Reborn: The Duke’s Obsession

The evening was cool, and the moon, a perfect, bright circle, rose high in the dark sky. Duke Philip's grand carriage stopped in front of the Ellington manor. He had not intended to stop in the main courtyard, but rather at the gate, a clear and deliberate social slight.

George Pembroke, who had been waiting for hours, hiding behind one of the tall, manicured trees that lined the long driveway, watched the whole scene unfold.

As the footman helped Anne down from the carriage, she turned back to the dark window. "Thank you for dropping me home, Your Grace," she said, her voice a polite, formal sound.

A cool, disembodied voice replied from within. "Go on now. I will send you a letter."

Anne nodded her head, a brief, sharp movement. She closed the carriage door herself, and the driver immediately urged the horses on, the carriage disappearing into the night without a backwards glance.

George stood there, watching. He saw the cold, business-like nature of their farewell. There was no affection, no warmth. He waited. As Anne began to move towards the grand gate of her home, he stepped out from the shadows of the tall trees.

"Anne!" a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks.

She turned and saw George standing there, just a few feet away from her. She looked at him, her face going through a rapid series of expressions: first surprise, then confusion, and finally, a deep and unmistakable disgust. Her eyes raked over his shabby appearance. His worn clothes, his tired face. Her nose wrinkled slightly. Without a word, she turned her back on him and continued walking toward the gate.

"My title is gone," George said, his voice a low, empty sound in the quiet night. "And my family and I… we now live in the commoner's part of the kingdom." He said it hoping for a flicker of pity might suffice. He had come to talk to her to ask her for her reasons.

"So?" Anne replied without looking back, her own voice cool and completely uninterested.

"What?" George asked, confused by her coldness.

Now, Anne finally turned to face him. "So what?" she repeated, her voice dripping with a cruel, bored amusement. "Should I feel bad for you, or something?"

George stared at her, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Shouldn't you feel at least a little bit bad?" He asked, his own voice now full of a quiet, pleading hurt.

Anne chuckled, a short, sharp, and utterly merciless sound. "What?" she said again, and then she moved closer to him, stopping until they had a healthy, contemptuous distance between them.

"Why do you think you are in this position, George?" she asked, and then she answered the question herself. "You are the one who opened your big, stupid mouth and said all of those things that they printed in that pamphlet. You are the one who confessed to everything. You stood there and let them ruin me."

"That's not what happened," he protested weakly.

"Isn't it?" she sneered trying to gaslight him. "You pretended to care about me,that you were on my side, and then you stabbed me in the back the first chance you got. You and your sister. You got what you deserved."

"I stabbed you in the back?" George replied, his own voice now rising with a desperate, disbelieving anger. "You were the one who left my sister and I to look for solutions ourselves. You even pretended that we were courting, and then you immediately went after Duke Philip! How could you do that to me, Anne?"

"Pretended we were courting?" Anne said with a loud, mocking laugh. "Oh, George. You are even more of a fool than I thought." Her laughter died down, and her expression turned to one of pure, condescending pity. "You are the one who thought we were courting, all on your own. You thought that night meant something to me? You too, think about it. Why would I ever, in a million years, be with someone like you?"

She looked him up and down again, her nose wrinkling in disgust, and then she turned to leave, dismissing him as if he were nothing more than dirt on her shoe.

But this time, something snapped inside George. Before he could think, he lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. Her skin was soft beneath his rough fingers, stopping her movement.

"Anne." he said, his voice now a low, dangerous growl.

She gasped, her eyes wide with shock and outrage. She tried to pull her arm away, but he held firm. "Let go of me!" she hissed.

"You think you are so special," he said, his voice low and intense. "But don't be delusional."

"What?" she spat, struggling against his grip.

"You think Duke Philip will ever have any real feelings for you?" George continued, the bitter truth of his own experience giving his words a new, hard edge. "He is just using you as a pawn in his own game against his brother. And when he is done with you, he will throw you away like you did with me, and you are going to get hurt."

Anne's voice became a loud, indignant shout. "Are you threatening me, you pathetic commoner?"

"No," George replied, his own voice now quiet and full of a weary sadness. "I am just giving you some advice. From one tool to another. If you keep doing what you are doing, if you keep playing these dangerous games with these powerful people, you will end up just like me. Ruined. Alone. And looking for a way to afford a three-square-meal a day."

He then released her wrist in one swift motion. The sudden release made her stagger backward a step. George didn't wait for her to recover. He turned and started walking away, back toward the darkness he came from.

Anne, now furious and humiliated, shouted after his retreating form. "Why would I ever end up like you?" He stopped in his tracks, but he did not look back. "Don't you dare flatter yourself!" she continued to scream. "I am nothing like you! I am going to go all the way up! To places so high that you, or that pathetic sister of mine, Delia, can't even dream of!"

George just said one simple, final sentence before he left for good. "But Delia is already there, Anne," he said quietly. "And she is still going even higher."

He then left, disappearing into the darkness.

Anne stood frozen for a second, her hands clenched into fists. Then, a raw, uncontrollable rage erupted from within her. She threw everything in her hands—her elegant reticule, her fine silk gloves, her expensive hat—to the ground. She then began to stomp on them, her pretty, expensive shoes grinding her own possessions into the dusty ground.

"Delia! Delia! Delia!" she screamed, her voice a raw sound of hatred and jealousy, echoing in the quiet, moonlit night.

"Everywhere I go, it is always Delia! I am better than her! I am! She will always be beneath me, and I will use her head as my own personal foot stool! I will watch her downfall!"

She stood there for a long time, panting in the moonlight, surrounded by her ruined accessories.