Page 1 of ?n Arranged Betrothal with a Blind Duke
Prologue
Adrian Westfield, the Duke of Thornwood, sat astride his majestic horse, surveying the verdant field before him. His heart echoed the rhythmic beat of the eager gentlemen's horses' hooves, the adrenaline of the impending hunt awakening his senses.
The morning air was crisp, invigorating; it carried the unmistakable aroma of dew-kissed earth, the sweetness of the summer blooms, and the smell of horseflesh, mingling with the faint traces of tobacco and brandy from the gallant gentlemen who surrounded him. The symphony of prancing hooves, rustling leaves, and the good-humored banter of his companions formed the soundtrack to the beautiful tapestry of the day.
Adrian had always felt a sense of connection with nature, a link that transcended the usual comprehension of his class. It was in these moments, perched high on his stallion amidst the thrill of the chase, that he felt most alive. He loved the freedom, the vitality, and the wild, untamed spirit that hunting encapsulated. Yet, as he glanced at the pack of hunting dogs and the path that lay before them, he couldn't quell the nagging sense of unease that lurked within him.
His steed, Valor, was a striking beast; a powerful stallion with a glossy black coat that shone like obsidian under the sun's touch. The horse was as sure-footed as they came, and the bond between Adrian and Valor was one of profound trust and mutual respect.
“Look out, Adrian,” one of Adrian’s fellow hunters shouted.
“Dobs, go help him,” another yelled amongst the fresh clatter of thunderous horse hooves.
But it was too late. The shouts became urgent barks as Adrian sat atop his stallion in horror. In an unexpected, heart-stopping moment, Valor whinnied – a high, alarmed sound that broke through the rhythm of chatter and laughter. The horse reared, his powerful body tense as his eyes rolled with evident fear, spooked by something unseen.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Unprepared for the sudden upheaval, Adrian felt his grip loosen on the reins, the once secure saddle seeming to slip away from beneath him. Time itself seemed to slow down as he was catapulted through the air, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm in his chest.
Images swirled in his mind as he descended; the startled faces of his companions, the sky's serene blue marred by the ominous circling of a hawk, the ground rushing up to meet him in a devastating embrace. Panic gripped him, a fear that was as foreign as it was terrifying. This couldn't be his end, not like this, not here.
And then, just as abruptly as it had started, it was over. The ground met his back with an unyielding harshness that forced the air out of his lungs in a painful gasp. He was distantly aware of the alarmed shouts, the frantic thudding of hooves, the world spinning before his eyes. But it all seemed muffled, surreal, as if he were under water.
His breathlessness was all he could feel for several agonising seconds. But when he was able to draw breath, pain lit up his body like a wildfire in dry brush. It was only then that he noticed a searing pain in the back of his head. Through his steadily blurring vision, he saw that he had landed on the ground at the base of a tree.
His back was flat on the ground, but his head had connected with a gnarled surface root, beside which his head had slowly slid. A warm, tricking sensation made itself known through the pain, and he realized with numbness that he had to be bleeding. He was terribly injured, and the world was fading around him.
His last coherent thought before darkness wrapped him in its cold, unforgiving embrace was of the life he'd led, the regrets he had yet to amend. A mental plea for a second chance rushed through him as the spectre of unconsciousness closed in, shrouding the radiant morn in an abyss of emptiness.His world turned black, the sounds of concern and chaos echoing distantly in his ears before he succumbed to the unyielding tide of oblivion.
Adrian Westfield, awoke in his bed with a gasping intake of breath, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. He blinked, expecting to see the familiar ornate ceiling of his bedchambers at Thornwood Manor, but was greeted instead by an unyielding, encompassing darkness.
He blinked again, attempting to banish the darkness. However, his eyes refused to cooperate. Anxiety, fervent and abrupt, swelled within his breast. His breath hitched, his fingers curling into the sheets beneath him. His mind was a whirlpool of confusion and denial. This couldn't be right. He was the Duke of Thornwood, powerful, respected, feared. He couldn't be blind.
He reached out, trying to make sense of his surroundings through touch. His fingers grazed the cool silk sheets of his bed, and then the hard, familiar contours of his walnut nightstand, finally resting on the leather-bound book he had been reading before the hunt. His book. His room. He was in his bedchambers.
The air was heavy with the sterile scent of liniments, a noxious scent that scraped at the rare of his gullet and pricked at his teary orbs. A soft murmur of voices carried to his ears, the lower cadence unmistakably belonging to Dr. Bentley, the family physician.
The other voice was softer, nurturing. His Aunt Marjorie. The revelation struck him like a deluge of frigid water. She only fretted over him when he was truly in danger. A wave of melancholy washed over him. It was her comforting presence that now felt like a death sentence.
The murmur of their conversation became clearer, the words slicing through the silence like a sharp dagger.
“ I'm afraid... the majority of his vision... irreparable harm…" he heard Dr. Bently utter. "Any vision that is regained shall be clouded and hazy, at best. Yet I do not anticipate any amelioration whatsoever.”
His aunt gasped, uttering something that was muffled, it seemed, by her hands being cupped over her mouth. What she said next should have brought Adrian comfort. But it only made him feel more helpless and lost than he did moments before.
“I will do everything it takes to help and accommodate him,” she said. “Oh, my poor, sweet nephew…” she trailed off as she began sobbing softly.
Adrian shuddered as a new realization settled on him. Not only would he be unable to fulfill his duties for the dukedom, but he would likely need constant care and assistance. And from the sound of it, it would be for the rest of his life. Worst of all, it would be his aunt’s burden. He felt the world reel around him. The words fell like stones around him, echoing ominously within his silent chamber. He had lost his sight. He was blind.
He envisioned himself at the next social gathering, the whispered jibes, the hidden smirks, the pitying looks. He would become the subject of ridicule among the ton. He, Adrian Westfield, a duke, reduced to a pitiful spectacle. He would not only be a pariah himself, but he would also bring down his aunt’s good name.
She had treated him like her own son his entire life, helping his father raise him after his mother died giving birth to him. Then, when he lost his father ten years prior to a terrible illness, his aunt had stood beside him, offering him comfort and advice as he entered his rein as duke. And now, he was repaying her love and kindness by tarnishing her reputation through her association with a disabled nephew.
In that moment, he wished the accident had claimed his life, rather than permanently blinding him. At least then, his aunt would be spared the ridicule that was sure to come. His heart pounded louder, faster, each beat echoing the gravity of his new reality. Fear, anger, despair - they all crashed onto him, leaving him breathless. I cannot manage through life as a blind man, he thought, tears brimming in his unseeing eyes. I cannot do this to Aunt Marjorie…
***
In the weeks following the accident, Thornwood Manor, once a sanctuary of warmth, laughter, and life, felt different. It had morphed into a labyrinth of shadows, each corner whispering haunting echoes of the life he had once led. Each familiar scent, every distinct texture, the echoes of laughter that had once resonated within these walls - they all now served as a bitter reminder of what he had lost.
The vibrant colors that used to dance within his vision, the sharp details of the world that he had taken for granted, were now reduced to hazy outlines and faint hues. The once lively morning sun was now a vague lightness that graced his senses, the lush green of Thornwood's sprawling gardens, a mere whisper of a memory.
