Reborn: The Duke’s Obsession

Her mouth was wet with the familiar smell of blood, and it was so incredibly hard to breathe.

Little Delia's small eyes opened slowly. The world was a blurry, painful haze. She saw maids rushing back and forth with bowls of water and clean cloths. She heard her father's voice, a desperate, broken sound.

"She is struggling to breathe, and she is losing so much blood!"

Augusta stood beside Henry, her own face a perfect cover of panic. "What do we do, Henry?" she cried, clutching his arm. "She's dying right in front of our eyes."

Henry turned to the doctor, a grim-faced man who was working over Delia's small, frail body. "What can be done about her?" he begged. "Please, Sir, I don't want my daughter to die."

An assistant came out of the adjoining room and whispered something urgently in the doctor's ear. The doctor's already grim expression darkened. He turned to Henry. "My lord, this is a clear case of arsenic poisoning. Given the amount and the severity of her symptoms, there is a very, very slim chance that she will survive."

Henry's legs gave out from under him, and he fell to his knees on the cold, hard floor. "Please," he pleaded, his voice a raw whisper. "Save her. I will give you anything."

On the bed, little Delia's body began to convulse, a terrible, violent shaking that seemed to wrack her entire small frame.

"Delia!" Henry shouted, crawling closer to the bed. "Delia, please! Don't leave me the way your mother did! Please, you are all I have left!"

And then, just as suddenly as it began, the small girl's body went still. Her breathing, which had been a ragged, painful gasp, evened out into a strange, shallow peace.

The doctor, finding this sudden change suspicious, quickly checked her pulse, her breath. He then looked up at the waiting Baron, his face a mask of solemn sorrow.

"The little lady is gone," he said quietly. "She is dead."

Henry let out a powerful, sorrowful cry, a sound of a man whose heart had just been ripped from his chest. Immediately, his grief turned to a cold, hard rage. He looked up, his eyes red and blazing. "Bring her nanny here," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Right now. Call Mrs. Doris. Now!"

The gentle, rhythmic rocking of the carriage woke her up.

"Another memory again," Delia said, her own voice a shaky whisper as a cold sweat formed on her forehead. The dream, the memory, had been so vivid, so terrifyingly real. "I was dead before?" she asked herself, her heart pounding with a confused terror. "How is that even possible? I only died once, and that was one year ago, in the carriage accident."

She looked out the window at the passing, moonlit countryside, her mind a tangled mess of impossible questions. "Why am I seeing memories of things that did not happen? Things I have no real memory of?" A lot of questions swirled in her mind, forming a painful, throbbing headache. She touched her forehead, the skin cool and clammy.

"And Mrs. Doris…" she thought. "The Baroness always told me that Mrs. Doris was fired because she was caught stealing silver from the house. But in that memory, Father was calling for her in a rage." She shook her head. "It looks like there is much more to this story than meets the eye. I will have to find Mrs. Doris. Maybe she has some of the answers I am looking for."

Just then, she realized the carriage had stopped. She hadn't even noticed that they had arrived home. Mr. Rye helped her down, his expression one of quiet, respectful concern.

As she was about to enter the house, she smelled the familiar scent of cigar smoke. She followed the scent around to the side of the house, to the stone terrace that overlooked the gardens. And there he was.

Eric was sitting on a concrete bench, a single lit cigar held in his right hand. He was staring up at the moon as he exhaled a long, thoughtful plume of smoke.

Delia came up behind him, just as she had done that first time she had seen him at the ball, some months ago. As she came up behind him, she reached out a steady hand and slowly, gently, took the cigar from between his lips.

He looked up, startled, his dark eyes widening in surprise as he saw her standing there, a vision in the soft moonlight. With a small, gentle smile, Delia calmly turned the cigar downward and pressed the burning tip against the stone balustrade until the ember was extinguished. She then handed it back to him.

"The night might be cold, Your Grace," she said, her voice a soft, teasing murmur, her own version of the words she spoke, "but I believe there are other, much better ways to keep ourselves warm." She flashed him a warm, inviting smile.

Eric was silent for a long moment, simply staring at her, his initial surprise shifting into a look of intense, loving curiosity. He looked at the extinguished cigar in his hand, then back at her beautiful face.

"I am home, Eric," she said, her voice now a soft, happy whisper, breaking the silence. "Did you miss me?"

A slow, deliberate, and deeply happy quality entered his voice when he finally spoke. "Delia," he said, her name a sound of pure contentment.

She chuckled. "You remember this scenario, right? The first time we truly met, at the ball."

Eric smiled and nodded his head. He took her hand and guided her to the bench. But instead of letting her sit beside him, he pulled her down onto his lap. She sat there as he wrapped his strong arms around her waist, pulling her close.

"Mmmm…" he murmured, his face buried in her hair. "You smell delicious. Like a combination of lavender and cake. I want to have a taste."

Delia smiled, her hand gently stroking his hair. "Stop that," she teased. "Lady Isla was just teaching me some of her recipes. We made a cake together."

"Mmmm… is that so?" he replied, his voice husky as he nuzzled her breast through the fabric of her dress.

Delia gently pushed his head up. "What were you doing out here all by yourself? Is something wrong?"

He raised his head, and she saw that the happy, teasing light in his eyes was gone, replaced by a familiar, weary frustration. "Well," he began, "I have successfully caught George and Evelin Pembroke in their lies. But I still do not have any solid evidence that directly connects their actions to Anne."

Delia held his cheek, her own expression turning soft and sympathetic. "Is that why you are out here sulking all alone?"

He nodded his head, pouting like a small child who had lost his favorite toy. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice a low, frustrated whisper. "I am sorry that I could not protect your reputation completely. I am sorry that I still could not find the real culprit behind it all."

Delia kissed his forehead, then his cheek, then his ear. She bit it gently, causing him to let out a soft, surprised moan. She then whispered in his ear, her own voice now a seductive, playful purr.

"Well," she said, her fingers touching the collar of his shirt, slowly unbuttoning the first button. "There is one way you can make it up to me." She continued, her voice a low, teasing sound. "You will have to…"

After listening to what she had to say, a wide, wicked grin plastered itself across his face. He stood up, lifting her into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all.

"Your wish," he said, his voice a low, happy growl, "is my command, Your Grace."