Reborn: The Duke's Obsession-Chapter 268 - Two Hundred And Sixty Eight

In town, the cheerful, noisy place, filled with the scent of warm stew and the sound of children’s laughter welcomed Delia in. She sat in a comfortable armchair, speaking quietly with the woman in charge of the orphanage, Mrs. Flora, about plans for a new library wing. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, illuminating the happy, simple drawings taped to the walls.

"Your Grace, can you help me with my hair?"

A small, timid voice broke through their conversation. A little girl with bright, curious eyes and a hopelessly messy ponytail had walked right up to Delia, her hands clasped nervously behind her back. Another woman, one of the caregivers, rushed towards the child, her face full of apology.

"Janessa, come here," the woman said, her voice a flustered whisper. "We don’t want to bother Her Grace with things like this."

Delia held up a hand, a warm, gentle smile on her face. "It’s quite alright," she said, her voice kind. "Thank you, you can go."

The woman curtsied, looking immensely relieved, and left them. Delia turned her full attention to the little girl. "Janessa, right?" she asked softly.

The little girl nodded, a shy smile finally appearing on her face.

"Come here," Delia said, gesturing with her hand. Janessa walked to Delia, and Delia scooped her up, settling the small child onto her lap. She began to gently undo the tangled ribbon, her fingers working deftly to smooth out the little girl’s fine, brown hair.

"I’m so sorry for the bother, Your Grace," Mrs. Flora said, her own face a mixture of fondness and embarrassment.

"It’s no bother at all, Mrs. Flora," Delia replied, her focus on her task. "I just simply adore children."

"Your noble donations have changed everything for us," Mrs. Flora said, her voice full of genuine gratitude. "The new beds, the warmer blankets, the endless supply of good food... The children are so grateful to you."

Delia smiled, a true, heartfelt expression of joy. She finished tying a neat, perfect bow in Janessa’s hair. "All done," she said as she gently put the child down.

Janessa touched her newly neat ponytail, her eyes shining. She gave Delia a clumsy but earnest curtsy. "Thank you, Your Grace." Then, her mission accomplished, she turned and ran off as fast as her little legs could carry her, disappearing into a group of other children.

Delia chuckled as she stood up, smoothing down the front of her dress. "It’s getting late. I best be on my way."

Mrs. Flora stood up too. "Should I see you to your carriage?"

"It’s not needed," Delia replied. "Thank you for your hospitality. The tea was delicious."

"It’s an honor, Your Grace," Mrs. Flora smiled, curtsying as Delia left the warm, happy orphanage and stepped back out into the world.

She went to where Mr. Warner was waiting patiently by the driver’s box, his back still to her, a solid, unmoving figure. "Take me home, please," Delia said, a pleasant weariness settling over her.

Warner nodded once, a short, sharp movement, still not looking back. Delia, thinking nothing of it, got into the carriage.

The carriage started with a smooth, familiar lurch. Delia leaned back against the plush seats, her mind filled with images of Janessa’s happy face and plans for the new library. But after a few minutes, as the carriage left the main thoroughfare, she realized the route Mr. Warner was taking was different from the one they usually took back home.

"Maybe something is wrong with the other route," she thought, trying to rationalize it. "A blocked road, perhaps. Maybe this is a short cut."

But a cold, slithering feeling of unease began to crawl up her spine. The scenery outside the window was becoming less familiar, the houses giving way to thicker woods. And then she saw it—a large, gnarled oak tree with a broken branch that looked like a crooked arm. A cold sweat broke out on her skin. She recognized that tree. A memory, sharp and terrifying, from a lifetime ago, pierced through the calm of her afternoon. This was the same route. The exact same route the driver in her last life had taken on that final, fatal day.

Fear, icy and absolute, crawled on her skin. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. No. It can’t be. But it was. She was reliving her own death.

Her mind raced, panic giving way to a desperate, cold clarity. She had to get out. But how? Jumping from a moving carriage was too risky, especially now that she has a life growing in her. She had to be clever.

She took a deep breath and hit the ceiling of the carriage hard with the palm of her hand. The carriage immediately slowed to a stop. Mr. Warner did not turn around.

Delia opened the door and stepped down, forcing her expression to be one of weary distress. "Give me a minute to compose myself," she said, her voice sounding convincingly weak. She fanned her face with her hand. "My pregnancy symptoms are really taking a toll on me today. I feel quite unwell."

From the driver’s box, Warner simply tipped his hat in acknowledgment.

Delia walked a few paces away from the carriage, towards the edge of the woods. She leaned against a tree, her hand on her stomach, acting as if she were trying to fight off a wave of nausea. But her eyes were scanning everything, calculating. The woods were dense. If she could just make it to the trees, she could hide. It was a slim chance, but it was the only one she had.

She took another shaky breath for show, then, without another moment’s hesitation, she started running.

She didn’t get more than ten steps. Warner was on her in an instant. He hadn’t been fooled for a second. He jumped down from the driver’s box with an agility that was terrifying. He pursued her, his long strides eating up the distance between them with horrifying speed.

She could hear his heavy footsteps right behind her. A scream caught in her throat. He caught her, not by the arm, but by her hair, a vicious, painful tug that yanked her head back and stopped her dead in her tracks. She cried out in pain and fear.

He spun her around, and she saw his face for the first time. The eyes were cold, dead, and filled with a hatred that chilled her to the bone. Before she could even process it, he hit her. A hard, brutal blow to the side of her head.

A burst of white-hot pain exploded behind her eyes. The world tilted, the green of the trees and the blue of the sky smearing together into a meaningless blur. She slumped to the floor, the ground rushing up to meet her.

Her vision tunneled, the edges growing dark. With her head spinning, she saw him standing over her. He reached up with one hand and slowly, deliberately, removed the driver’s hat from his head.

The face that looked down at her, twisted into a triumphant, cruel sneer, was not that of a stranger. It was the face of her brother in law, Duke Philip.