Chapter 68 - Sixty Eight
The quiet old post inn on the east road was just as Delia remembered it from the day before, only now she walked into it with a sense of dread rather than confusion. She saw him immediately, sitting at a secluded table in the corner, a glass of wine untouched before him. Duke Philip was the mirror image of his brother—the same dark hair, the same strong jawline—but his eyes were colder, and a shadow of bitterness seemed to cling to him.
She approached the table, and he stood as she neared, a polite but cool gesture.
"So you didn’t want to meet with me?" Philip said, his voice smooth but with an undercurrent of accusation.
Delia met his gaze directly, refusing to be intimidated. "No," she replied straightforwardly.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. "I had to leave yesterday because something urgent came up," he explained, offering a belated excuse. "But if you are upset about being stood up..."
"No, Your Grace, it is not like that," Delia responded, her tone calm and respectful. "I came here today to tell you in person that if what you were going to tell me is about Eric, I would much rather hear it from him directly." Her logic was simple and unassailable. It was a statement of loyalty. "That is why I came here today. To give you that courtesy."
She stood up and gave a slight curtsy, preparing to leave. She had said what she needed to say. But his next words stopped her cold.
"He sent me a letter, you know," Philip said, a cruel, knowing smile touching his lips. "Almost immediately after his little performance at the council meeting. He sent one to warn me." He how tensed she was and savored it. "He told me not to tell you about our story."
Delia turned back slowly.