Reborn: The Duke’s Obsession

Duchess Lyra looked at Baroness Augusta's shocked, pale face and smiled, a cool, knowing expression. "You seem quite shocked, Baroness."

Augusta's mind was blank for a few seconds as she struggled to process the devastating turn of events. She finally stammered out her answer, her voice a weak, desperate attempt to regain some control. "Well… b-because I did not know you would show such blatant favoritism for your own child."

"What do you mean by that?" Lyra asked, her voice dangerously calm.

Augusta scoffed, trying to paint Lyra as the villain. "You must truly consider the one you gave birth to as your only child for you to act in such a manner." She leaned forward, her eyes glittering with a malicious fire. "But that is what you are implying, is it not? You are passing over the firstborn son, Duke Philip, the one who has worked so hard all this time to maintain the family business, and you are trying to put your own favored son in the successor's seat."

She let out a short, dry, humorless laugh. "The whole world will look at this and say, 'Ah, yes. Stepmothers are going to be stepmothers, through and through They don't put the interest of their husband's child together with theirs.'"

The accusation, so deeply personal and so twisted in its logic, was Augusta's last, desperate weapon. But it was a weapon that Lyra was more than prepared for.

"Are you talking about yourself now, Baroness? Because it sounds like you were introducing yourself." Lyra said, her voice as sharp and as clear as a shard of glass.

Getting angry, Augusta's mask of society politeness and formality finally fell away. "Look here, in-law," she snarled. "Are you trying to pick a fight with me?"

"You were the one who started this fight, Baroness and I will be more than happy to finish it," Lyra responded, her voice still impossibly calm. Then, she did something that completely disarmed Augusta. She relaxed back into the comfortable armchair, crossed her arms over her chest, and began nodding her head slowly, a thoughtful expression on her face as she repeated Augusta's own words back to her.

"'Stepmothers are going to be stepmothers, through and through,'" Lyra mused, as if considering the phrase for the first time. She looked at Augusta, a strange, almost grateful smile on her face. "I have worked so hard, from the day of my marriage until now, to not hear those kinds of things said about me. I have tried to be fair, to be just, to be a good mother to both of my sons, Eric and Philip. But you know what? You are right. No matter what I do, someone like you will always see me that way."

She smiled and stood up, her movements graceful and unhurried. "So, thank you, Baroness. Thanks to you, I realize now that I do not need to work so hard to please everyone anymore." She gave Augusta one last, full, and utterly triumphant smile. "Thank you, my dear in-law."

Immediately, her facial expression dropped, the brief warmth of friendliness was replaced by a look of cold, final dismissal. She turned and left the study, leaving Augusta sitting there, seething with a silent, impotent rage. She had been completely and utterly outplayed.

Evening came quickly, and the city was aglow with the soft, warm light of gas lamps. In a private, dimly lit parlor of a discreet inn, Duke Philip was having a drink with Anne.

"My mother really said that?" he asked, taking a slow sip of his amber-colored drink.

Anne, who had been recounting the story her mother had told her about Lyra's visit, replied, "Yes. That is what my mother told me. Word for word."

Philip replied with a dismissive shrug. "My mother can be quite outspoken most of the time."

"Outspoken?" Anne retorted, her own voice full of a frustrated anger. "She was rude to my mother! She humiliated her!"

Phillip chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "Well I'm sure your mother pressed her button first. You should be thankful she was so direct, Lady Anne. It saves a great deal of time."

Anne took a long, angry sip of her own red wine. They stayed in silence for a while, the only sound the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth. Anne finally broke the quiet, her voice now soft and a little vulnerable.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked.

Philip didn't answer her. He just stared into the flames.

"Philip," she pressed, using an informal tone, a note of genuine worry in her voice. "Your mother is no ordinary woman. She is a Princess by birth. She is clever, and she is powerful. She's almost in the same standing with the Dowager Duchess in the Carson family. If someone like that truly gets on Eric and Delia's side… can we even win?"

Philip took another sip of his drink, then gulped the rest of it down before he finally answered her. "That, my dear Anne," he said, setting the empty glass down with a soft click, "depends entirely on how much you are willing to help me."

Anne looked at him, her expression a mixture of fear and a desperate, burning ambition. He continued, his voice now a low, conspiratorial whisper.

"You must take down Delia," he said, his eyes now fixed on her, cold and hard as steel. "You must ruin her, completely and utterly. She is his one great weakness. In doing so will give me the perfect opportunity to finish him completely. So it is simple: If you can break her, you will break him and we will get what want."

Philip raised his newly refilled glass to Anne. After a moment's hesitation, she picked up her own glass. They clinked their glasses together in the dim, firelit room, the sound echoing through the room. Philip gave her a smile as he took a sip of his drink and Anne returned it before focusing on her wine.