Page 52 of ?n Arranged Betrothal with a Blind Duke
Yet, as he held her hand, a sense of calm washed over him. It was not the cool confidence of a man who had danced a thousand dances, but the quiet certainty of a man who knew he held his world in his arms. He could not see her, but he could feel her - the warmth of her hand, the silkiness of her gown against his fingertips, the delicate fragrance of her perfume mingling with the ballroom's floral decor.
Together, they moved, the grandeur of the room fading into insignificance. To Adrian, there was only the music, the pulse of the waltz reverberating through them. Their bodies swayed, two separate entities merging into one fluid motion.
The doubts and murmurs were there, whispered words darting around the room like invisible sparks. But with each passing moment, each swing and turn, they mattered less and less. In their place, a tangible sense of awe and respect filled the room. The whispers grew softer, the hushed tones replaced by the captivating spectacle of their dance.
The fear of blunders retreated, beaten back by the harmony between them. They moved in sync, their steps weaving a tapestry of their shared emotions on the dance floor. The rhythm of the waltz was in their hearts, guiding their bodies in a symphony of movement and emotion. It was as if the music understood their story, each note speaking of their burgeoning bond, their steadfast courage, their unspoken affection.
As the final notes of the waltz filled the room, Adrian held Annabelle close. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest, as quick and fluttery as his own. He knew then, amidst the applause and the shared smiles, their dance was not merely a dance. It was a testament, a proclamation to the world of their deepening bond.
“Wow,” Annabelle breathed as Adrian reluctantly released her and offered his arm once more. “That was wonderful.”
Adrian wasn’t sure if he could be heard over the sound of his pounding heart. But he smiled brightly at his fiancée, his cheeks burning with her compliment, the movement of the dance, and the passion of the music that was still ringing in his head.
“It certainly was,” he said softly.
Chapter Twenty-four
The morning sun pierced through the velvet drapes, casting a gentle glow upon the viridian wallpaper and the intricate rosewood furnishings. Annabelle stirred from her slumber, her long lashes fluttering open as the new day beckoned her from her dreams. The satin sheets rustled against her delicate form, like whispers in the wind of a love sonnet only the night could compose. The previous evening's events rolled over her like a surging tide, causing her heart to flutter beneath her lace-adorned bodice.
A fleeting smile flitted across her lips as the image of Adrian's handsome visage danced through her memory, his glossy hair and enchanting blue eyes as clear as if he stood before her that very moment. The sensation of his strong, warm hand, so gentle against her waist, seemed to linger upon her skin. A tremor ran through her, awakening her senses to a crescendo, rendering her heart into a melody only he could command. She could still hear the hypnotic strains of the waltz they'd shared, her steps guided by his confident lead. It was a dance that promised intimacy, vulnerability, and the whispers of a romantic tale yet unwritten.
However, the cruel sting of reality intervened, the vicious undertow of society's whispers threatening to pull her under. Sophia and Cynthia's insidious insinuations flooded her mind, their poisonous darts casting an ominous pall over the cherished memory of her waltz with Adrian. Their words hung in the air like a harsh winter frost, nipping at the budding flower of affection she held for Adrian.
What if there was truth in their spiteful rumors? What if he was only marrying her because of his difficulties finding a wife with his blindness? Or what if Adrian's courteous attention was but a farce, offered to her only because he pitied her and her situation? The very thought of it threatened to shatter the fragile sanctuary her mind had woven around their shared moment.
Yet, amid the turmoil, a flame refused to be extinguished. It flickered resiliently in the darkest corners of her heart, fueled by the warmth that Adrian's touch had ignited. The security of his arms around her, the sincerity in his gaze, the husky timbre of his voice after their dance; they all spoke of a man far removed from the loathsome, troublesome man people whispered about him being.
She heaved a sigh, a cloud of uncertainty hanging heavily over her. Her heart wished to believe in the charming nobleman who had swept her off her feet in the moonlit ballroom. Yet, her mind was burdened with the unsavory possibilities. She knew she shouldn’t let whispers and rumors bother her. But she was still getting to know Adrian, and she had never been under such societal scrutiny. If any of the rumors were true, she didn’t know what she would do.
