Reborn: The Duke's Obsession-Chapter 76 - Seventy Six

Delia began to feel a strange sort of peace in the Duke’s private residence, a home that was beginning to feel more like her own than the Ellington manor ever had.

To keep her mind from spiraling into anxiety about the future, she sought refuge in the one thing she truly understood, the one skill that was undeniably hers.

Dye making.

She went to the back of the house, where a small, detached room was located amongst the gardens. It was Eric’s private dye laboratory. He often frequents it when he wants to experiment. The moment she stepped inside, she felt a sense of calm. The room was organized and clean, but it was also a space of creation. Jars filled with powdered pigments in every color imaginable lined the shelves—deep indigos, rich madder reds, and sunny saffron yellows. A large workbench held mortars and pestles, glass containers, and small scales for precise measurements. It was a craftsman’s paradise.

She found one of his work aprons hanging on a hook and tied it around her waist. It was far too large for her, but she didn’t mind. She sat down at the workbench and began her work. She was trying to achieve a specific, difficult color—a soft, ethereal lavender that shimmered with hints of silver. It was a color she had dreamed of, one that would be unique in all of Albion.

She started by grinding dried lavender flowers and a secret mixture of minerals into a fine, pale powder using a heavy stone mortar and pestle. The rhythmic, grinding sound was a comfort and peace with no one hurrying her. She then carefully measured the powder and mixed it with warm water in a glass container, stirring until it became a smooth, fragrant paste.

The next step was the most difficult: the mordant. This was the chemical that would bind the color to fabric, and the balance had to be perfect. Too much alum, and the color would be dull and grey. Too little, and it would wash out completely.

She added a pinch of the white alum powder, stirred again, and then dipped a small strip of white silk into the mixture. She held her breath as she pulled it out. The color was wrong. It was a flat, disappointing greyish-purple, with no life and no shimmer.

With a frustrated sigh, she discarded the strip and started again, adjusting the ratios. She tried again, and again, and again. Each time, the result was a failure. frёewebnoѵēl.com

A muddy brown, a weak, watery lilac, a shade that was almost right but turned a sickly yellow as it dried. Her frustration grew with each failed attempt.

Her mind, tired and agitated, began to wander. The face of George Pembroke, bloodied and pathetic as he stood outside in front of her, flashed in her memory. His final, spiteful words echoed in her ears.

"I don’t know if you will ever be able to be happy, though."

She looked down at her rolled-up sleeves, at the delicate skin of her left wrist. The rosebud tattoo stared back at her, a silent, constant reminder. Another petal had vanished this morning. The bud was beginning to look sparse now, a fragile thing with only a few tightly closed petals remaining. She’s sure she has less than a year. Eight months or Nine. Who knows? She let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Happy?" she asked herself, her hands stilling over her work. "Do I even need to be happy?" All she had ever wanted was to be safe, to be respected, to be loved. But they had taken even that from her. Now, all she wanted was revenge.

"Phase one is complete," she thought with a cold satisfaction. Shatter Anne’s dream. Take away the one thing she wanted most in the world. That part was done. Anne is already broken, a pale imitation of the vibrant, cruel girl she had once been and Eric is mine." Phase two begins soon. That would be solidifying her own position, making her marriage to the Duke an indisputable fact.

Just then, a polite knock on the laboratory door startled her out of her dark thoughts. It was Mr. Rye. He stood in the doorway, holding a single, crisp envelope.

"My lady," he said with a respectful bow. "A courier just delivered this for you."

Delia wiped her dye-stained hands on her apron and took the letter. "Thank you, Mr. Rye," she said, her voice soft.

He bowed again and left, closing the door quietly behind him, leaving her once more in solitude.

Delia looked at the letter. It was sealed with the familiar wax crest of the Carson family. She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The handwriting was elegant and immediately recognized the bold script.

Lady Delia,

I hope this letter finds you well. I must apologize again for being unable to attend our scheduled meeting the first time. I know you don’t want to meet with me but I would still very much like to speak with you. I have taken the liberty of arranging a time and place for this weekend, tomorrow afternoon, if that is agreeable to you. We will meet at the Grand Albion inn on the cobblestone road. It is a quiet and discreet establishment.

I look forward to making your acquaintance.

Sincerely,

Duke Philip Carson.

Delia folded the letter, a feeling of deep unease settling in her stomach. So, he still wanted to meet. After the way Eric had warned him through letters, after the things he had said the last time they met, her curiosity was now mixed with a heavy dose of fear. What did this man want from her? And why was he so insistent on meeting her ?

She knew she should tell Eric. But her stubborn desire to handle things herself, held her back. She tucked the letter into her apron pocket and turned back to her work, her mind now far away from the chemistry

of colors, lost in the much more dangerous chemistry of the Carson family.