Page 14 of ?n Arranged Betrothal with a Blind Duke
His words were daggers, and with each one he flung, Annabelle could feel her heart punctured anew. She tried to tell herself that Oswald was right, that their financial plight was as desperate as he described. Yet, her mind stubbornly revisited the meadow, where under the vast azure expanse, she had dared to dream of love and companionship.
“The focus of your attention should be securing a favorable match, not gallivanting around the countryside,” Oswald's said, his words, as biting as a winter wind, cut through her thoughts. The venomous tone left her with the sour taste of betrayal. “Your frivolous pursuits,” he continued, his nostrils flaring with every exhaled word, “are unbefitting of our precarious situation.”
The flame of hope within her flickered but didn't extinguish. She clenched her hands into fists, her fingers seeking strength in the soft fabric of her gown. Oswald's insistence that marriage was the only viable option for her filled her heart with dread. It was as though he was dismissing the possibility of her finding love, declaring it as trivial as a child's fantasy.
She wanted to stand up to him as she thought about the advice she got from Penelope. But she knew it was better to just let her cruel uncle speak his mind and then console herself in the aftermath. Thus, she remained completely silent.
His bitter tirade continued, each word a harsh reminder of her role in the household since her parents' demise five years ago.
“Since taking you under my wing,” Oswald said, his voice heavy with resentment, “I've made sacrifices, financial and personal. I've tolerated your whims and fancies out of an ill-placed sense of obligation.”
A knot of anger formed in Annabelle's stomach, making her chest feel tight and her mouth dry. Oswald's claim of sacrifices made her seethe. Yes, he had provided her a home, but it was a home devoid of warmth, its every room echoing with the emptiness of her loss. Her gratitude towards him was marred by his refusal to understand her need for happiness, not just security.
His veiled eagerness to orchestrate her marriage was not lost on her. The subtle hint in his words made her cheeks flush with indignation. Would he trade her happiness for a filled coffer? Was his duty to her so burdensome that he'd see her unhappily wed just to unburden himself?
With a dismissive wave of his hand, Oswald moved towards the door.
“I shall return late. Don't wait up, Annabelle,” he said with a sarcastic flare, a final blow to the evening's tranquility. As the door shut behind him, leaving her alone in the dim-lit drawing room, she heard the crunch of gravel beneath his boots fade, indicating his departure to the local pub. The silence left in his wake echoed ominously around her, amplifying her feelings of unease.
She sank into a chintz-upholstered armchair, her mind awash with her conversation with Oswald. The memories of the day’s joy were marred by his words, leaving her with an emptiness that gnawed at her heart. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the stars twinkled innocently against the inky sky. They held no hint of the turmoil brewing inside her. The peaceful serenity of the night belied her inner storm, making her feel more alone.
A chilling gust of wind slipped through the slightly ajar window, sweeping Oswald's bitter accusations away, but leaving in their place a haunting sense of foreboding. Oswald's insinuations, his threats of orchestrating her marriage, swirled around in her head like vultures around a dying prey.
The injustice of it all struck her sharply. A profound resentment bubbled within her as she considered their financial situation, which had been severely worsened by Oswald's reckless spending. She knew, as did the entire village, that her late father's once ample fortune had been systematically squandered by Oswald's penchant for drinking and gambling. His indulgent nights at the local pub, the endless games of Whist and Hazard had whittled away at the legacy her father had left her.
Her fingers traced the armrest of her chair, the damask fabric rough against her skin, a sensory testament to her rapidly dwindling lifestyle. How could Oswald berate her for seeking happiness when he himself was the architect of their misfortune?
The tears that had been threatening to spill finally welled up in her eyes, but she held them back. She wouldn't give Oswald the satisfaction of seeing her broken. She was her father's daughter, resilient and determined. His unjustified tirade had only hardened her resolve to find her own happiness. She would not be a victim of Oswald's follies.
