Page 4 of ?n Arranged Betrothal with a Blind Duke
“Adrian, my dear,” she cooed, her voice resonating with tenderness. “I am so glad that you decided to return here. I have missed this place dearly.”
His lips curled into a smile.
“It’s wonderful to be home,” he said. “Thank you for putting up with me these past years. And for me uprooting you from here in the first place. I don’t know what I would have done throughout all this without you. Though I do feel terrible about the weight that my constant need for assistance must be putting on you.”
Her endearing chuckle washed over him, making his heart swell with a comforting warmth.
“Darling, I adore you as though you were my very own child,” she said. “And you did not uproot me from Thornwood. I made the choice to follow you to Bath happily. You do not know what joy it brings me to be able to offer you such aid. It is hardly a weight, my dear. It is my greatest honour to be here for you through this.”
Adrian gave his aunt a warm smile. He was sure she meant the words she spoke. However, he was equally certain that she had to be frequently fatigued or worn out.She hardly attended social events anymore, even on her own, and she would come to him if summoned at all hours of the night. Still, her words offered a balm to his worries, and he sighed with a mix of contentment and weariness.
Even in his world of perpetual blurriness, he could 'see' her in his mind's eye – her soft gray curls, her warm, loving blue eyes, the wrinkles etched delicately on her face from years of laughter and sorrow. The warmth of her presence was a reassurance that he wasn't alone.
His fingers traced the edge of the armchair he now occupied, the fabric under his touch a reminder of countless evenings spent engrossed in delightful banter and family tales. He took a deep breath, the scent of polished wood and old books filling his nostrils, a scent that screamed of home.
The echoes of his past reverberated in the tranquility of Thornwood, his memories crafting vivid images in his mind’s eye. Despite the loss of his sight, he found solace in these echoes, a testament that even the darkest of tragedies could not rob him of his past, of his home. His world was shrouded in shadows, yet he found light in his memories, his loved ones, and the timeless beauty of Thornwood. For now, that was enough.
A subtle commotion alerted Adrian to the arrival of the servants. He heard the clinking sound of porcelain cups against silver saucers and the muffled rustle of cakes being placed on the trays. It was a symphony of familiarity that stirred within him a longing to see the spectacle in clear focus again.
His vision had not been entirely lost; it was a cruel jest of fate that he was left in a limbo between darkness and sight. As Dr. Bentley had forewarned, his sight might improve to an extent, but most likely, it would not. It had returned, but it was nothing more than a nebulous sea of milky images and blurred shadows, like an unfinished painting forever out of focus.
Adrian steeled himself against the fresh surge of self-pity that threatened to engulf him, despite his aunt’s previous comforting words. He was a Westfield, the Duke of Thornwood, and he had sworn to himself he wouldn't wallow in despair. Yet, he couldn't help the wistful thought that teased his mind, his bitter yearning for the day he'd never gone hunting.
His musings were interrupted by the gentle sound of liquid pouring into a cup. He turned his head toward the sound, instinctively knowing it was his Aunt Marjorie pouring the tea. There was a brief silence before her soothing voice echoed through the room.
“Adrian, dear,” she began, her words delicately laced with a comforting warmth that seemed to seep into his very being, mending the fissures in his confidence, stitching together his broken heart. “Do not let your loss of sight define you. You are so much more.”
He wanted to believe her words. He longed for them to be his guiding star, his beacon of hope in the disorienting darkness.
“Thornwood needs its duke, Adrian,” she continued, her voice imbued with an insistent strength. “And Thornwood is patient. It has been waiting for your return. It doesn't care about your sight. It cares about your heart, your spirit. We did the right thing coming home. Trust me.”
A lump formed in Adrian's throat. He swallowed hard, fighting the overwhelming wave of emotion that surged within him. He was the duke of Thornwood, he was more than his blindness. His identity, his worth, was not defined by his ability to see but by his ability to lead, to love, and to endure.
He took a deep breath, allowing Aunt Marjorie's words to wash over him, soothing his anxieties. He nodded, a gesture more for himself than for her. He still wasn’t sure if he believed what his aunt was saying. But she believed in him. That was enough for him to make an effort to be the duke she believed he could be.
“Thank you, Aunt Marjorie,” he whispered, his voice carrying a newfound determination. “I shall endeavour to be the duke Thornwood needs, sight or no sight.” I just hope that I do not regret returning here, he thought.
With breakfast behind him, Adrian felt an irresistible pull toward the outdoors, the allure of the summer morning too inviting to resist. Guided by the constant presence of his loyal canine companion, Patches, he ventured beyond the stone walls of Thornwood Manor.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the day seemed to wrap around him like a comforting blanket. The air was heavy with the perfume of blossoming flowers, a fragrant melody that whispered of warm sunshine and rebirth. The surrounding orchestra of chirping birds performed a delightful symphony, their song a sonnet of morning joy that brushed against his ears.
Adrian inhaled deeply, savoring the taste of the summer air on his tongue. His bare fingers brushed against the leaves of a nearby bush, the texture rough yet familiar. Each element of the morning— the warm sun on his face, the velvet breeze against his skin, the rich earthy scent in the air— was a vivid reminder of the world beyond his blindness.
Despite the haze that shrouded his vision, he found solace in the tactile beauty beneath his feet. The coolness of the dew-kissed grass, the roughened texture of the gravel pathway, the reassuring solidity of the earth— all painted an image of Thornwood more vivid than any sight could provide.
A sigh of contentment slipped from him. The larger part of him was grateful for the familiar sanctuary that Thornwood offered, its silent understanding offering him the solitude he craved. His heart seemed to settle, finding its rhythm once more in the tranquil pulse of his ancestral home.
Yet, a smaller part of him, a vulnerable corner of his soul, harbored a lingering dread of what was to come. The inevitable whispers of society, their reactions to his condition, lingered at the edges of his thoughts. He pushed it away, silencing the gnawing worry with a firm resolve. There was a time and place for such concerns, and it was not now, not when the sun was shining, and the birds were singing.
For the moment, he chose to let the peace of Thornwood wash over him, lapping against his consciousness like a soothing tide. He was home, he was safe, and with Patches by his side, he had a steadfast friend. The fear of the future would not steal the comfort of the present.
His hand found its way to Patches' head, his fingers sinking into the soft fur.
“It's just you and me out here, Patches,” he murmured, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just us and the vast grounds of Thornwood.”
And for that moment, standing beneath the embracing sky, with the fragrance of summer wrapping him in its gentle hold, it was enough.
Adrian's peaceful solitude was soon interrupted by an unanticipated sound. A gentle humming reached his ears, a melody that seemed to twirl and pirouette on the strands of the summer breeze. The sweet tune was foreign, yet it elicited a thrilling sense of intrigue, a pulsating curiosity that caused his heart to quicken its rhythm.
