Chapter 12 - Twelve

Words : 1183 Updated : Sep 17th, 2025

Chapter 12 of "Reborn: The Duke's Obsession" starts revealing the story: Chapter 12 -TwelveWith a rustle of her sapphire gown, Anne walked closer, her heels clicking... Don’t miss it!

Chapter 12 -TwelveWith a rustle of her sapphire gown, Anne walked closer, her heels clicking angrily on the stone terrace. She stopped a few feet from the bench, her gaze fixed on Delia, deliberately ignoring the Duke beside her. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice low but tight with suspicion. "Why are you two together?" The silence that followed was heavy. Anne’s eyes darted from Delia’s calm face to the Duke’s unreadable expression. Eric said nothing, his attention remaining completely on Delia waiting to see how she would handle the interruption. Seeing that she was being ignored, Anne’s approach changed. She forced a nervous, high-pitched chuckle and turned to the Duke, her expression pleading. "Your Grace," she began, her voice falsely sweet. "My sister can be clumsy sometimes." She reached out as if to grab Delia’s arm in a familiar, condescending gesture. "She must have gotten lost on her way back from the powder room. I do hope she hasn’t been bothering—" Eric interrupted her mid-sentence by simply holding up a hand. The gesture was not rude, but it was absolute. It silenced her instantly. He still did not look at Anne. His dark, captivating eyes remained on Delia, waiting for his answer. "So," he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur that seemed to exclude Anne entirely. "What is your decision, Lady Delia?" The direct question, a clear continuation of their private conversation, was a slap in the face to Anne. Her composure began to crumble. "Delia," she hissed, her patience gone. "Can I talk to you for a moment? Now." Delia finally turned her head to look at her stepsister. A slow, deliberate smile touched her lips. "I’m sorry, Anne," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "Time is not on my side right now." With a graceful movement, she reached down and picked up the iron key from the bench. The metal pieces jingled softly in the quiet garden, a sound that seemed to seal Anne’s fate. Delia held it up slightly, letting the moonlight catch on its edges. "You see," she continued, her gaze shifting back to Eric, her eyes alight with a daring, seductive glow. "We need to use this." Eric’s lips curved into a matching, appreciative smile. Anne watched them, utterly mortified. Her mind reeled, unable to process the scene before her. The key. The intense way they looked at each other. It was a nightmare. What is going on? she thought, a frantic edge of panic rising in her chest. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be with me. He was supposed to be mine. Delia turned fully to Eric, dismissing her stepsister completely. "Are you ready to go, Your Grace?" "Of course, my lady," Eric replied, his voice laced with charm. He stood, then gestured to a nearby guard who was standing discreetly in the shadows. "Please inform my mother, the Duchess, that urgent business has called me away. I will not be staying for the remainder of the ball." The guard bowed. "Yes, Your Grace." Eric then turned back to Delia and held out his arm. "Let’s go." Without a moment’s hesitation, Delia placed her hand on his arm. They turned and walked away together, their figures moving in perfect sync as they headed towards a private side gate, leaving Anne alone on the moonlit. "Your Grace!" Anne shouted, her voice cracking. But they didn’t stop. Their figures were already disappearing into the shadows of the garden path. "Your Grace," she called out again, but this time her voice was low and broken. She stood there, trembling, the sound of the distant orchestra now sounding like mockery. Meanwhile, another carriage was just pulling into the crowded courtyard of the Carson estate. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Lady Pembroke was interrogating her son, George. "Did you hear from her again, George?" she asked, her voice sharp. George stared blankly at the velvet carriage wall. "No, Mother," he replied, his tone flat. "But Baroness Augusta sent a note. She said she would convince the Baron to postpone the wedding for a while." George’s younger sister, Evelin, stopped fanning herself. She was a sharp-witted young woman who did not share her mother’s delusions. She turned to her brother, her eyes full of genuine concern. "Did you do something wrong to her, George? This isn’t like Delia." "What could George have done wrong?" Mrs. Pembroke scoffed, her jewels flashing indignantly. "My son is never wrong. That girl is just being dramatic. It’s likely because I didn’t get her a new wedding dress." George’s head snapped towards his mother. "But I gave you the money for the dress, Mother. A very generous amount." Mrs. Pembroke waved a dismissive hand, not looking the least bit guilty. "Yes, well, the money for the new gown I wanted wasn’t quite enough," she explained breezily. "So, I took the money from her dress fund to complete the purchase for mine. It was a necessary expense." She patted her son’s hand as if that settled the matter. "Besides, she should be grateful that I was willing to give her my grandmother’s old wedding gown. It’s a family heirloom." Evelin rolled her eyes. "Mother, that dress is fifty years old and smells of mothballs. I don’t think that’s the problem," she insisted. "Delia isn’t someone who makes a fuss over material things. You know that." She turned back to George, her expression turning serious as a sudden realization clouded her face. "Brother... did she find out? Did she find out you love Anne?" George was silent. His jaw tightened, and he refused to meet his sister’s gaze. His silence was a confession, loud and clear. Mrs. Pembroke let out an exasperated sigh and sharply hit Evelin on the head with her folded fan. "Will you shut up, you foolish girl? Don’t speak of such things!" As the carriage came to a final stop in the courtyard and the mother and daughter continued their bickering, George felt too tired and too guilty to intervene. He tuned them out, his gaze drifting aimlessly out the window. He watched the endless parade of elegantly dressed guests moving towards the mansion’s entrance. And then he saw them. Under the soft glow of a carriage lamp, a side door of the mansion opened. A man and a woman emerged. The man was tall and impeccably dressed, carrying himself with an air of authority. George recognized him instantly as their host, Duke Eric Carson. But it was the woman on the Duke’s arm that made his heart stop. She moved with confidence, a grace he had never seen in her before. The Duke helped her into his own private, unmarked carriage—a vehicle far more elegant and discreet than the one the Pembrokes were in. George’s mouth fell open. His face, moments ago filled with weary resignation, was now a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. He pressed his face closer to the window, his breath fogging the cool glass. It couldn’t be. But it was. "Delia?" he whispered, his voice choked with disbelief.

Chapter 12 - Twelve

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