Reborn: The Duke's Obsession-Chapter 40 - Forty

The grand four-poster bed was the most comfortable thing Delia had ever slept in her entire life, with linens as soft as clouds and a mattress that seemed to cradle her perfectly. Yet, sleep refused to come. She tossed and turned, her mind a chaotic blend of the day’s ordeal and the memory of a Duke’s intense gaze. The silence of the magnificent house was a huge difference to the noise inside her head.

With a frustrated sigh, she sat up. The moonlight streamed through the large window, bathing the room in a silvery glow. She reached for the glass of water on the ornate bedside table and drank it all in one go, but the cool liquid did little to soothe her restless spirit. She wanted to pour herself another glass, but when she lifted the heavy crystal jug, it was empty.

She got off the bed, her bare feet silent on the plush rug. Shrugging on the silk robe that had been laid out beside her bed, she quietly walked to the door. She needed more water, and the only place to get it was the kitchen. She opened her door and crept out into the quiet hallway, her only guide the pale moonlight filtering through the manor’s many windows.

On her way to the kitchen, she passed the drawing room. A figure slumped in one of the large armchairs caught her eye. It was Eric. He hadn’t gone to his own bed. He had fallen asleep right there. On the table beside him, she saw two empty bottles of wine.

"How many did he have?" she whispered to herself, a flicker of concern touching her heart.

She set her empty jug down on a table and went to his side. Her first thought was a practical one. She carefully picked up the empty glass bottles, her movements slow and deliberate so as not to make a sound. She tiptoed to the liquor cabinet and disposed of them inside, ensuring they wouldn’t get knocked over and break.

When she was done, she went back to him. She tiptoed to his chair and crouched down beside him. Using a single, hesitant finger, she gently poked his shoulder.

"Your Grace," she whispered. "If you’re going to sleep, you should go inside to your room. It’s cold out here."

There was no response. Instead, he adjusted his sleeping position, shifting in the chair until he was facing her. "Mmmm," he groaned softly in his sleep, a sound of discomfort.

That’s when she saw the small droplets of sweat glistening on his forehead. The room was cool, yet he was sweating. "Why is he sweating so much?" she asked herself quietly. She saw his neatly folded handkerchief lying on the arm of the chair. She picked it up and, with a light, gentle touch, began to dab the sweat from his brow.

He groaned again, this time louder, and his brows furrowed in his sleep, his calm features twisting into a troubled frown. She stopped immediately, worried she had disturbed him. He was murmuring something, the words too low and garbled for her to understand. Curious, she moved closer to him, putting her ear just inches from his lips, trying to catch the next word, careful enough not to wake him.

She couldn’t hear anything but restless, broken whispers. Giving up, she turned to stand up, but as she moved, she realized just how close her face was to his. Her lips were a mere breath away from his. The sudden, intense proximity sent a jolt of panic through her. She jerked back instantly, so quickly that she lost her balance and almost fell onto the floor.

She caught herself, her heart pounding. His breathing was erratic now, quick and shallow. He was clearly caught in the grip of a nightmare. She moved forward again. Her hand hovered over his shoulder, hesitant at first, before she finally rested it there and began to pat his back in a slow, steady rhythm, the way one might soothe a frightened child.

Under her touch, his breathing began to calm, his restless movements ceasing. She continued the gentle patting motion. "Your Grace," she said softly, her voice barely a whisper in the silent room. "What are you dreaming about?"

Eric kept groaning softly, though the distressed edge was gone.

"Who are you talking to?" she wondered aloud. "And what are you talking about?" She looked at his sleeping face, at the lines of tension that still remained even as he calmed.

He was a puzzle she couldn’t solve. A powerful Duke who cooked his own meals, who doesn’t like staying in his family house, who lives alone in this big house with no servants, a brilliant strategist who teased her like a boy, a man who slept in a chair to guard her door. "The more I get to know you," she whispered pitifully, "the less I feel I know who you truly are." She continued patting him, watching over him until his breathing was even and deep once more.

Eventually, her own exhaustion took over, and she slid to the floor, her head resting on the arm of the chair he slept in, and finally fell into a deep sleep herself.

~ ••••• ~

The morning sun filled the drawing room with bright, unforgiving light. A sharp click of a key in the front door lock, followed by the sound of the door opening, announced a visitor. Duchess Lyra entered the residence, using the spare key she kept for emergencies and unexpected visits.

She looked around the silent house and muttered under her breath, a hint of annoyance in her voice, "Is he still sleeping at this hour?"

She walked into the drawing room and stopped dead in her tracks. The scene before her was one of charming but scandalous moment. Her son, the Duke, was fast asleep in an armchair, his breathing even. And on the floor beside him, with her head resting on the chair’s armrest like a pillow, was Delia. Her silk robe had been tossed aside in her sleep, revealing her skin underneath the simple nightgown. They looked for all the world like a young couple who had spent a long night talking, only to fall asleep right where they sat.

Duchess Lyra’s hand flew to her mouth, and she let out a loud, shocked gasp. "Oh my God! Goodness me!"

The sound sliced through the morning quiet, and Delia’s eyes fluttered open. Lyra looked keenly at the woman on the floor, her mind putting the pieces together. "Delia?" she asked, her voice full of disbelief.

Delia, still not fully awake, her mind fuzzy with sleep, saw the respectful figure of the Duchess and mumbled the first word that came to mind. "Mother?"

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. The fog of sleep cleared, and her eyes widened in horror as she realized who was standing there, and what the scene must look like. "Mother!" she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet abruptly and pulling her robe around herself. "Mother, nothing happened! I swear, we just—he was—and I fell asleep! Really!"

Lyra let out a short, amused chuckle, her initial shock fading into wry amusement. "Child, don’t treat me as though I’m some ancient prude," she said, a smile playing on her lips. "I’m quite open-minded. I traveled a lot in my youth, you know. I’ve seen much more scandalous things than this."

Delia scratched her neck nervously, her cheeks burning red. "Yes, of course, Your Grace."

Lyra’s gaze shifted to her son, her amusement fading into concern. "But he," she said, walking towards him, "should be awake by now." She reached his chair and gently nudged his shoulder. "Son? Eric?"

There was no response. His breathing was even, but he was completely still. Lyra’s smile disappeared. She nudged him again, harder this time. "Eric!"

Still nothing. She turned to Delia. "What’s wrong with him?"

This content is taken from free web nov𝒆l.com