Page 27 of ?n Arranged Betrothal with a Blind Duke
“I agree, particularly about Shakespeare,” he said. “He was a man of so many talents in the art of writing. I wish I could write half as well as him. I also enjoyed Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, as well as John Keats’s Ode to a Nightingale, and Alexander Pope’s The Rape of the Lock.”
As soon as the Duke of Thornwood spoke the name of the last poem, his face paled.
“Oh, heavens,” he said, his white cheeks developing red patches on them. “Forgive me. That was perhaps one I should have kept to myself…”
“I agree with you about The Rape of the Lock,” Annabelle said quickly, giving the duke a warm smile, even though he couldn’t see it. “It was, in my humble opinion, one of the best satirical poems ever written.”
Lord Thornwood visible relaxed, his smile returning once more.
“Wasn’t it?” he asked. “I don’t believe I even understood satire until I read that poem.”
Annabelle laughed and nodded.
“I feel the same,” she said.
As they continued talking, she found herself amazed that the duke shared in her passion for the written word. His deep knowledge and appreciation for poetry mirrored her own, forging a connection between them that they were yet to comprehend. As they delved into the intricate nuances of beloved verses and the profound emotions they evoked, Annabelle's heart stirred with a sense of exhilaration.
She marveled at the way his eyes lit up when he spoke, his voice resonating with an unwavering passion for the art of poetry. On the other side of her, she could vaguely hear Penelope and Lord Harrington conversing amongst themselves. Their voices melded seamlessly as they regaled each other with tales of horses and equestrian adventures. Their mutual enthusiasm shone through, their laughter and spirited gestures capturing the attention of those nearby.
She felt bad for ignoring her friend. But she couldn’t tear herself away from the spell under which the Duke of Thornwood seemed to place her when he spoke. Annabelle's gaze wandered momentarily, catching a glimpse of Penelope's radiant smile and Henry's animated gestures. She couldn't help but feel a pang of admiration for the effortless harmony between them. They seemed to possess an understanding that surpassed mere words, a connection that echoed through their laughter and shared interests.
In that moment, Annabelle realized how easily love could blossom from the simplest of passions, from the shared joys and excitement of life's pursuits. It was, of course, foolish, and presumptuous to say that her friend and the Duke’s friend shared any kind of love. But they were bonding easily and seemed to be enjoying each other’s company. It was easy to see how strong bonds formed. And as she observed Penelope and Henry, a flicker of longing danced within her own heart, a yearning for a connection as profound and effortless as theirs.
But like a dark storm cloud looming on the horizon, Oswald's arrival on horseback shattered the tranquility that had settled upon the gathering. Annabelle's heart sank as her eyes fell upon him, his presence disrupting the harmony they had been reveling in. His eyes gleamed with an unyielding determination, his lips curling into a sneer that sent a shiver down Annabelle's spine.
With an air of harshness, Oswald addressed her, his words laced with a venomous edge.
“Annabelle,” he said sharply. “I have returned. I would like to speak with you.”
Flustered, Annabelle curtseyed, trying to gather herself.
“You are earlier than I expected,” she said, floundering terribly for words. “Uncle, I’d like you to meet…”
“I would speak with you at once,” he said, utterly dismissing the duke and the others in her company.
The mirth in Annabelle's heart evaporated, replaced by a growing unease. She braced herself for what was to come, the anticipation heavy in the air.
In response, the Duke’s eyes narrowed as Oswald's dismissive attitude sliced through the light-hearted atmosphere like a sharpened blade. The disdain Oswald displayed towards Adrian betrayed his lack of respect, his very presence casting a shadow over their joyous gathering.
The duke, sensing the tension, stepped forward with unwavering resolve.
“Sir, I must insist that you show some respect,” he declared, his voice steady but laced with an underlying challenge. “Miss Ludlow is free to decide what she does, and it is not for you to interfere.”
Oswald's sneer deepened, his eyes narrowing as he directed his wrath towards Adrian.
“You speak out of turn, Your Grace,” he spat, his words filled with malice. “This is a matter between Annabelle and me. She is my niece, my charge, and she will accompany me back home, as I demand.”
But the duke’s protests echoed with an unyielding determination. “I will not stand by and watch you exert control over Miss Ludlow,” he declared, his voice resonating with a mixture of concern and protectiveness. “She is not a possession to be claimed, but a woman of her own free will. I implore you, sir, reconsider your demands. We will escort her home safely as soon as she is ready, I assure you.”
Annabelle's heart swelled with gratitude for Adrian's unwavering support, but her own emotions were a tumultuous storm raging within her. She knew that to defy Oswald openly would invite further chaos into her life, and yet she longed to break free from the suffocating grasp he held over her.
As the standoff between Oswald and the Duke escalated, Annabelle's mind raced, searching for a way to navigate this treacherous path. Oswald’s gaze was murderous on the duke, and for one terrifying moment, Annabelle thought that Oswald might dismount from his horse and take to fighting with the Duke of Thornwood.
“It’s all right, your Grace,” Annabelle said, giving the duke a pleading look that she knew he would not see. “I will go with my uncle. There is no sense in this encounter ruining the day for the rest of you.”
She heard Penelope mutter something under her breath, and she saw the duke step forward. But before anything more could be said, she pulled herself atop her uncle’s horse, sitting sidesaddle behind him and holding onto the sides of the saddle. She knew she was in a precarious situation. But she also knew that her uncle wouldn’t dare bring her harm, not when people had just witnessed his abrasiveness with her.
The journey back home was enveloped in a suffocating silence, the weight of Annabelle's heart bearing down upon her like an insurmountable burden. The horse trudged along, each passing moment only adding to the heaviness that filled the air. She dared not look at Oswald, for even from behind him she could feel nothing but cold indifference and the looming wrath he was capable of unleashing.
