Chapter – 22
As expected, Aunt Susan reacted with clear incomprehension.
“Are you saying you can’t even imagine the possibility that the two of you might fall in love?”
Her trivial chatter kept scratching at my nerves, refusing to stop.
“You wouldn’t care if Chel Ibeur turned out to be a blind man who writes through a ghostwriter, or an old man living in a collapsing hut.”
“I might not care, but my father would. He’d claim he was protecting the family’s honor and chop the man’s head off right in front of me.”
“Well, that’s true. Then it would be better if it were a woman. Then you could be friends. And maybe your dull father would go easier on her.”
My heart lurched violently at that remark, and I barely managed to keep my expression steady.
She is a woman… but no. That’s still impossible.
As I listened to Susan’s ridiculous babbling, the heavy rain gradually weakened until it became a series of soft taps on the window.
“Isn’t there some noble brat who’s supposed to visit today? Hopefully not that discourteous third son of Baron Hails like last time.”
Just as we were both rising from the table, Susan handed me a weekly magazine, tossing out the words as if in passing.
That rude man was simple to describe. Not even the second son—he was the third. Unless a natural disaster occurred, he had no chance of inheriting even a fragment of his family’s estate. So he was a wolf aiming for social ascension through a noble lady like me.
No, he was practically a thief.
Fortunate that he’s at least a stupid thief.
Susan gave me a knowing look as she handed over the magazine. Ever since her husband’s death had made her a viscountess, people pretending affection to covet her position had been ceaseless.
And the most persistent rumor about me—
“The Duke of Loire cherishes his sickly, fragile only daughter so much that he keeps her hidden from society.”
On the final night of my debutante season, Ron Hails happened to witness Susan and me hastily leaving the ballroom. He instantly concluded the rumor must be true.
She must have suddenly fallen ill and is rushing home.
Ron Hails, deluded by his own assumptions, declared confidently that he would “take responsibility for the ducal household” by becoming my husband.
The thought of someone scheming to win my heart just to hit the jackpot was infuriating. So after listening to his nonsense about being my perfect husband for five whole minutes, I threw him out.
Those five minutes were merely a courtesy for someone who’d bothered to come all the way to the Loire family’s annex.
When he still refused to leave the grounds until another meeting was arranged, Susan finally issued an expulsion order.
And even then, Ron Hails continued to send letters, and during the last showing of Kettlin—episode eight—he had even tried to intercept me outside the theater as I was boarding my carriage. He tried to disguise it as a coincidence, but his acting was painfully unconvincing.
Thankfully, the Marquis of Orelleno hadn’t witnessed it.
He would’ve teased me endlessly if he had.
As I imagined his smug commentary, I grew irritated—then remembered the time the Marquis stepped in when I ran into Vivian.
That polite yet dangerous air about him… I had let out a small, involuntary gasp of admiration. Compared to Ron Hails’ pathetic performance, the Marquis’ effortlessly shifting expressions and playful behavior were practically a natural-born talent.
Come to think of it, what has he been doing lately? He hasn’t shown his face at all.
The man who used to bother me constantly had abruptly gone silent. Even Paul Berger said, “The Marquis hasn’t set foot in the theater lately,” sounding puzzled.
I sat on the recessed ledge by the sitting room window and opened it to inhale the scent of the rain. The heavy fragrance of the damp garden’s flowers and trees rushed in.
The pleasantly cool breeze carried a whiff of lavender as I closed my eyes.
The sound of a slow-moving carriage splashing through puddles came from a distance—it was refreshing beyond words.
…But that carriage just passed through the Loire annex gate.
My eyes flew open. I pressed against the window to look outside. The carriage’s identity was obscured by ornamental trees, but I could see it going through a guard check.
No one was scheduled to visit the annex today.
It wasn’t the dressmaker’s day, either. Perhaps Louis Maurice had come to see Susan. If so, she would have been fussing about getting ready ages ago.
Since it passed the guards, at least it isn’t Ron Hails.
Just as I narrowed my eyes, watching the unfamiliar black carriage stop before the entrance, intending to call Tasha—
I saw a glint of light as someone stepped out leisurely.
I blinked in disbelief.
The Marquis.
No matter how many times I rubbed my eyes and pressed against the window, it was unmistakably Shane de Orelleno. That dazzling gold hair and innate noble aura were impossible to imitate.
Why are you here? Why did you come?!
I scrambled to pretend I had been out somewhere, but before I could even stand properly, the Marquis turned sharply toward the window—like a ghost—and our eyes met.
It wasn’t my imagination. Even from afar, he smiled at me.
A bright, foreboding smile expanded between the white pillars of the mansion. Frozen, I missed my last chance to escape.
The Marquis strode quickly up the stairs, giving me no time to think at all.
The crest of the Loire family hung above the center of the front door. The Marquis grasped the heavy metal knocker beneath it and rapped twice—polite, but firm.
In that brief span, I was panicking in the sitting room when Nanny and Tasha burst in, breathless, skirts and aprons flying.
Their determined expressions were already overwhelming. Tasha cried out:
“My lady, your clothes!”
“What’s there to fix? I can greet him like this.”
“Do you call this acceptable?!”
Before I could retort, Susan herself barged in, making the door slam open.
“You never even step outside unless it’s for a play—so how did you make an appointment with him?! Good heavens—why is he here? Did you cause some trouble?!”
We met at the theater, actually.
Resistance was futile. While Susan rushed ahead to receive the Marquis, Tasha and Killina dragged me off to fix my hair as if their lives depended on it.
I had no reason to go out of my way to look pretty for anyone.
Until now, I followed Father’s words—that I didn’t need to marry yet—obediently, greeting suitors with only the minimum effort required to maintain the family’s reputation.
A half-freedom granted on the condition that it would not damage the ducal image.
I really need to talk to Father properly about marriage soon.
As Killina massaged fragrant oil into every strand of my hair like she intended to soak it to the core, I pondered:
Father of my second life, what are you actually planning for my marriage?
Surely he won’t sell me off to the worst possible groom for a massive price like some villainous father in a romance novel, right?
Well, if he does—
Brace yourself.
Because this reincarnator will put on the fieriest, most spectacular display of filial rebellion he’s ever seen.
“My lady, what are you thinking so hard about? It’s finished.”
Tasha wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, looking proud. She braided my light-brown hair and adorned it with enough jeweled pins to make it look like blossoms were spilling out. She tied the ends with a ribbon matching my eye color and draped it over my shoulder.
“With this, you’re not the kingdom’s most beautiful woman—but the second most beautiful.”
The phrasing amused me.
“Who’s the most beautiful?”
“Why, the gorgeous dancer, Sera Francis, of course.”
True. Undeniably true. Pure fact.
As a fan, I nodded heavily, thinking of Sera, who played the heroine Kettlin Benedek in Kettlin.
But wait.
“If I’m second, then Saintess Maricella of the Araelias Temple is third?”
“I’ve never seen the Saintess in person, so I can’t say.”
Tasha drew a firm line.
“When I meet Saintess Maricella one day, I’ll reconsider.”
She’ll be shocked when she does.
After all, the reason Vivian sought her family’s secret black magic—desperate to wedge herself into the main cast’s relationships—was none other than Maricella’s overwhelming beauty. The plot logic was airtight.
