Reborn: The Duke's Obsession-Chapter 73 - Seventy Three

George Pembroke walked into the opulent, sun-drenched establishment of Lady Tremaine’s Modiste, his heart pounding a nervous rhythm against his ribs. The air smelled of expensive French perfume and freshly pressed silk. He clutched the intercepted letter in his hand, his one ticket past the polished front doors.

"Good day, sir. How can I help you?" a young, impeccably dressed salesperson asked, her expression polite but questioning.

George put on his most humble, subservient face, a look he had practiced in the carriage on the way over. He bowed slightly. "Good day," he said, his voice quiet. "I have a delivery confirmation for Lady Delia Ellington." He held out the letter. "I am one of the butlers from the Duke of Elinburgh’s residence."

The salesperson took the letter, her eyes scanning the contents. Her smile widened. "Oh, yes, of course. Lady Delia is already here. She and Lady Amber Carson came in just a few moments ago."

George’s feigned smile tightened. "Excellent," he said. "I was sent by His Grace to help her carry her things when she is finished."

"How thoughtful," the salesperson replied, completely fooled by his performance. "They are just through here, in the main fitting suite. This way, please."

The soft silk curtain of the fitting platform was pulled aside, and Delia stepped down, her movements slow and hesitant, as if she were afraid to breathe.

Amber, who had been impatiently sipping a cup of tea, dropped it onto its saucer with a loud clank. Her mouth fell open.

"Oh, Clara, my love," she breathed, her voice full of genuine, unadulterated awe. "Permit me to say, this is your best creation yet."

Delia walked slowly towards the large, three-way mirror and looked at herself. The woman staring back was a stranger.

The dress was absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful. The white fabric, a heavy, shimmering silk, seemed to rival the pure color of fresh snow. It was elegantly simple in its cut, designed to flatter her slender waist without overwhelming it and the skirt was soft and full. The veil, made of the finest, most delicate net, covered her face, but it was so sheer that you could still clearly see her wide, sapphire-blue eyes piercing through the ethereal mist. And the bouquet she held, a creation of Lady Tremaine’s, was a masterpiece. Because Delia didn’t have a favorite type of flower, Tremaine had gathered a mix of delicate white roses, pale blue forget-me-nots, and sprigs of fragrant lavender, all tied together with a simple silk ribbon.

"I know, right?" Clara said, beaming with pride as she responded to Amber’s compliment. "But you made me and my staff work overnight for two days straight to get it perfect. You will definitely have to compensate me for the overtime."

Before Amber could reply, a familiar male voice cut through the air. "She is to be my wife. I will do the compensation." Eric had just arrived, and he stood in the doorway, his own eyes wide with wonder.

Amber, turning to her brother, immediately started to argue. "No, she is my sister now. I will be the one to do the compensation."

"No, I insist," Eric said, stepping further into the room.

"I insist more," Amber retorted.

Clara, seeing a golden opportunity, clapped her hands together. "You know," she said with a sly, business-like smile, "you two can both pay the compensation. I really don’t mind at all."

The lighthearted argument was cut short by Delia’s quiet voice. "Is this... is this all?"

That was when Eric truly saw her. His playful expression melted away, replaced by one of pure, hypnotized awe. It was as if he was seeing her for the very first time.

He started to walk slowly towards her, his steps measured and deliberate, as if he were approaching a celestial being. The rest of the room, the arguments, the other people—it all faded away.

He stopped directly in front of her. He was so close he could see the way her eyelashes fluttered behind the delicate veil. He was tempted, so terribly tempted, to lift the veil and claim her lips in a kiss, to make this moment, this vision, truly his.

But he held himself back, his mind whispering, " Be patient, Eric. Wait until the wedding. She deserves that respect."

He reached out a hand, not to her face, but to gently touch the sleeve of her gown. "Now I know why the Baroness wants you to always wear plain clothes," he said, his voice a low, husky murmur filled with a deep, romantic sincerity. "It’s because you are breathtaking. You are so beautiful, Delia, it almost hurts to look at you."

A soft blush bloomed on Delia’s cheeks. "Thank you, Your Grace," she whispered.

Clara, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere, the intense, private energy now crackling between the two of them, immediately grabbed Amber’s wrist. freewebnσvel.cøm

"Come, Amber," she said quickly. "Let’s go talk about that compensation somewhere else."

"No, I want to watch..." Amber started to protest, but Clara was already whisking her out of the dressing room, pulling the silk curtain shut behind them and giving the couple their privacy.

Eric raised his hands and gently, reverently, lifted the fine veil, folding it back over her hair. He smoothed her perfectly styled low bun, his fingers lingering for a moment on the soft strands.

CRASH!

The sound of shattering glass exploded through the quiet, intimate moment. They both turned towards the direction of the door.

Standing there, in the entrance to the fitting suite, was George. In his shock at seeing the scene before him—Delia in a wedding gown, looking more beautiful than he had ever seen her, and the Duke standing so close, his hands on her, looking at her with an expression of pure adoration—he had dropped the glass flower vase that had been sitting on a small table by the door. The floor was now littered with shards of glass and spilled water. But neither Delia nor Eric noticed the mess. All they saw was the look of utter disbelief and raw, painful jealousy on George’s face.