Page 13 of ?n Arranged Betrothal with a Blind Duke
“It certainly was, Your Grace,” she said. “I find it delightful to encounter someone who loves the same authors that I do.”
Adrian grinned, dipping into a half bow.
“Likewise, Miss Ludlow,” he said. “I would be more than happy to lend you some books from my collection, if you’d like.”
This time, he didn’t need to guess what the young woman was doing when she went quiet. She gasped softly, clearly surprised by his offer.
“Oh, Your Grace,” she said, her voice soft and filled with awe. “That’s very kind of you. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”
Adrian shook his head, giving her another warm smile.
“Not at all,” he said. “It would be my pleasure. Would you like to meet with me here to retrieve them at about three o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”
Miss Ludlow didn’t pause at all that time.
“That sounds perfect, Your Grace,” she said. “Thank you so very much.”
Adrian nodded once more, still smiling. The warmth and sincerity in her voice as she thanked him were profoundly stirring. She accepted his offer with a grace that made his heart flutter. He hadn't experienced such an emotion in a long time, this euphoria, this anticipation that lifted his spirits.
“I look forward to it, Miss Ludlow,” he said, surprised at how true the words were.
“Very well,” she said, the smile still evident in her voice. “I shall see you then. Good evening, Your Grace.”
Adrian gave her a full bow, tipping his hat to her in a silly fashion and eliciting one final giggle from her.
“Good evening to you, as well, Miss Ludlow,” he said.
As he listened to her disappear into the golden evening light, he couldn't help but feel an unusual sense of excitement for what the next day might bring. Thornwood and its serene landscapes, once merely a reminder of his solitary past, were now intertwined with the prospect of a delightful companionship.
Chapter Six
In the soft twilight, Annabelle reluctantly made her way home, her heart aflutter with a feeling akin to the wonder of the day's extraordinary happenings. The lingering radiance of the sun's kisses on the cobblestones mirrored the warmth of joy that emanated from her heart, its source a memory of a day spent in the company of the Duke of Thornwood.
His charm, his easy laughter, and his thoughtful conversation had conspired to carve a place in her heart. In all the time they spent talking in the meadow, she had forgotten about his blindness. For that brief time, he was a regular gentleman, a charming, enchanting, handsome duke, whose company she had enjoyed immensely. She touched her cheek gently, almost expecting to feel the heat of his gaze still lingering there. The timid connection that had sparked between them sent waves of anticipation coursing through her veins.
Her heart was in the clouds, her dreams painted in hues of excitement as she approached the elegant Regency-era townhouse that was her home. The twinkling gas-lamps threw a welcoming light on the stone steps, a beacon guiding her back to the realm of normalcy. Yet, as she crossed the threshold, a shiver of foreboding ran down her spine, abruptly erasing the warmth from her thoughts.
In the drawing-room, by the hearth's dying embers, stood Oswald, his silhouette a dark reminder of her societal obligations. His demeanor was as frosty as the evening chill seeping in through the windowpanes. The usually inviting room seemed to carry a different aura in his presence, its usual charm dimmed.
Oswald turned his pale gaze toward her, his eyes glinting in the flickering firelight. “You're late, Annabelle,” he said, his voice as jarring as the clatter of bare branches against the window. The harmony of the Duke’s voice still echoed in her memory, and Oswald's harsh tone jarred her back to the unpleasant reality.
“Apologies, Uncle,” she replied, her voice calm despite her quickened heartbeat. “I was detained longer than I expected.” She removed her gloves, her gaze avoiding his as she replayed her afternoon with the duke in her mind.
“Indeed?” Oswald’s skepticism was palpable. His disdain for frivolity and mirth, especially the sort inspired by young, eligible gentlemen, was well known to Annabelle. His displeasure cast a long, unyielding shadow that dampened her spirits.
Her excitement began to wane, extinguished by the cold truth of her circumstances. An unexpected wave of melancholy swept over her, leaving her thoughts as frostbitten as the dying roses outside. Her connection with the Duke, which a few moments ago had seemed so vibrant and full of promise, now seemed as fragile as a snowflake in the palm of a hand.
The warmth of the meadow, the lightness of the laughter they'd shared, the duke’s captivating, though unfocused, gaze - these memories seemed to belong to a different world, a world far from Oswald’s harsh reality. She held onto them, wrapping them tightly around her heart, knowing they were her only defense against the chill that threatened to consume her.
“Remember your place, Annabelle,” Oswald reminded her, his voice breaking into her reverie.
His words were a cold splash of water on her already dwindling dreams, yet they did not completely diminish her resolve. The bloom of hope the Duke had planted in her heart was strong enough to withstand the cold winds of Oswald's disapproval.
“I shall, uncle,” she replied, her voice steady. She lifted her chin, a silent pledge to herself. No matter the chill, she would keep the warmth of the day alive within her. She would nurture the connection she had found with the duke, in defiance of Oswald's cold reality. She was Annabelle, after all, and a little frost had never withered her spirit.
Annabelle stood rigid in the middle of the drawing-room, swallowed by the weight of Oswald's gaze. Before she could even attempt to voice a response to his initial admonishment, he launched into a diatribe. The stern words tumbled from his lips with such urgency that they seemed a river in flood, every criticism and rebuke a stone in its raging current.
“Our financial predicament is grave, Annabelle,” Oswald asserted, his voice reverberating through the silent room. The brocade drapes, her father's old maps, the porcelain figures that once delighted her childhood - all bore mute witness to Oswald's reproach. “It’s high time you start acting with some level of responsibility.”
