Reborn: The Duke’s Obsession

"Please," Lady Pembroke cried, her voice thin and desperate. "Please, just give me more time. I will have the money next week, I swear it."

The debt collector, a large, impassive man with cold, dead eyes, did not even look at her. He simply gestured to one of his men, who proceeded to take a heavy, silver-framed portrait of the late Lord Pembroke from the wall.

"No, not that one!" she pleaded, lunging forward, but the man's associate simply held out a beefy arm to block her. "That was my husband's favorite!"

"Time is up, my lady," the debt collector said, his voice a low, flat rumble. He made a mark in his ledger. "This should cover a portion of the interest for this month. We will be back for the rest of the payment next week." He and his men, carrying the portrait and a small, valuable-looking clock from the mantelpiece, left the house without a backwards glance.

A few hours later, George came in. He was in a good mood, the heavy weight of the gold coins he had just won at the gambling den a pleasant feeling in his pocket. But his good mood evaporated the moment he stepped into the drawing room. He saw the empty, dusty space on the wall where his father's portrait used to hang. He saw his mother, sitting on the sofa, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"Mother?" he asked, his own heart sinking.

Mrs. Pembroke looked up, her eyes red and swollen. "Did you bring the money?" she asked, her voice a raw whisper.

George gave her the small pouch of gold coins from his gambling win. She took it, the hope in her eyes dying as she felt its meager weight. She opened it and looked inside.

"This is nothing," she said, her voice flat with despair. "This won't even bring back the clock they took today, let alone your father's portrait."

"I'm sorry, Mother," George apologized, a wave of shame washing over him. "I tried. I will win more tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, tomorrow!" Mrs. Pembroke started saying, her frustration boiling over into a fit of hateful anger. "That is all you ever say! We are losing everything, George! Everything!"

Unable to hear any more of her recriminations, he turned to leave. He put his hand on the smooth, worn rails of the grand staircase, but his mother's next words, full of a bitter, misdirected venom, stopped him.

"The girl who used to chase after you like a pathetic little puppy, who use to give you her father's money, has weaseled her way into the arms of a richer man, and here you are, losing our house piece by piece!"

George, his own nerves already frayed, suddenly felt a surprising, protective anger rise in him. "Don't talk like that about Delia, Mother," he said, turning back to face her.

Mrs. Pembroke, surprised by his sudden defiance, asked, "What did you say?"

"She is not the way you put her," George replied, his voice firm. "The Duke must have forced her into that marriage. She didn't know any…"

Before he could finish, his mother, in a fit of pure rage, grabbed an apple from the fruit basket on the table and threw it at him. It hit him squarely in the chest with a dull thud.

"Oh, wow!" she shrieked, her voice dripping with a sarcastic fury. "What an everlasting love you have got there! Standing here, in your own ruined house, defending another man's wife! Do you now love both of the sisters? What is wrong with you, George?"

George was quiet. His mother was actually right. What was wrong with him? Ever since he saw Delia entering that carriage looking beautiful, ever since he had read that secret diary, ever since he had imagined Delia, so passionate and beautiful, naked beneath the Duke begging him to take her, a strange, possessive madness had taken hold of him. He loves Anne, he truly does. But now… now he wanted Delia, too. He wanted the woman he had lost.

His mother, seeing his confused silence, threw another fruit at him, a pear this time, which brought him back to reality.

"You should have treated her well when she was still yours!" Mrs. Pembroke continued, her voice rising. "When she would have literally given up her own life for you, at least we would have paid your father's debts, you foolish, foolish boy!"

Evelin, who had been watching the scene from the doorway, rushed to her mother's side. "Mama, please," she said, trying to calm her down. "Think of your health."

George didn't say anything more. He just turned and went up the stairs to his room, the weight of his mother's words and his own confused desires crushing him.

"Oh, my goodness," Mrs. Pembroke exclaimed, her anger deflating back into despair. "I cannot continue to live like this."

George sat on the edge of his bed in his cold, dark room. He looked at the single, folded piece of parchment that was sitting on top of his bedside table. The marriage contract. He took it and read it again, the cold, business-like terms which was different from the passionate scene he had imagined from her diary.

A soft knock came on the door. He quickly folded the contract and put it in the drawer of the table. "Enter," he said.

Evelin came in and sat on the bed near him. "Well, you deserved that," she said, her tone unsympathetic. "You made Mama angry. Why did you defend that woman in front of her, George?"

"Get out," George said, his voice tired.

"I also thought she was an innocent young woman like myself," Evelin continued, ignoring him. "That is why I was on her side at first. But then Anne made me see the true person she is. A manipulative schemer."

"Get out of my room, Evelin," George repeated, his voice a low growl.

"Well," Evelin ignored him again, her eyes glittering with a new, greedy idea. "If you would just get yourself together, I have a plan. I can avenge you, and I can make us some money, too." She held out a crumpled draft paper with a handwritten gossip. "The public already knows of the formal scandal. But they don't know the whole story. What if I spin it and make it more juicy?"

As George finished reading the headline she wrote, a new, desperate anger surged through him. He grabbed Evelin by her wrist, his grip surprisingly strong.

"Wait, wait! You haven't even heard my plan yet!" she said, trying to pull away as he dragged her towards the door. "What if I sell this story? Or The story of that piece of paper you keep looking at? To the highest bidder? For a thousand gold coins?" she said, her voice a frantic, excited whisper.

George opened the door and pushed her out into the hallway.

"Okay, okay, not a thousand!" she bargained through the closing door. "What about five hundred gold coins? Hmmm? What do you think?"

But George just closed the door, the sound of the latch clicking shut echoing in the silent room. He went back to his bed. He sat there, in the dark, and stared at the drawer that held the secret, pondering what he should do, his mind a chaotic mess of desire, revenge, and despair.