Reborn: The Duke's Obsession-Chapter 39 - Thirty Nine

Delia was so shocked by what she heard that she nearly dropped her wine glass. "What?" she asked, her voice a small, bewildered sound in the quiet drawing room.

Eric leaned forward, his playful expression gone, replaced by the look of a serious businessman. "We need to expand our plans," he said, his voice low and firm. "As you can see from today, there are a lot of circumstances aligned against our marriage. My mother’s disapproval, your family’s scheming, the social gossip... Our status and our social differences are the main factors everyone will use against us. So, we need to try another angle."

He moved from his armchair, coming around the table to stand before her. "A man and a woman who love each other so much that they cannot bear to be apart. A love story so powerful that it overcomes all obstacles. That is the only narrative that will get our families to approve this marriage without further interference. It’s the only story they will have no defense against."

Delia stared up at him, her wine-addled mind trying to process his logic. She was still holding her empty glass, her knuckles white. "So, you’re saying... we start pretending? Like we really, truly love each other?" She was a calculating woman; this was just another clause, another performance to be written into their agreement.

Eric’s lips curved into a smirk. He saw right through her transactional thinking. "Fair enough," he conceded. "But can you do it? Can you act the part convincingly?"

The challenge, combined with the wine coursing through her veins, sparked a defiant fire in her. "Yes," she said, her voice full of a sudden, bold confidence. To emphasize her point, she reached for the bottle on the table, poured another glass, and finished it in two quick swallows.

"Wow," Eric said, an amused laugh in his voice as he moved back to his seat. "You look like you’re bursting with resolve now."

"I do well under pressure," Delia declared, feeling dizzy but determined. "I’m good at the real thing."

"Show me, then," Eric replied, leaning back in his chair, a look of pure entertainment on his face.

Delia blinked. "What?"

"Show me your performance," he clarified. "Tell me you love me. I’ll grade you on it." He took a slow sip of his own wine, set the glass down with a deliberate click, and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

Delia’s drunken confidence met his challenge head-on. She smiled, a wobbly but clever grin. "Why don’t you go first?" she countered, her words slightly slurred. "Since you’re the one who proposed the idea." She confidently poured herself yet another glass of wine, her movements becoming less precise.

Eric’s eyes lit up, accepting her counter-challenge. He stood up, but instead of speaking from across the room, he came and sat down on the sofa right beside her. Delia jerked away, the sudden closeness making her entire body tense up.

He looked at her, his expression a mixture of tenderness and amusement. "If I do," he asked, his voice a low, intimate murmur, "can you handle it?"

Delia looked at him, shocked by his words, by his nearness. The air between them felt thick, charged with a new and dangerous energy.

"You couldn’t even imagine, Delia Ellington," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he leaned closer.

"What?" she breathed, unable to look away.

"How much I love you," he said, his gaze intense and unwavering, as if he were revealing the deepest truth of his soul. "And how long I’ve loved you."

He finished, and the words hung in the air, creating a silence so profound Delia could hear her own heart pounding in her ears. Was this real? Was this part of the act? It felt too real. The sincerity in his eyes, the raw emotion in his voice... it was devastatingly convincing.

He broke the spell by casually leaning back, taking another sip from his wine glass that he’d brought with him. "So, how was that?" he asked, his tone light again. "Did you get any butterflies? Am I a good actor?"

Delia was completely flustered. Her mind was spinning from the wine and from his performance. She couldn’t think straight. She deflected, her voice coming out breathless. "Why are you in business and not performing in the opera houses?"

Eric smiled, a slow, warm smile that reached his eyes. "Thank you for the compliment," he said, his gaze dropping to her lips.

That look was too much. The intensity, the closeness, the confusion—it was all overwhelming. Delia stood up on unsteady feet. She needed to create distance, to regain control. In her drunken state, her brain supplied a bizarre solution: make him leave. She began picking up his things—his coat , his shoes, the gloves he had left on the side table.

"I think you should go," she announced, her voice a little too loud.

Eric was completely surprised, his eyebrows shooting up. "What?"

"Yes," she insisted, moving around the room and gathering his possessions with a determined, wobbly focus. "Right now."

Eric watched her, a look of pure, delighted amusement on his face. He smiled. "But, Delia," he said gently. "This is my house."

She paused in the middle of the room, a pair of gloves in one hand and his coat in the other. His words slowly penetrated the fog of the wine. His house. She was trying to kick the owner out of his own home. The dawning realization of her foolishness spread across her face. She looked at him with her big, blue, mortified eyes.

With a soft chuckle, Eric stood up and moved toward her. He gently took the items from her hands and dropped them onto a nearby armchair. He then reached out and cupped her cheeks in his large, warm hands. They were red and flushed, both from the wine and from her embarrassment.

"Just one night," he whispered, his voice incredibly soft, his thumb stroking her cheek. "Let me stay here one night. Will you let me, my duchess?"

The tender, teasing endearment was the final straw. Utterly embarrassed and emotionally overwhelmed, Delia did the only thing she could think of. She turned and fled, running to her room and locking the door firmly behind her.

Eric stood alone in the drawing room, listening to the click of the lock. He shook his head, a low, fond chuckle rumbling in his chest. He went back to his armchair, sat down, and poured himself another glass of wine, a thoughtful, loving smile on his face as he savored the silence.

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