Page 77 of His Forsaken Duchess
Well,things are certainly changing!
The clock on the mantel struck midnight, its chime echoing faintly through the dimly lit bedchamber. Cedric lay on his bed, one arm thrown over his eyes as though shielding himself from thoughts he could not banish. Sleep, it seemed, had deserted him entirely.
For hours, he had tried to find rest, staring up at the canopy, his mind turning relentlessly like the gears of a broken clock. No matter how much he willed it, the unease in his chest refused toabate. And for once, it wasn’t the house—or the memories within—that unsettled him. It was Audrey.
She is meddling. Again.
His lips quirked up faintly at the thought, though his amusement was short-lived. He had seen the way she smiled earlier today, as if every whispered word and lingering glance had been part of a grand design.
He exhaled sharply, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He stood up, raking a hand through his disheveled hair, and strode to the desk tucked against the far wall. He paused, his hand hovering over the brass handle before he opened the top drawer.
Inside, beneath a stack of neatly folded papers and ledgers, lay the letter.
Audrey’s letter.
For years, it had remained untouched, ignored as stubbornly as the woman who had written it. And he had brought it with him.
Cedric stared at it for a long moment, the elegant script mocking him with its perfect loops and flourishes.
With a resigned sigh, he plucked the letter off its resting place and crossed to the chair by the fireplace. For a moment, heonly held the letter, turning it over in his hands before finally breaking the seal.
The paper unfolded with a faint whisper, and he leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees as he began to read.
Duke,
I trust this letter finds you in excellent health, though I suspect you will frown when you see it—perhaps even scowl. The very notion of hearing from me must be a trial you are unprepared for, but I write to inform you of my recent endeavors here in London.
To begin, I have taken it upon myself to redecorate Haremore House. You will, I am sure, agree that its current state is entirely unbefitting of a duchess—or anyone who does not enjoy living among furnishings older than Westminster Abbey. I have already commissioned several changes to the drawing room and dining room, and though I have been assured that the work is tasteful, I would not be surprised if you find cause to grumble about it when you return.
Yesterday, I came upon a strongbox tucked away in your study. Naturally, curiosity overcame me, and inside I discovered jewels. Pearls, emeralds, and—most importantly—a ruby necklace that must have a rich history. It was stunning. Truly, words do not do it justice. I believe I shall claim it as my own.
Now, do not worry. I have not sold the family heirlooms for wallpaper.
I will leave your bedchamber and study untouched, as I do not know whether you want them to be renovated. If you would prefer that they be redecorated, kindly send word. If I hear nothing from you, I shall assume that your silence means no.
Sincerely,
The Duchess of Haremore.
He let the paper fall gently into his lap, staring at the fire’s dying embers as he absorbed her words.
Her voice rang in every line. Practical but cheeky, respectful but confident. He could picture her writing the letter, her brow slightly furrowed, the corners of her mouth twitching with mischief as she wrote that she’d claim the ruby necklace as her own.
His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the letter, and for the first time in weeks, a small smile curved his lips. It was not a happy smile, but something more rueful. If he had read this letter when it arrived, if he had ridden to London immediately, he knew precisely what would have happened.
He would have stormed into the house like a tempest, snatched the necklace from her hands, and reminded her—quite harshly—that it had belonged to Cecilia. God only knew what kind of disagreement they would have had. Perhaps she would have fled. Perhaps he would have sent her away.
And then where would they be? Certainly not here.
Cedric rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling deeply. “You fool,” he muttered to himself.
Perhaps it was better this way. Perhaps her audacity, her refusal to ask for his permission, had brought them here—to London, and to a family that desperately needed her strength. If he had stopped her before, he doubted she would have come seeking his help when she needed it most.
And now… now he could not imagine turning her away.
Sleep had eluded her.
Audrey had closed her eyes a dozen times and willed herself to rest, but her thoughts refused to be silenced. They chased each other endlessly, darting between the events of the day, her sisters, Cedric, and the confrontation at Hyde Park.
