved toward her. Cedric’s face, usually so composed, was etched with concern so palpable that it made her chest tighten.
“You’re awake,” he said, his voice softening as he sat on the edge of the bed.
Audrey’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Barely,” she murmured, her voice hoarse. “It seems I am more trouble than I intended to be.”
Cedric furrowed his brow and turned his head slightly to the physician. “Do you see? She can barely speak.”
“Her Grace’s voice is weak from exhaustion, nothing more,” the physician replied. “With nourishment and time, she will recover her strength.”
Audrey let out a soft sigh, glancing up at Cedric, who looked as though he might launch into another round of protests.
“I am alive, Cedric,” she said, her voice steadier now. “I am warm and tired, but otherwise, I am well.”
His jaw tensed, and for a moment, he said nothing, his dark eyes scanning her face as though searching for some hidden ailment the physician had overlooked. Finally, he exhaled, his broad shoulders relaxing by a fraction.
“Very well,” he muttered, though his tone suggested he was still unconvinced. Turning to the door, he called out to a maid passing in the hallway. “Have hot soup sent up immediately,” he ordered, before returning his focus to Audrey. “Are you warm enough? Shall I call for more blankets?”
Audrey’s lips quirked up slightly. “You fuss more than Mrs. Potts, and that is no small feat.”
