Chapter 131 - Hundred And Thirty One

Words : 1199 Updated : Sep 25th, 2025

George hovered around the tall, grand iron gates of the Duke’s private residence like a ghost. He had been there for over an hour, hidden across the street, watching. His heart was a heavy stone of despair in his chest. Anne’s disappointed words from the tavern still echoed in his ears, a constant reminder of his failure. He had to find something, anything, that he could use to prove his worth to her, to win back her favor. He saw the familiar figure of Mr. Rye, the Duke’s driver, emerge from the carriage house carrying a leather satchel filled with what looked like important documents. He hid himself more when he remembered how Mr Rye was about to blow his brains out the last time. A few moments later, he saw Delia herself came out of the front door, dressed for an outing. "When did she become this beautiful?" He asked himself, completely mesmerized. She entered the waiting carriage, and it soon rolled out of the courtyard and disappeared down the street. The house was now relatively empty, guarded by no one. This was his chance. He waited for a few more minutes, his heart pounding, and then he pushed the gate. To his complete surprise, it swung open with a soft, quiet creak. It was unlocked. He slipped inside the courtyard and stood by the grand entrance door, his mind racing. "How do I get in here now?" he asked himself in a desperate whisper. The front door was certainly locked. He couldn’t just knock. As he was thinking of what to do, he heard the distinct click of a lock from a side door, the one that likely led to the kitchens or the servants’ quarters. He immediately ran to one of the large, decorative stone posts that flanked the main stairs and hid behind it, pressing his body flat against the cool stone. Mrs. Agnes, the housekeeper who came frequently to clean the house, came out, humming a happy, cheerful tune as she carried a large wicker basket overflowing with clothes and linens that needed to be washed and aired out in the sun. As she was distracted, her back turned to the open door as she walked towards the washing lines at the back of the house, George saw his opportunity. He darted from his hiding place, his movements quick and silent. He slipped inside the house through the still-open side door. He found himself in a small service hallway. He was confused, not knowing where to hide, where to go. He could hear Mrs. Agnes still humming outside. He knew he couldn’t stay on the ground floor. He made a quick decision, went up a narrow set of servants’ stairs, and found himself in the main upstairs hallway. Without thinking, he entered the first room he saw—Delia’s room. He closed the door softly behind him. He heard Mrs. Agnes come back inside, her humming getting closer as she continued with her work. He held his breath as he saw her shadow stop right in front of Delia’s door through the small gap at the bottom. He saw the doorknob begin to twist, and his heart was thumping so loudly he was sure she could hear it. But then she stopped. He heard her mutter to herself. "Oh my, silly me. I have already cleaned Her Grace’s room this morning. Let’s go on to His Grace’s room now." He heard her footsteps retreating down the hall. George let out a long, shaky sigh of relief, his back pressed against the door. He looked around Delia’s beautiful, sunlit room. It smelled faintly of lavender. He touched the elegant furniture, his fingers tracing the smooth, polished wood of her reading table. He saw her diary lying there. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew it was a terrible violation of her privacy. But Anne’s disappointed face flashed in his mind. He needed something. His curiosity, a dark and ugly thing, got the better of him. He picked up the leather-bound book and opened it. The page he opened to was a recent entry, the ink still dark on the page. Her elegant handwriting was a little messier than usual, as if written in a state of high emotion. He began to read. "...and I never knew a touch could feel like that. He makes my entire body burn. I love the way he touches me, the way his hands explore my most intimate places, as if he is trying to memorize me. I love the way he looks at me in bed. The way he moans my name..." George slammed the book shut, a hot wave of jealousy and shame washing over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop himself from visualizing what he had just read, from imagining Delia and the Duke together in such a way. He dropped the book back on the table as if it had burned him. He sighed as he rubbed his throbbing temples. "What am I doing?" he whispered to the empty room. "I am in somebody else’s house, in their private room, reading their diary. This is madness." He turned to leave, his mission a failure, but in his haste and his emotional turmoil, he clumsily hit a silver-backed brush off the edge of the vanity table. It clattered loudly on the marble floor. Scared, he looked towards the door, his heart once again pounding in his chest, certain that Mrs. Agnes must have heard the sound. But her humming didn’t stop, and it was still distant, coming from the other end of the hall. He had been lucky. He bent down to pick up the brush. As he did, he saw that the small drawer of the vanity table had been knocked slightly open by the impact. Inside, he could see a stack of what looked like letters. He closed the drawer and put the brush back in its place. But he paused. His hand hovered over the drawer. Something caught his attention. With a final surrender to his own desperation, he opened the drawer again and brought out a single, folded piece of thick parchment. It had two signatures at the bottom and a large, official-looking red wax seal. He read it. His eyes widened in pure shock. It was not a love letter. It was a contract. A business deal. A one-year agreement for a marriage of convenience, with clauses about separate lives, the freedom to take other lovers, and a clear, defined end date. He felt hurt, betrayed. "What is wrong with me? " he asked himself. " This is what I’ve been looking for. Something to accuse Delia of . But why do I feel betrayed? Was Anne right? Do I want both sisters now?" He quickly snapped out of it before he would be caught. He quickly and carefully folded the contract, put it deep inside his coat pocket, and, after making sure the room looked exactly as he had found it, he carefully left Delia’s room and the house, his movements now discreet and silent like a thief in the night who had just stolen the most valuable secret in the entire kingdom.

Chapter 131 - Hundred And Thirty One

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