If there was a manual for surviving a transmigrated life, Cherion was reasonably certain "How to Not Die of Embarrassment While Being Carried Like a Victorian Heroine" would have been a top-tier chapter for him. Unfortunately, no such guide existed. Instead, he was stuck in the iron grip of Zarius, being dragged through the manor like a very unwilling luggage set, and Zarius wasn't slowing down for anyone.
Cherion's face was currently a shade of crimson that probably rivaled a ripe tomato, or maybe a very angry pomegranate. Every maid they passed seemed to suddenly find a very important speck of dust to scrub, though their eyes were definitely glued to the spectacle. The butlers were even worse, no matter how hard they tried, their polite faces couldn't hide the little twitches at the corners of their mouths.
"Your Grace, for the love of everything, put me down," Cherion hissed, digging his fingers into the Duke's coat like it was a lifeline.
