Page 17 of ?n Arranged Betrothal with a Blind Duke
“I dare say,” Miss Ludlow said during a moment of comfortable silence. “The time I have spent with you out here has been some of the most enjoyable of my life. It is so beautiful out here. And your company is most pleasant and delightful.”
Adrian blushed, for the first time in ages. He gave her a crooked smile, looking at her with amazement.
“I feel the same, Miss Ludlow,” he said.
She paused, and he felt something shift within her slightly.
“I do feel terrible, however,” she said. “I can sit here and witness this beautiful day, see all the colours and the flowers and the little animals flying and scampering about. But that has been taken from you. I am deeply saddened by the pain you are experiencing.”
For once, Adrian felt seen - truly seen - not as the duke with a cane, but as a man. A man with passions, dreams, and a fervent love for literature. With Miss Ludlow, he wasn't confined by his disability or the physical limitations it imposed. He wasn't the shell marred by scars and dependent on a cane for support, but the vibrant soul within.
“It’s quite all right, Miss Ludlow,” he said. “I saw enough in the years before my blindness. And I know this land better than the back of my own hand. I paint my own pictures of the landscape, the animals, the weather. The true disappointment is when I can’t see the beauty of something new.”
He hadn’t realized that he had allowed his feelings toward her creep into his thoughts. The feelings seeped into his voice, and he heard her breath catch. He gave her a quick smile, hoping that he hadn’t made her feel awkward.
“But it is kind of you to be concerned,” he said. “Not many people in the ton seem to see me as human anymore. Let alone care about how my condition might make me feel. That was very thoughtful of you.”
The young woman sighed, and he felt relief. He hadn’t made her uncomfortable. That was suddenly more important to him than anything.
“The ton members can be truly cruel, can they not?” she asked. “I’m sorry you have to go through such torment with them.”
Adrian shrugged. That very thing had tortured him for three years. But in that moment, there in the meadow with Miss Ludlow, he couldn’t care less.
“As my aunt once said, I would rather not associate with cads who could behave in such a way.”
Miss Ludlow giggled, sending another shiver up his spine.
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said.
The invisible walls that often surrounded him, constructed by the judgment and sympathy of society, crumbled under the weight of their shared laughter and authentic interactions. The world didn't just revolve around him; it expanded, inviting him into its vibrant tapestry of experiences, unburdened and unhindered.
Adrian felt alive - truly alive. His heart pulsed with a new rhythm, a thrilling harmony that resonated with the genuine connection they shared. The shared stories, the laughter, the intellectual banter - all resonated with a beauty and depth he had seldom experienced.
Every word Miss Ludlow spoke, every shared silence, every heartwarming smile - all of it was a symphony he wished to forever bask in. There was an exhilarating freedom in these moments, a liberation from the shackles of societal expectations and judgment. His scars, the tangible remnants of past tribulations, no longer felt like a badge of perceived weakness. Instead, they were a testament to resilience, to the trials he had overcome.
With every passing moment, he found himself delving deeper into the connection they were building. His heart resonated with an inexplicable harmony, an enticing symphony that made him cherish the exhilarating feeling of being alive. His reality, often shaped by his disability, was beautifully rewritten under the warmth of Miss Ludlow's companionship.
As the sun painted the meadow with hues of gold, Adrian reveled in the authentic, unfiltered acceptance Miss Ludlow offered him. Their shared moments, filled with laughter, warmth, and intellectual discourse, became his haven. A haven where he was not a disabled Duke, but simply Adrian - the man with a love for literature, the man capable of affection, the man who was allowed to dream, and more importantly, the man who was understood, seen, and cherished.
Chapter Eight
Annabelle had never found it easy to leave the verdant cradle of the meadow behind. Its grassy arms held a soothing charm, the brilliant blue of the sky's canvas overhead competing for attention with the vibrant flower-studded carpet below. The sanctuary had been her haven and escape, a paradise on earth where she had spent the day absorbed in Adrian's delightful company.
As the sun descended beyond the horizon, its molten hues bled into the afternoon skies, tinting them in shades of melting copper and crimson - mirroring the warmth that had unfurled within her own heart. The shared passion for literature, their laughter and light-hearted banter echoed in her ears, a sweet serenade that had entwined their souls more closely.
The books Adrian had chosen for her with such consideration rested securely in the crook of her arm, a tangible embodiment of the affectionate bond forming between them. Each volume was a testament to their shared moments of joy, their effervescent conversation floating on the currents of the warm summer breeze, the soft rustle of pages, and their hearts beating in shared rhythm. She clutched them closer, her heart swelling with gratitude for his thoughtful gesture.
But as she crossed the threshold of her home, the enchanting spell of the day snapped as if severed by a cruel blade. The comforting warmth drained away, replaced by an icy apprehension. Uncle Oswald awaited her in the entrance, his stern face a foreboding storm cloud in the calm sea of her blissful memories. His eyes, always dark and intense, seemed to have taken on a new shade of displeasure, his brows knitted together to form an intimidating furrow.
“Annabelle, where have you been?” his voice, harsh and demanding, stabbed the quietude of the hallway, each word a pointed accusation. She froze, her heart pounding in her chest as she faced his stern scrutiny. She felt as though she was walking a tightrope, every word a potential misstep that could plunge her into a bottomless abyss.
She clutched the books tighter, their comforting presence a lifeline. The thought of admitting her afternoon spent with Adrian made her stomach churn with apprehension. But the truth was a sharp sword hanging over her head, threatening to slice through the thin veil of her peaceful existence.
How could she convey the magical connection they had formed? How could she make him understand that their shared love for literature had woven a spell around them, binding their hearts in an intricate dance of affection, respect, and perhaps, something more profound?
Words escaped her grasp, slipping through her fingers like wisps of smoke. She swallowed hard, mustering the strength to meet her uncle's piercing gaze. Fear constricted her heart, but the lingering enchantment of her time with Adrian provided her a spark of courage. She drew in a deep breath, ready to face the daunting storm that was Uncle Oswald.
Under the weight of Oswald's angry gaze, Annabelle felt as though she were a mere paper doll, her façade crumbling under the harsh blow of his ire. She forced her lips to curve into a semblance of a smile, a futile attempt to smooth the wrinkles of worry etched onto her uncle's brow.
