Reborn: The Duke’s Obsession

The drive to the cabin was achingly long and suffocatingly silent. The rhythmic clopping of the horse's hooves and the gentle rocking of the carriage were the only sounds, leaving Delia alone with the frantic drumming of her own heart. Each passing minute stretched into an eternity, winding the knot of anxiety in her stomach tighter and tighter. She sat perfectly still, her hands clasped in her lap, her gaze fixed on the dark, passing landscape outside the window. What had she done? In a single, bold move, she had secured a private audience with the Duke, but at what cost?

She risked a sideways glance at him. Eric sat opposite her, his posture relaxed, his expression calm as he gazed out his own window. He seemed completely at ease, a man in total control of the situation. This only made her more nervous. She had played a game of wits and won the first round, but now she was heading into unknown territory with no map and no plan, driven by a man whose intentions were a complete mystery.

The carriage finally slowed, turning off the main path onto a smaller, hidden trail before coming to a complete stop. Delia peered out the window. There, nestled in a small clearing and bathed in the soft, silvery light of the moon, was a small, beautiful cabin. It was expertly built from dark, sturdy logs, with a stone chimney and large windows that seemed to watch them silently. It looked peaceful, almost romantic but still unsettling.

The driver, without a word of instruction, expertly unhitched the horse and led it towards a small stable set back amongst the trees.

" He comes here often," Delia thought, a cold realization dawning on her. The driver's routined movements, the well-maintained path, the very existence of this secluded place—it all pointed to frequent use. A more sinister thought followed immediately, unbidden and unwelcome. "He brings his women here."

The thought sent an involuntary shudder through her body, a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. She pictured a long line of beautiful, willing ladies being escorted into this cabin, disappearing behind its sturdy door. Was she just the latest in his collection of dalliances? The boldness she had felt in the garden evaporated, replaced by a raw, primal fear.

"Ahem!"

Eric cleared his throat, a soft sound that shattered the silence and jolted Delia from her dark thoughts. She looked up to see him standing by the open carriage door, his hand extended not to her, but towards the cabin's entrance.

"After you, my lady," he said, his voice smooth and low. He gave a slight, formal bow, a gesture of perfect courtesy that felt entirely out of place given the scandalous nature of their situation.

Delia forced a smile onto her face. It felt stiff and unnatural, a poor mask for the sheer panic she was feeling. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the carriage, her legs feeling unsteady beneath her. They walked the few steps to the front door, the crunch of their shoes on the gravel path sounding unnaturally loud.

They entered inside the cabin and stopped at a door, and both of them stood there for a moment, staring at the dark, unpainted wood. Eric turned his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. "Aren't you going to open it?" he asked, his gaze flicking down to the key still clutched in her hand.

Delia looked down at her own hand as if surprised to find the key there. The reality of her decision crashed down on her with full force. She remembered snatching it from the bench, her mind focused only on beating Anne, on securing this victory. " I did it to make Anne angry", she thought frantically, "and now I've gotten myself into terrible trouble."

She looked up at him and waved the key nervously, letting out a slight chuckle that sounded more like a choked cough. "Of course," she said, her voice trembling slightly.

She turned to the door, her hand shaking as she tried to guide the tip of the iron key into the keyhole. It scraped against the metal plate but refused to enter. She pulled it back and tried again, her focus so intense that she barely breathed. It still wouldn't go in. Instead, her trembling fingers lost their grip, and the key slipped, clattering onto the wooden porch.

With a small gasp, she bent down and snatched it up. She tried again, murmuring under her breath in frustration, "Why isn't it going through?"

Suddenly, a warm hand covered hers, gently stilling its frantic movements. She jerked, startled by his touch. Eric's fingers were firm and warm around her own. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, husky tone that vibrated right through her.

"Don't be so anxious," he said softly, his breath warm against her ear. "I know this is your first time. I'll try not to be too hard on you."

His words, spoken in that impossibly sexy tone, sent a shockwave through her body. It was a blatant and it confirmed her worst fears. He thought she was here for… that. He was teasing her, toying with her, enjoying her terror.

He gently took the key from her now-limp hand. With a smooth, effortless motion, he slid it into the keyhole and turned it. The lock gave a satisfying click. He pushed the door open into the dark interior and then gestured for her to enter. After she hesitantly stepped over the threshold, he followed her in and closed the door behind them, turning the key in the lock once more. The final, heavy click echoed in the small space, sealing them in.

Delia's heart was pounding in her ears. Her back was pressed against the door, and she braced herself for the inevitable. But as her eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the windows, she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

The room was not a bedroom. There was no large, luxurious bed with silk sheets. There was no scent of perfume or wine. Instead, she found herself in what could only be described as a private study or an office.

Wall-to-wall bookshelves, crammed with leather-bound books of all sizes, lined the room. In the center, there was a simple, elegant center table flanked by two comfortable-looking armchairs. Against one wall sat a long, plush chaise lounge, perfect for reading. And in the corner, positioned to catch the best light from a large window, was a personal desk and chair. The desk was not empty; it was covered in neat stacks of books, open ledgers, and rolled parchments, with quills and inkwells standing at the ready.

Delia stood frozen, her mouth slightly agape. All she could do was stare. All her terrifying assumptions, all the scandalous scenarios she had built up in her mind, crumbled into dust. " He brought me to his study," She whispered to herself.