Page 5 of ?n Arranged Betrothal with a Blind Duke
His brow furrowed, and he squinted, trying to focus his milky vision. The vague outline of a figure, distinctly feminine, flitted in and out of focus in the distance. Her silhouette was a mystery he yearned to unveil, a song he longed to hear in its entirety.
Compelled by the magnetic pull of the enchanting melody and the allure of the elusive silhouette, Adrian, guided by Patches, moved closer. His cane tapped rhythmically against the gravel path, its sound punctuating the harmony of the morning chorus.
His heartbeat seemed to keep time with his advancing steps, a pulsating tempo of anticipation echoing in his ears. The humming grew louder, its notes swirling around him, filling the air with a symphony that stirred an inexplicable yearning in his heart.
As they neared the silhouette, Patches' tail wagged with greater excitement, its steady rhythm conveying a sense of trust. Adrian took in a deep breath, the scent of blooming roses and the lingering traces of the woman's perfume intermingling in a dance that quickened his pulse further.
With every step, he felt his world expanding, the unfamiliar contours of the unexpected moment promising a new narrative in the canvas of his existence. His senses heightened, heart thudding, he reached out toward the source of the beguiling melody. Thornwood, it seemed, had more mysteries to offer than he had anticipated.
Chapter Two
Basking in the balmy warmth of the early afternoon, Annabelle Ludlow, wearing a gown of azure silk, gracefully wandered through the sun-dappled meadow. The notes of a beloved tune, one her late mother had often hummed, floated from her lips in a gentle, melodic whisper. The memories imbued in the melody wrapped her heart in a warm embrace, creating a moment of serenity that seemed as delicate as spun glass.
Lost in the enchanting reverie, her heart echoed the familiar tune, her pulse beating in harmony with the song that danced on the edge of her lips. The sounds of nature wove themselves seamlessly into her music, birds chiming in with their own verses and the wind whispering the rhythm.
However, the tranquility that had begun to encase her in its soothing balm shattered like a dropped crystal goblet. The stillness of the meadow was abruptly broken by a sound that was distinctly human. The soft, rhythmic crunching of boots on grass; the undeniable indication of an approaching presence.
Alarm coiled in her stomach like a hissing snake, tightening as she turned towards the source of the disturbance. As her gaze moved from the sea of wildflowers to the forest's edge, her breath hitched. There he stood, a tall silhouette against the verdant backdrop, the duke of Thornwood.
His austere countenance bore a mark of isolation, like a hermit returning from his self-imposed solitude. The piercing sapphire gaze that met hers held an intensity that brought forth memories of whispered rumors – his hunting accident, the terrible incident that had disabled him years ago, and the subsequent retreat from the world. She had never met him in person. But living so close to his countryside retreat, she was aware that he lived nearby. But
what were the chances that she would coincidentally encounter him, while both of them happened to be taking a walk at the same time?
The duke’s story, which was often narrated in hushed voices in the parlors and ballrooms of society, suddenly took on a tangible form. The wave of apprehension that swept over her was as palpable as the wildflowers brushing against her silk-clad legs, sending her heartbeat into a quickened pace.
But Annabelle was no simpering debutante. The strength that lay beneath her ladylike exterior surfaced, silencing the flutter of nerves. With all the courage she could muster, she met his stare, her eyes filled with determination.
“Miss Ludlow,” the duke greeted, his voice low and gruff, as though it hadn't been used in conversation for a long time.
“Your Grace,” Annabelle replied, her voice steadier than she had expected. As she dipped into a delicate curtsy, her mother's lessons on grace and decorum echoed in her mind. Even though the duke couldn’t see her, she knew it was proper to greet him formally. She straightened and looked at him, her heart drumming with a mix of fascination and unease against the confines of her ribcage. “Forgive my boldness, but how is it that you know my name?”
What she really wanted to ask was how he could see enough of her to even know that she was a woman. She supposed that her soap and perfume might carry a feminine scent on the light breeze. But even then, how could he see her face to know who she was?
The duke chortled softly, and she prayed she hadn’t offended him.
“With the perfume, I guessed that you were a woman,” he said, confirming part of her assumption. “And my aunt knows everyone who lives in this part of London. If not personally, then by way of gossip. I assume the same is true if you knew to address me as ‘your grace.’”
Anabelle nodded, even though the duke couldn’t see.
“That’s right,” she said. “My uncle is much the same way.” Although I would imagine that your aunt’s gossip is far different from my uncle’s bitter complaining, she added silently.
While his name had often been the subject of society's gossip, Annabelle could not deny the man standing before her was shrouded in an air of mystery and allure. His sudden appearance, both alarming and intriguing, stirred within her a renewed sense of curiosity. And it was with this curiosity and a hint of apprehension that she stepped into the whirlwind that was the Duke of Thornwood.
In the wake of their exchanged greetings, an unsettling silence hung heavy in the air between Annabelle and the Duke of Thornwood, punctuated only by the chorus of summer birds flitting in the nearby branches, and the gentle rustle of leaves stirred by a soft breeze. The unease of their encounter seemed to solidify the air, its weight pressing down upon Annabelle’s slender shoulders. It was a contrast so stark to the harmony that the meadow had serenaded her with only moments before.
Just as the silence threatened to consume her entirely, a plaintive whimper broke the tense stillness. Annabelle's eyes darted towards the source of the sound, and a warm smile spread across her face. Emerging from the tall grasses was the duke's faithful hound, tail wagging with an exuberant rhythm. The dog carried itself with a pride befitting the pet of a nobleman. Annabelle instantly loved the animal.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” she asked, bending over with an outstretched hand to allow the animal to get her scent.
The duke chuckled, seemingly pleasantly distracted by the interaction.
“His name is Patches,” he said, sounding as proud as the dog stood.
Annabelle smiled brightly at the duke, forgetting for a moment that he couldn’t see it. And yet, he returned her smile, as though he could feel it.
“Patches,” she cooed, her voice light and tender. “May I pet him?”
The duke chuckled again, the sound surprisingly light and innocent, despite his ghastly reputation.
