Page 63 of His Forsaken Duchess
He exhaled sharply, pushing off the door and striding toward his desk. He had barely opened the drawer when a knock sounded at the door.
His irritation was immediate, sharp as a blade.
“What is it?” he barked, his voice harsher than he had intended.
The door opened cautiously, revealing Astor, the butler, with his usual impeccable composure. He carried a silver tray stacked with letters, their neat folds bound with wax seals.
“Your Grace,” he intoned, stepping into the room with grace. “These arrived recently and were awaiting forwarding instructions to Cumberland. Shall I have them sent out?”
Cedric forced a nod, though he could not muster a polite smile. “Leave them,” he said curtly, gesturing toward the desk.
Astor approached, setting the tray down with precise care. “Is there anything else you require, Your Grace?”
Cedric shook his head, grateful when the butler took the hint and exited the room without lingering. He eyed the stack of letters with disinterest and annoyance. Each envelope bore the seal of some estate, bank, or trading house.
He plucked the top letter off the stack and broke the seal, scanning its contents with practiced efficiency.
More tenants, more repairs, more complaints.
He tossed it aside and sifted through the remaining correspondence, each one proving equally mundane. No scandals, no emergencies—just the endless tedium of landowning.
I cannot do this. Not today.
He strode out of the room, and when he saw Astor in the foyer, he said, “My coat and hat. I’m stepping out.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
Cedric moved toward the door, unwilling to remain inside a second longer. Outside, the late afternoon air was biting, but Grosvenor Square was alive as usual. Astor followed him with the coat, and as soon as he shrugged it on, he strode down the street.
It took only a moment for his presence in town to be noticed as a voice behind him called, “Haremore!”
Twenty-One
Cedric turned sharply at the sound of his name, his hand instinctively curling into a fist before he forced himself to relax. Grosvenor Square bustled behind him, carriages trundling over the cobblestones, but the voice cut through the noise like a bell, all too familiar.
“Haremore!” the voice called again, louder now.
Cedric’s gaze landed on Edward Hunting, the Marquess of Belleville, who was striding toward him with his usual infectious cheer.
Edward had always possessed the peculiar ability to look both impeccable and utterly at ease, with his unruly golden hair tamed just enough to appear stylish and a grin perpetually tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Belleville,” Cedric returned, his tone neutral but not unkind as his old friend approached him.
“Good God, man,” Edward said, clapping him on the shoulder with a strength that belied his lean frame. “I thought I was hallucinating, seeingyouof all people wandering about town. I nearly had to pinch myself.”
“Should I be flattered that my presence is so astonishing?” Cedric asked dryly, though his lips twitched faintly.
“Flattered? Hardly,” Edward teased. “Shocked and appalled, more like it. What are you doing in London, of all places? Come, tell me at White’s. You look like a man in need of civilized company.”
Cedric opened his mouth to refuse, instinct pulling him back toward solitude, but Edward had already turned on his heel, heading toward the club without waiting for a reply. Cedric sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable, and followed.
He wrinkled his nose as they stepped inside White’s. He hadn’t been here in years, and the place had hardly changed. The same gilt-framed mirrors, the same smell of cigars and brandy—everything too polished, too perfect.
It rankled.
Edward, unbothered as always, led them through the room with the ease of a man who belonged everywhere he went. They found a table near the window, and Edward flopped down into a chair, signaling to the waiter without missing a beat.
“Spiced cordial for both of us,” he said, flashing Cedric a knowing smile. “Unless you’ve suddenly taken to drinking.”
