Reborn: The Duke's Obsession Chapter 8 - Eight

The heavy wooden door to her father’s chambers creaked softly as Delia pushed it open. She slipped inside, closing it quietly behind her. The room was dim, the thick velvet curtains drawn tight against the sun, allowing only thin slivers of light to pierce the gloom. The air was still and slled faintly of dicine, a scent that now clung to her mories of her father.

Baron Henry was once one of the most prominent figures in the king’s court. His sharp mind and tireless work had earned him a place of respect and influence that few could rival. He was the only Baron who served the king personally, a trusted advisor amongst a sea of Viscounts, Counts, and Dukes. His counsel was valued, and his loyalty had won him the king’s genuine favor. But a sudden, cruel illness had stolen him from the vibrant world of court politics and trapped him within the four walls of this silent room.

He was asleep, lying motionless in the center of a large, ornate bed that now seed to swallow his frail form. His breathing was shallow, a soft, rhythmic sound in the quiet room. Delia walked over to the bed, her footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rug. She looked at his face, once so strong and commanding, now pale and etched with lines of pain even in sleep. His dark hair was threaded with more gray than she rembered, and his strong hands lay limply on the covers.

She gently sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. She reached out and took one of his hands. It felt cool and fragile in her own. With her thumb, she began to rub the back of his hand softly, a familiar, comforting gesture from her childhood.

The slight movent seed to stir him from his light sleep. His eyelids fluttered open, and he turned his head slowly on the pillow. His eyes, though clouded with fatigue, focused on her. A flicker of recognition, then warmth, passed through them.

"Delia," he murmured, his voice a dry whisper. "You don’t visit often anymore." There was a faint hint of a reprimand in his tone, the ghost of the authoritative father he used to be. But as he took in her somber expression, the sternness lted away, replaced by concern. He squeezed her hand weakly. "My child, what seems to be the problem? You look so sad."

Delia lowered her gaze to their joined hands. The words she had practiced felt heavy on her tongue, but it was a necessary one. "Father," she began, her voice filled with sadness. "I broke my engagent to Lord George."

Her father’s brow furrowed. He shifted slightly, trying to prop himself up, a small movent that seed to cost him a great deal of effort. "Why?" he asked, his voice a little stronger now. "I thought you loved him. Augusta was the one who brought it to my attention. She said you were deeply in love. I accepted the match because I believed it was what you wanted."

Delia t his gaze, shaking her head. Augusta must have spun a convenient fiction to marry her off quickly and quietly. "I don’t want him anymore, Father," she said, her voice firm despite the feigned sadness. "I was mistaken about my feelings."

Baron Henry studied her face for a long mont, searching her eyes. He had always been able to read her, to see past the simple words. He saw a new resolve in her, sothing he had not seen before. He sighed, a weary sound, and his body relaxed back into the pillows. He did not press for details. Her happiness was all that mattered. "If that is what you want," he said, his voice clear and final, "then I will cancel it. It is done."

A genuine smile touched Delia’s lips, a small ray of light in the dim room. "Thank you, Father," she said, relief washing over her. That was the first hurdle, and it had been surprisingly easy. Her father’s love for her was a powerful shield. She paused, gathering her courage and arranging her next sentences carefully. This next part was just as crucial.

Her hesitation did not go unnoticed. "What’s wrong?" her father asked, his perception still sharp despite his illness. "Tell ."

Delia took a breath. "I need money," she said, the words coming out in a small, almost shy voice.

He looked surprised by this. His brow crinkled in confusion. "Money? Doesn’t Augusta give you enough? I have provided amply for this household, for all of you."

This was the delicate part. Delia thought quickly. If she told him the truth—that Augusta barely gave her enough to live on, that she was treated like a servant in her own ho—he would beco furious. He would confront Augusta, and the ensuing argunt would alert her stepmother that sothing was amiss. Augusta would beco suspicious, watchful, and Delia’s plan to snatch the Duke from Anne’s grasp would be ruined before it even began. She had to protect her secret.

She shook her head, affecting a look of understanding. "No, Father, it is not like that," she lied smoothly. "The Baroness gives an allowance. But she worries that I will overspend. She is just being careful with the family’s finances. It is my fault for wanting sothing a little extravagant."

A knowing, tired smile touched Baron Henry’s lips. He understood his wife’s nature better than anyone. He knew her "carefulness" often bordered on miserly, especially where Delia was concerned.

He reached a shaky hand towards the small, inlaid box on his bedside table. "In the top drawer," he instructed. "There is a gold brooch with a sapphire. Take it."

Delia’s heart leaped. She opened the drawer. There, nestled on a bed of dark velvet, was a stunning piece of jewelry. It was a heavy, intricately carved gold brooch, with a deep blue sapphire sparkling at its center. It was a piece worthy of a nobleman, clearly very valuable.

"Sell it," her father said, his voice firm. " I don’t think I’ll be using it anymore, use the money for whatever you need. And Delia," he added, his eyes locking with hers, "don’t tell her. This is between us. I don’t have the strength for her complaints."

Delia’s smile was full of gratitude. "Thank you, Father." She carefully picked up the brooch, its cool weight feeling like a key in her hand. A key to her future, a key to her revenge.

She looked back at her father, who was now leaning back with his eyes closed, exhausted from the short conversation. A wave of love and sorrow washed over her. She saw him not just as he was now, but as she rembered him from her past life.

In that other tiline, his condition had only worsened from this point. He had wasted away, becoming a fragile man living by a thread, until that thread finally snapped, leaving her utterly alone and at Augusta’s rcy. This ti would be different. This ti, she would use the resources he was giving her to change everything.

Delia brought his hand to her cheek, pressing the cool, dry skin against her own. The gesture was full of a love that was fierce and protective. She would not let him down. She would not let his legacy be squandered by Augusta and Anne.

"Get so rest, Father," she whispered softly. "I’ll see you soon."

He gave her hand one last, faint squeeze of acknowledgent. Delia stood up, clutching the gold brooch tightly in her palm. She gave her father one last look, morizing the quiet rise and fall of his chest.