Reborn: The Duke's Obsession
Chapter 90 - Ninety

Chapter 90: Chapter Ninety

It had finally arrived. The day that had been whispered about in every drawing room, written about in every gossip pamphlet, and anticipated with a mixture of excitement and dread by all involved. The day he Carson and Ellington became one. Eric and Delia’s wedding.

The morning began in two separate, yet equally focused preparation. At the Duke’s private residence, maids sent by a very excited Amber descended upon Delia’s room. They drew a warm, fragrant bath, styled her hair into an elegant low bun adorned with tiny seed pearls, and helped her into the magnificent wedding gown that seemed to have been spun from moonlight and snow.

Meanwhile, across the hallway in Eric’s room, Aiden was helping him get ready. The Duke stood stoic and silent as his aide made the final adjustments to his formal attire. It was not a simple suit, but a uniform that spoke of his high rank and noble lineage. He wore a crisp, black tunic, richly tailored, that gleamed with polished silver buttons and intricate gold braiding along the collar and cuffs. Heavy silver epaulets, fringed with delicate chains, capped his broad shoulders. A wide, charcoal-grey sash cut diagonally across his chest, fastened by a silver buckle bearing the Carson family crest. Below, he wore perfectly pressed white trousers tucked into high-gloss, black leather boots that shone like mirrors. His dark hair was styled neatly back from his forehead. He looked every bit the powerful, noble Duke he was, but his thoughts were not on his appearance. They were on Delia. He kept thinking about the night she had cried herself to sleep, and he wondered how she was feeling now, on this monumental day.

After the bride and groom had finished dressing, they both entered separate, waiting carriages to make the journey to the wedding venue: the grand St. Peter’s Cathedral.

It was almost time for the wedding ceremony to begin. The vast, echoing space of the cathedral was already filled with the highest echelons and aristocrats of Albion’s society.

The Carson family—the Dowager Duchess Elena, Duchess Lyra, and a beaming Amber—stood near the entrance, welcoming their guests from far and wide with a grace and poise that befitted their station.

"Congratulations on this wonderful day, Your Grace." One of the guests beamed.

"Thank you so much for coming." Lyra responded with a smile on her face.

"Thank you for honoring our invitation." Elena replied to an ambassador of a neighboring kingdom.

"I am so happy you could make it." Amber echoed to the ladies the society.

The polite, cheerful greetings flowed endlessly. But in a small, private waiting room off the main nave, the atmosphere was anything but cheerful. Delia sat alone in front of a large, gilded mirror. She looked beautiful. The dress was a masterpiece, her hair was perfect, and the sheer veil softened her features into an ethereal vision. But her expression was sad, her blue eyes holding a deep, hollow sorrow. This was not the wedding she had dreamed of as a young girl. She sat there alone waiting for her father to come and comfort, to tell her everything is all right, to walk her down the aisle and give her away to the Carson family.

But he didn’t come. He didn’t show up. She wasn’t surprised though. She knew something like this could happen. " Baroness must have done something to keep him from coming." She thought to herself.

The door opened without a knock, and Baroness Augusta swept into the room, dressed in her absolute best, a gown of deep emerald green that was meant to command attention. She stared at Delia’s reflection in the mirror then at her, her lips curling into a cruel sneer.

"Look at you," Augusta said, her voice a low, poisonous purr. "All dolled up like a real lady." She walked closer, her gaze raking over Delia with contempt. "It doesn’t change where you come from, though. It doesn’t change what you are."

Delia looked at her stepmother, her own face a mask of cold, silent hatred.

"I suppose you’re wondering where your father is," Augusta continued, enjoying the pain she was inflicting. "Henry couldn’t make it today. He’s not feeling well. And your dear grandfather, he is also feeling his age. You didn’t really expect either of them to walk you down the aisle, did you?" She let out a short, ugly laugh. "You are just an illegitimate child, Delia. A mistake your father made. You will never be a complete part of our family, and you will never be a complete part of theirs. No one will ever want you."

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Anyway, congratulations on your marriage. If you think this will make you happy, then go ahead. Try to be happy."

She gave Delia one last, cruel smile, looked in the mirror and then turned to leave, her work done.

The vile words, each one a carefully aimed dart, hit their mark. The years of abuse, the lifetime of being made to feel worthless, the fresh pain of the secrets she had recently learned, it all coalesced into a single, blinding moment of pure, unrestrained rage. Delia’s sadness was burned away, replaced by a white-hot hatred so intense it made her tremble.

She stood up, her movements quick and sharp. Her eyes landed on a heavy, porcelain figurine of a shepherdess that sat on the side table. Without thinking, without hesitating, she picked it up. The cold, smooth ceramic felt heavy and solid in her hand. She intended to use it as a weapon. She raised her arm, her full intention to smash the figurine on the back of Augusta’s retreating form, to finally, finally make her pay for a lifetime of cruelty. To kill her.

But just as her arm reached the apex of its swing, a firm hand closed around her wrist, stopping her. The grip was not cruel, but it was strong and absolutely unyielding, a silent, powerful command that was meant to stop whatever she was thinking.