Reborn: The Duke’s Obsession

The distant sound of the orchestra was now a grating noise in Anne's ears. She paced back and forth on the stone terrace like a caged animal, her beautiful sapphire gown swishing angrily with every sharp turn.

 Her mind played the scene on a loop: Delia's confident smile, the Duke's focused attention, the glint of the key, and their shared, secret look before they walked away, leaving her behind like she was nothing.

Her mother, Baroness Augusta, finally found her there, her own face a mask of fury. She had seen the Duke's guard speak to the Duchess and had immediately known something was wrong.

"Anne," Augusta said, her voice a low whisper. She rushed to her daughter's side, taking her by the arms. Anne was trembling, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. "My sunshine, can you please calm down? Stop this pacing. You are making a scene. People will see you."

Anne wrenched her arms away, her eyes wild with a mixture of rage and unshed tears. "Why should I not make a scene, Mama?" she cried, her voice high and strained. "Why should I be calm? She took him! Delia took Duke Eric with her! Right from under my nose! Who knows what they are doing right now in some dark corner or on his bed?" The thought was so vile, so humiliating, that a sob caught in her throat.

Baroness Augusta pulled her daughter into a fierce hug, her hand stroking Anne's hair in a gesture that was both comforting and silencing. "Shhh, my dear, shhh. We will not let her win," Augusta murmured into her ear, her own voice hard as steel. "I am going to go and say a brief goodbye to our hostess. I will tell her you have a sudden headache. Then we can go home, okay? We will handle this at home."

Anne nodded numbly against her mother's shoulder, her fight momentarily deflating into misery. Augusta gave her one last squeeze before releasing her, her expression one of grim determination as she turned and walked back towards the glittering ballroom to manage the social damage.

Left alone again, Anne wrapped her arms around herself, the cool night air doing little to soothe the fire of her anger. It was then that a figure emerged from the shadows of a nearby archway. It was George Pembroke. He must have seen her distress from afar, his face etched with worry.

"Anne, are you alright?" he asked, his voice soft with a concern that, just yesterday, might have pleased her. Tonight, it felt like an insult.

His presence was the spark that reignited her anger. She stood up straight, her sorrow instantly burning away, replaced by pure, unadulterated rage. As he stepped closer, she raised her hand and, with all her strength, slapped him hard across the face.

CRACK!!!

The crack of the slap was loud and sharp in the relative quiet of the garden. George stumbled back a step, his hand flying to his cheek, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. "Anne!"

"Keep your fiancée in check!" she spat, her voice bitter. Her chest was heaving, her eyes blazing with hatred. "Tell her to keep her filthy, common hands to herself!"

George rubbed his stinging cheek, his mind reeling from the physical and verbal assault. "I know you are upset," he said, trying to keep his voice even, to be the calm one. "Please, calm down. I'm sure this is all just a big misunderstanding."

Anne let out a short, incredulous laugh that held no humor. "Misunderstanding?" she shot back, her eyes narrowing into slits. She advanced on him, forcing him to take another step back. "They left my presence together, so close I could not slip a piece of paper between them. They went to his private carriage and left the ball. I'm sure you saw them." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "So tell me, Lord George, what do you think about that situation, since I am clearly the one misunderstanding it?"

George was silent. What could he say? He had seen it with his own eyes. The image of Delia, looking confident and beautiful, getting into the Duke's carriage was burned into his memory. There was no misunderstanding what he had witnessed.

Seeing his silence as an admission of guilt, Anne's demeanor shifted. The wild rage subsided, replaced by a cold, calculating composure. She turned away from him, pulling a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and delicately dabbing at her tear-streaked face. Without looking at him, she spoke again, her voice devoid of its earlier heat.

"So," she said calmly. "What are you going to do?"

George was confused by the sudden change in her tone. "Do? About what?"

Anne finally turned to look at him, her expression one of utter disdain. "What are you going to do about your fiancée?" she asked, as if speaking to a particularly slow child. When he still looked lost, she pressed on, her voice turning sharp once more. "Think about it, George. Delia had eyes only for you. For years. You were the only man in her heart, the only man she ever looked at. She was hopelessly devoted." She took a step closer, her eyes searching his for the truth. "What did you do to make her change all of a sudden? What did you do to make her throw herself at another man—a Duke, no less—on the very night our families were here to celebrate our futures?"

The accusation hit its mark. George felt a flush of guilt creep up his neck. He reached out and took her arm, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Anne, I—"

Anne jerked her arm from his touch as if it had burned her. "Don't you touch me again," she snapped, her eyes flashing with renewed anger. She looked him up and down with contempt. "This is your mess. Delia is your fiancée. You need to fix it."

She took a deep, steadying breath, pulling the last of her dignity around her like a cloak. "Be a man for once in your life, George. Keep your fiancée out of my way."

With that final, cutting remark, she lifted the hem of her sapphire skirt and swept past him, marching back towards the ballroom to find her mother, leaving him standing alone and humiliated in the moonlight.

George watched her go, the sting on his cheek a dull ache compared to the turmoil in his chest. He ran a hand through his hair in utter frustration, his mind a chaotic mess. Anne was right. This was his fault. His secret affections for Anne, his neglect of Delia, his mother's cruelty—it had all created this disaster. But he had never, not in a million years, imagined that quiet, gentle Delia would react like this. He had thought she would just… accept it. Suffer in silence.

He was a fool. And now, the woman he thought he wanted despised him, and the woman he had thrown away was in a carriage with the most powerful bachelor in the kingdom.