Reborn: The Duke's Obsession-Chapter 66 - Sixty Six

The rain fell in relentless, slanting sheets, turning the courtyard into a muddy lake. Mr. Rye, his own coat already soaked through, carefully lifted the Duke’s heavy, unconscious form. He carried Eric to the waiting carriage, his face grim with worry. Delia followed close behind, her simple dress clinging to her, her own body shivering from the cold, but her mind was entirely focused on the man in Mr. Rye’s arms.

As they got to the carriage, Rye took off his own dry coachman’s coat. "Milady, please," he said, offering it to her. "You are freezing. You must keep yourself warm."

Delia took the heavy wool coat, but she did something that surprised him. She didn’t wrap it around her own shivering shoulders. Instead, she carefully draped it over Eric’s still form once Mr. Rye had settled him on the seat. She tucked it around him, then took his cold, limp hands in her own, rubbing them vigorously and blowing her own warm breath onto his skin.

"Please be alright," she murmured, her voice a low, desperate prayer lost in the sound of the storm. "Please, please be alright."

A few agonizing moments later, they arrived back at the Duke’s private residence. Mr. Rye, with a strength that belied his age, carried Eric inside and up the grand staircase to his bedroom. As he laid the Duke on the large bed, Delia gave him a firm, clear command, her own discomfort completely forgotten.

"Get the doctor," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Immediately."

Rye left at once, his footsteps hurrying down the hall. Delia was left alone in the quiet, dim room with Eric. His clothes were soaked through, and she knew if he stayed in them, he would catch a terrible cold on top of whatever else was wrong with him. A wave of hesitation washed over her. It was highly improper. But the thought of him falling more ill was far worse than any breach of etiquette.

She turned away, her cheeks burning, and promised herself not to look. Her hands trembling, she worked quickly, unbuttoning his wet shirt and trousers, carefully changing him into a set of clean, dry day wear she found in his wardrobe. When she was done, she pulled the heavy duvet up to his chin.

She stayed with him, sitting in a chair by his bed, watching the erratic rise and fall of his chest. His breathing was still too fast, and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead again, despite the coolness of his skin.

"Is this why you have nightmares every night?" she whispered to the unconscious man. "Is this why your mother said you haven’t slept well in years? What is it that torments you so much, Your Grace?"

She was so lost in her worried thoughts that she jumped when the door opened. Seeing the doctor by the door, she rushed to drag him inside. "Doctor, please, help him," she said, her voice frantic. "He’s breathing erratically. I’m afraid he might stop breathing at any moment."

The doctor dropped his medical bag and looked at Delia. He took in her appearance—her disheveled wet hair, now a frizzy mess, her plain dress still damp and muddy at the hem, her trembling bare feet on the cold floor. She looked like a mess, a woman running purely on adrenaline and fear.

"You can go and take care of yourself now, my lady," the doctor said, his voice kind but firm. "I will stay with His Grace. I promise you, everything will be fine. You are no good to him if you fall ill yourself."

It was only then that Delia realized what he was saying. She looked down at her own state and nodded numbly. She went to her own room, drew a hot bath, and let the warmth soak the chill from her bones. She changed into a warm nightgown and robe, her mind still fixed on the man in the room down the hall.

When she came out, the doctor was waiting for her. "He’s stable now, my lady," he said reassuringly. "His breathing is even, and his heart rate has returned to normal. He is just sleeping deeply." He handed her a small bottle. "This is for you. A tonic to make sure you do not catch a cold."

"What about His Grace’s medicine?" she asked, taking the bottle.

The doctor shook his head slowly, a sad expression in his eyes. "My lady," he said gently. "What His Grace is going through is not something that can be cured with medicine. It is a wound of the mind, not the body."

Delia thanked him and saw him to the door. After he left, she stood at the entrance of the house for a long time, looking out at the dark, rain-swept sky. "What a terrible pour," she said to herself as she clutched her robe tighter, a shiver running through her that had nothing to do with the cold.

She finally went inside and locked the door. Her first thought was to check on Eric. She tiptoed to his room and peered inside. The bed was empty.

Fear, cold and sharp, gripped her. Where was he? He couldn’t have just walked out.

"Your Grace?" she called out softly, her voice trembling. "Your Grace?"

She began to search, her heart pounding in her chest. She checked his room again, then the kitchen, then the dark, silent drawing room. Nothing.

She was in the main hallway, the one that led towards her own room, when a hand suddenly gripped her wrist and pulled her forward. She stumbled, letting out a small cry as she landed against a hard, warm chest. She looked up and saw Eric.

He had one hand holding her waist steady, the other still holding her wrist. He looked pale and sick in the dim light, but he was standing. He was awake. Tears of pure relief gathered in the corners of her eyes.

He saw her expression and gently let her go, taking a step back. "I was looking for you," he said softly.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice full of worry. She brought out her hand, wanting to touch his face, to feel his skin and reassure herself that he was fine and not feverish, but she hesitated and let her hand fall back to her side.

He nodded, though he still looked unsteady. "I’m okay now," he said looking at her sad blue eyes. "I’m sorry I scared you."

Delia wasn’t convinced. "Are you sure? Should I call the doctor back? It all happened so suddenly. There must be a reason for..." She didn’t know when she had done it, but her hands were now clutching one of his arms, holding on desperately as if she were afraid he might disappear.

When she realized what she was doing, she wanted to pull back, embarrassed by her own forwardness. But Eric wouldn’t lose the chance of her touching him. He gently covered her hands with his own, holding them there against his arm.

"I know this illness," he said, his voice quiet and sad. "There is nothing the doctor can do. That much I know." He held her hands for a moment longer, his thumb gently feeling her skin, before he finally let go.

He looked at her, his eyes full of a deep, weary vulnerability she had never seen before. "Can you take me back to my room?" he asked, his voice soft and tired. "I... I want to get some rest."

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