Page 6 of ?n Arranged Betrothal with a Blind Duke
“If he doesn’t mind, then I don’t,” he said, gesturing toward the dog. The aim of his hand was just a bit off from where the dog actually stood. Annabelle’s heart clenched as she tried to imagine what it must be like t be blind. But her sadness was short lived as Patches nuzzled her hand with his cold, wet nose.
She gracefully sank onto her knees, extending a delicate hand towards the dog. Patches trotted forward, nuzzling against Annabelle’s palm with an affectionate warmth that soothed her jangled nerves. A sigh escaped her lips, her smile deepening at the simple joy of the dog's company.
She loved animals, as well. But her uncle would never hear of her having a pet of her own. She had taken in a starving, wounded young kitten that had been abandoned by its mother the previous year. Her uncle found out and got especially stern with her. A day after, the kitten was missing, and she never saw it again. But with as uncharacteristically nice as her uncle was to her afterward, she knew he had done away with it.
She looked up at the duke, her brown eyes gleaming with genuine happiness. It was as if the looming presence of the duke had receded, replaced by the friendly wag of a dog's tail and the wet press of a nose against her hand. As if sensing her delight at his friendliness, Patches hitched up on his back legs, brushing a strand of her chestnut hair that had fallen from her bonnet away from her eyes. She giggled as the cold wetness grazed her cheek, and Patches wagged his tail even more furiously still.
The duke watched the scene, surprise etching its way into his sharp features.
“My word,” he said, sounding stunned. “Patches is usually rather discerning with new people. At least until he’s seen them a few times.”
Annabelle nodded, not looking up at the duke.
“I can see that,” she said with another giggle. “Is he named Patches because of his patchwork of black and brown fur?”
Annabelle regretted the question as soon as she asked it. Of course, the blind duke likely had no idea what his own pet looked like. But he didn’t miss a beat. He grinned, nodding as he smiled fondly at the dog.
“He is,” he said, once more sounding proud. “My aunt helped me pick out the name. I encountered him whilst out and about in Bath. He was weak and sickly, so I brought him back home. He has been a loyal companion ever since.”
Annabelle nodded, laughing as Patches flopped dramatically onto the ground and exposed his belly for scratches. She obliged, looking up at the duke.
“He certainly is a very sweet dog,” she said, thinking again wistfully of her lost kitten.
The duke took a tentative step forward, kneeling as well to pat his dog’s exposed belly.
“Miss Ludlow,” he started, his voice a blend of curiosity and mild astonishment. “It would appear Patches has taken quite a liking to you. He absolutely never shows new people his belly upon the first meeting. This is a rare feat, indeed.”
A soft blush dusted Annabelle’s cheeks.
“Is that so, your Grace?” she asked. “He’s a lovely creature. Animals have a way of understanding us better than we understand ourselves, don't you think?”
The Duke of Thornwood looked thoughtfully at her, another slow smile creeping onto his face.
“I must say that I agree,” he said.
Patches, having accepted Annabelle’s affections with a contented wag of his tail, settled by his side. Her constant presence seemed to create a barrier between Annabelle and the world, grounding her in a comforting reality. Yet, even the pleasant weight of the dog's head on her knee couldn't muffle the frantic rhythm of Annabelle's heartbeat or the creeping awareness of her situation.
Her heart pounded a frantic tempo against her ribs as the realization dawned with undeniable force: she was alone with the Duke, not a chaperone in sight. A vivid image of the scandalous whispers that would echo through society's parlors if they were discovered sent a shudder of fear through her. The vibrant greens and blues of the meadow seemed to pale, turning monochrome under the weight of her sudden apprehension.
The conventions of their time were explicit in their dictation of decorum and propriety, especially in situations involving an unmarried woman and a man of the duke’s reputation. Panic crept into the edges of her mind like tendrils of morning fog, clouding her thoughts and quickening her breaths. She could not allow herself to become the subject of society's ruthless gossip.
Swiftly, as though the action could diminish the rising tide of her worries, Annabelle rose to her feet. Patches whined, a look of confusion in his canine eyes as he was disturbed from her comfortable spot. Ignoring the soft whimper, Annabelle dusted off her skirt, the movements of her hands betraying the turmoil she felt inside.
“Your Grace,” Annabelle began, her voice shaking ever so slightly under the strain of her panic. She steadied herself, drawing a deep breath and plastering a polite smile onto her face. “I must apologise, but I find that I have stayed longer than I should. I must return home.”
He nodded, the sharp gaze of his sapphire eyes softening, though whether from understanding or disappointment, Annabelle could not tell. She didn't dare to linger, couldn't afford the luxury of deciphering the emotions behind his gaze.
With a final, respectful curtsy and a soft pat on Patches' head, Annabelle turned, leaving the duke and his dog behind. As she retraced her steps back through the meadow, the weight of the encounter and the societal constraints pressed down on her like an ill-fitting garment, reminding her that the path to her heart's desire would never be as straightforward as a stroll through a summer meadow.
Having navigated her way through the meadow with haste, Annabelle arrived at the Ludlow estate, her heart still beating its frantic tune. She allowed herself a moment to collect her thoughts, a futile attempt to brush off the lingering effect of her meeting with the Duke. But as she crossed the threshold, all thoughts of her peaceful morning, and her nerve-racking encounter with the Duke, were replaced with a far more imminent concern.
Her uncle, Oswald Ludlow, sat in his imposing armchair, his stern gaze meeting hers as she entered. There was a stern, unyielding quality to his eyes that reminded Annabelle of the oppressive guardianship he had wielded since her parents’ tragic demise in a carriage accident five years ago. The familiar setting of her home seemed to shift under the weight of his scrutiny, every item of furniture seeming to bear witness to her reprimand.
“Annabelle,” Oswald began, the deep timbre of his voice reverberating in the quiet room. “You should not be gallivanting alone in the meadows. It is time for you to put aside such childish escapades.”
His sharp words carried a biting edge, stirring a deep-rooted resentment within Annabelle. But it was his next words that truly took her breath away, sending a chill prickling down her spine.
“I have been considering your situation, and it is high time you were married.”
