Chapter 32
The gardeners tending the grounds and the servants who happened to be passing nearby were all too busy secretly spying on the couple walking down the colonnade.
The presence of the young duke, who had returned after more than a decade, was striking enough in itself, but the woman walking beside him drew no less attention. Rumors within the inner keep claimed she was a mere commoner relying solely on her looks to climb the social ladder, but seeing her in person, such words felt wholly unfit.
While the servants were thrown into confusion, they weren’t the only ones watching her.
“Could you soften that expression?”
Grace, lost briefly in thought, lifted her head at the low voice. Jet-black eyes brushed against her before shifting forward again.
“For now, aren’t you supposed to be the beloved of the duke? To others, it looks like I rescued you from a desperate crisis, yet you keep wearing that cold expression. How does that look?”
Grace blinked and turned her gaze forward as he did.
Cold, he said. But he himself was no match for words like love or affection. Still, he was holding her hand. Compared to his large, solid grip, her own slender fingers seemed almost absurdly small—like brittle twigs.
A beloved woman…
The word, long erased from her life, brought with it faded fragments of memory: her mother, whose features she could scarcely recall now, but who always stood gently at her father’s side like an old painting etched into her mind.
Grace tugged her hand free, feeling his pause and gaze fall on her. Ignoring it, she instead stepped closer and looped her arm around his.
“?!”
With just one step, she broke through his boundary. A faint, hazy fragrance lingered at her nose, and in the slight overlap of their bodies, their warmth touched.
Grace tilted her head up slightly, catching his profile against the backlight. His handsome features, shaded in silhouette, seemed laced with cynicism. Perhaps he was incredulous—or maybe just baffled.
Well, as if I’m doing this because I want to.
Grace deliberately smiled lightly.
“Now do I look like a grateful woman?”
“Ha.”
Walter let out a dry laugh, as though dumbfounded. His laughter was like quick pen strokes sketched across his face. Yet he matched her act, folding his arm properly instead of letting it hang limp.
“Such a crude trick. Commit a crime in the darkroom and then try to pin the blame with circumstantial evidence?”
His parched, icy tone contrasted sharply with the way he adjusted his stride to match hers.
“The maids were all consistent in what they said.”
“And that was?”
“That they saw nothing.”
A cold silence settled between them. Each lost in thought, they arrived at their chambers. Grace slipped her hand free and stepped back. The places that had been warmed by contact quickly chilled.
“The marquis couple surely want to strip Your Grace of power within the ducal estate. But dethroning the Duke of Richmond inside his own fortress? That’s no easy feat. As you just saw.”
Walter’s gaze darkened, and Grace murmured softly,
“So the only way to bring down a duke within his own keep would be, say… giving the duchess’s chambers over to a traitor?”
She caught her lip with a faint smile.
“Then this works out nicely.”
At that, Walter began to laugh. Grace only blinked in silence as he let out a brittle laugh, long and weary, before dragging a hand down his face.
“I brought back five hundred knights alive from the Wall of Death. I repeated the same warning over and over then.”
“……”
“Do not treat your own life as worthless.”
Grace blinked again. Walter’s sharp gaze lingered on her as if displeased, then he let out a short sigh and turned away. He tossed off his jacket carelessly onto a chair, unbuttoned a few buttons of his shirt, and leaned lazily against the window.
“I brought you to be my sharpest blade—not to be bait swallowed whole and lost.”
“You forget what I said. I told you again and again: no matter what, I would reclaim Taylor.”
Walter suddenly wondered what his subordinates’ cigarettes tasted like.
“Speaking of which, what happened with the Dowager?”
“She hasn’t risen.”
Eliza Richmond—frail, almost dying in appearance, yet exuding a dignity no dolled-up lady could mimic. She wasn’t someone who could simply be dispensed with; she was essential to what lay ahead.
“To awaken her, two things are needed. One: a clear and undeniable purpose. And two: an emotion strong enough to shatter the desiccation that left her numb even if all her limbs were cut away…”
As she spoke, a flash sparked across her mind.
Grace suddenly saw Walter by the window, leaning in casual disregard of decorum, as though it were natural. He wasn’t one to follow standards—he set them. Just as his ancestors had.
The chronicles of Deccan, in the chapter on emperors, recorded:
Most emperors, once deciding something at night, would carry it out the next morning.
Hot-tempered.
They applied strict and lofty standards to all things…
Difficult to appease.
Never sparing frank words to anyone.
Quick to anger.
And here stood their heir in the flesh.
“Why did you stop talking?”
“…Because I think Your Grace could do it.”
Walter’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Explain yourself clearly.”
“You told me to set a fire inside, didn’t you?”
For once, Grace’s voice rose.
“I entered her chambers without permission, yes. But that alone wasn’t enough.”
A grim premonition furrowed Walter’s brow. Joseph would’ve backed down instantly, but Grace only grew more certain of her stance.
“To rouse the Dowager, she needs both fury and purpose. And both are things only you can provide.”
But Walter replied coldly,
“I’ve tried for ten years. I even went to her as soon as I returned.”
“……”
“If she could be awakened, she would never have sunk into that state in the first place. Give it up.”
Grace gazed at him, her expression steady, before speaking.
“I thought about it.”
“About what.”
“Why would someone longing for death, who could have chosen it at any time, still cling to life?”
“……”
“Perhaps she has been waiting for Your Grace.”
Grace recalled the werewolf she had faced in the mountains—that same taut silence just before it leapt, now emanating from Walter. Her heart pounded with instinctive fear, yet as before, retreat wasn’t an option.
“Come with me to see the Dowager.”
Walter exhaled a long, heavy sigh.
“I told you, I went yesterday.”
“Once isn’t enough. Go again.”
“I assure you, it will only backfire.”
“Backfire?”
He had no confidence he could speak gently. The thought of her emaciated form only riled him—he would undoubtedly lash out instead.
“She’ll shut herself away for good.”
“Then doesn’t that mean you can make her angry enough to rise?”
“She’d be getting up just to bolt her door—don’t you get that?!”
“Even so, she has to stand up first, doesn’t she? That alone matters. Right now she refuses even to speak with anyone.”
Walter was about to retort, staring into her stubborn green eyes, when—
Knock, knock!
At the door, Joseph appeared, and behind him stood a flushed middle-aged man, his expression tight. In contrast, the burly young man beside him wore a bright, cheerful look.
“Your Grace, as requested, I’ve brought the head of security!”
As expected of the master’s quick-handed right arm. Grace silently thanked Joseph for his impeccable timing and hurried to close their discussion.
“Then I’ll wait until you’re finished, Your Grace.”
Walter watched her retreat with disbelief, her golden hair swaying behind her like the tail of a fox. At the same time, an image surfaced in his mind: Grace standing side by side with Eliza Richmond.
Grace Taylor, golden hair cascading loose.
Eliza Richmond, silver-white hair pinned high.
Would such a scene truly be possible?
Walter furrowed his brow and let out a short sigh.