Nevertheless, despite the threat of impending heartbreak, a sentiment fought against the onslaught of her doubts. It was an emotion born from an intimate dance, from stolen glances, and quiet laughter shared beneath the twinkling chandeliers. It was a feeling that dared to challenge the status quo, that dared to dream of a love that could withstand the trials of time and the venom of wagging tongues.
As the morning sun reached its zenith, casting a radiant glow on the quiet serenity of her chamber, Annabelle realized that no matter the truth behind the rumors, she was irrevocably, profoundly affected by Adrian. For better or for worse, her heart seemed to have chosen its course, and all she could do was hold on for the tumultuous journey that lay ahead.
Lost in the labyrinth of her conflicted thoughts, Annabelle felt a magnetic pull towards the solace of the outdoors. The meadow, with its golden expanse, dotted with wildflowers and bathed in the midday sun, promised a tranquil refuge from the turbulent waves of her mind. Donning her straw bonnet and a simple muslin dress, she left her room, her footfalls light against the polished oak floorboards.
The manor was quiet, save for the muted rustle of housemaids and distant clatter of kitchenware. The opulent hallways, usually bustling with vibrant energy, echoed the hushed whispers of the house and the somber echoes of her heavy heart.
As she neared Oswald's study, her steps faltered. A voice reached her, paired with the unmistakable slurring of her uncle's drunken speech. The closed oak door to her uncle’s private sanctuary stood slightly ajar, and she could distinguish the silhouettes of two men in deep discussion.
Swallowing her apprehension, Annabelle edged closer to the door, straining to make sense of the fragmented conversation. It was a voice she recognized as belonging to Lord Spencer. Lord Spencer, a name that brought forth full-body tremors from Annabelle. She had thought to never see or hear from him again, after her uncle had accepted Adrian’s proposal for her hand in marriage.
The pieces of conversation she caught sent a chill down her spine. “Deal...hand in marriage...marital rights...” The words hung heavily in the air, a chilling realization dawning on her with the cold clarity of a winter's morning.
She stood rooted to the spot, the blood draining from her face. Her heart pounded relentlessly in her chest, a wild symphony of terror and betrayal. She felt sick, the horrifying truth unraveling before her like a grotesque tapestry. She was not a beloved niece to be cherished but a mere commodity to be traded in her uncle's drunken dealings. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision, her hands clenching into fists at her side.
Every word was a dagger, each syllable piercing her heart as Lord Spencer laid bare his intentions. He had bought her hand from Oswald like she was a prized mare, her worth determined by a sum of money exchanged behind closed doors. He spoke of his marital rights with an entitlement that made her skin crawl, his voice cold and impassive as if he were discussing a business transaction.
The room around her spun, her breath coming out in harsh gasps as the enormity of her predicament washed over her. Her dreams of love and a future filled with genuine happiness seemed to crumble around her, leaving her standing amid the ruins of her innocent hopes.
Her vision blurred with unshed tears, and her body moved on its own accord. She needed air, space, a place far away from the suffocating reality she was thrust into. As quietly as she had arrived, she prepared to move away from the study. The verdant meadow and the promise of solitude beckoned her more fiercely than ever, the only balm to her bleeding heart. Her beloved waltz with Adrian, their intimate connection, all seemed a world away as she tried to pull herself away from the conversation within the study, her face pale and damp.
She was a pawn in Oswald's game, it seemed, and Annabelle’s mind raced wildly. Would her uncle now take away the only hope she’d have of a happy future? She had thought her worries were over regarding Lord Spencer. Had she been wrong? Would he make a better offer for her hand than Adrian had?
Before she could force herself to move, however, she heard her uncle speak to Lord Spencer again.
Under the stark light of the conversation within, Oswald's study took on a sinister guise. Every inch of it seemed to scream of his betrayal, the gilded edges of the furniture, the plush rugs, the thick velvet drapes now holding her captive in an ugly reality. Her uncle, who was supposed to protect her and her best interests, now stood before her worst nightmare with a confession that sent icy tendrils of fear curling around her heart.
“I squandered the money,” he admitted, his voice hoarse and eyes glassy from the alcohol. His words echoed ominously, a chilling testament of his negligence and deceit.