Annabelle stood up, her determination casting a new light in her eyes. She wouldn't let Oswald's fear-mongering manipulate her. She would seek her own destiny, not the one he had so heartlessly mapped out for her. Her heart might be burdened with worry, but it was also brimming with newfound resolve. In the battle between her dreams and Oswald's harsh reality, she was now a combatant, not a casualty.
Annabelle quietly ascended the sweeping staircase, her hand barely touching the ornate balustrade as she made her way to the solace of her bedchamber. The heavy mahogany door closed behind her with a soft thud, sealing her away from the disturbing world she had left behind in the drawing-room. The familiar scent of lavender and old books greeted her, a balm to her frazzled nerves.
Her bedchamber, a sanctuary from the storm of her life, held an aura of serene tranquility. The moonlight filtering through the diaphanous curtains bathed the room in a soothing glow. Her eyes were drawn to the large painting of her parents that hung over the fireplace. The familiar sight of their loving expressions, forever captured in oil and canvas, offered her a glimmer of hope.
As she sank into the plush comfort of her canopied bed, the fabric curtains whispered soft tales of solace around her. The worries Oswald's words had planted seemed momentarily distant within these four walls. Her mind, now freed from his influence, started to drift toward a more pleasing image. The Duke of Thornwood.
The memories of their encounter in the meadow, which had been temporarily obscured by her conflict with Oswald, now returned with comforting clarity. Her thoughts wandered to the handsome gentleman with the mesmerizing blue eyes. The Duke, with his captivating combination of charm and kindness, had unwittingly etched himself in the canvas of her heart.
Her fingers traced the embroidered pattern on her duvet as she recalled his features. The way his eyes twinkled when he laughed, the chiseled jaw softened by his ready smile, the way his hair glinted in the sun, like spun gold.
Her heart fluttered at the memory of his voice. How his words had spun tales of places she had only dreamt of, his every phrase painting vivid pictures in her mind. How he listened to her with genuine interest, treating her ideas with respect, not dismissing them as Oswald often did.
But it wasn't just his physical appeal that enchanted her. The duke’s kind-hearted nature, his genuine respect for her opinions, and his ready laughter had drawn her in. He was a gentleman, not just in appearance but in spirit too. The stark contrast between his behavior and Oswald’s was a balm to her wounded heart.
As she closed her eyes, his image was etched on her eyelids, a beacon of hope in the troubled seas of her thoughts. Despite the storm Oswald had stirred, her heart held onto the promise of her friendship with the Duke, his essence acting as an antidote to her uncertainties. She would hold onto this hope, for it was all that kept the chilling winds of her reality at bay.
Chapter Seven
The rays of the sun, like a warm caress, began to creep into the chambers of Adrian, the Duke of Thornwood. He blinked away the sleep that clung stubbornly to his lashes, his cerulean eyes adjusting to the morning light. As the veil of slumber lifted, he gradually became aware of the one particular anomaly.
Patches, his beloved dog, was not nestled in his usual place by the bed. The space by Adrian's side was devoid of the warm, comforting presence that usually greeted him in the morning. A slight furrow of worry momentarily etched itself on his handsome face. But his concern melted away as he contemplated the more plausible scenario.
A vision of Patches, tail wagging with unrestrained joy, chasing the frisky squirrels in the garden painted itself in Adrian's mind. He had never seen the dog. But his aunt had described him very well to him the day he found him, and he could feel the thickness of his fur and the bulk of his size, so it was easy to imagine.
The thought elicited a gentle, unguarded smile that curved his lips, a rare sight that softened the severe lines of his aristocratic face. He could almost hear the ecstatic bark, see the frenzied scamper of paws over the dew-kissed grass. His heart warmed, the dog's innocent revelry allowing him a moment of tranquility in his otherwise rigid life of duty and decorum.
A soft knock broke the peaceful silence of the room, followed by the entry of Blake, his trusty valet. The man paused in his steps, his astute eyes noting the unusual lightness in his master's demeanor.
