TMLWA 87

Chapter 87

“If magic could be learned that easily, then everyone would already be doing it! Tch.”

Count Arthur grumbled, finding Ann’s words arrogant.

“Will it be all right?”

Ignoring his father, Hannibal asked Miss Mighty instead, seemingly agreeing with Ann’s reasoning.

“I’ve been thinking it would be dull to remain in the castle all the time anyway, so I don’t mind.”

“Kya—! Thank you so much!”

“That’s wonderful, my lady!”

At the gracious permission, both Victoria and Ann brightened with delight. Watching them laugh together, Hannibal turned to Miss Mighty and gave a courteous nod.

“Thank you.”

Amid this warm and gentle atmosphere, only Count Arthur and Grey sat with their mouths tightly shut.

Count Arthur felt offended at being ignored by his own son, while Grey was quietly stung by Ann’s refusal to meet his gaze even once.

He told himself that perhaps she was only minding her manners because her fiancé was present. Still, unlike Miss Mighty, who remained polite, Ann treated him as if he were invisible. The resentment built up inside him regardless.

But that wasn’t truly Ann’s fault. It was because of the Western lord—this beast of a man—who forced her to act this way.

Grey glared at Hannibal before turning his eyes back to Ann.

Yes… with the body of a maid, she had somehow become a lord’s fiancée. Naturally, she had no choice but to flatter him.

Thus, his bitterness slowly turned into pity. And then, once again, his mind was consumed entirely by Ann.

Just then, the main course was served.

“Our chef’s meat dishes are the pride of our kitchen. They’re flavored with a variety of spices, so please enjoy.”

As Ann looked around the table and introduced the meal, Grey couldn’t help himself—he suddenly blurted out:

“But Ann can’t handle strongly seasoned dishes, can she?”

It was a thoughtless concern, triggered the instant he saw the dish on the tray.

But no sooner had the words left his mouth than Hannibal’s brows shot upward.

“Is the ducal household so informal that even the servants’ palates are indulged?”

Grey could not have cared less if Hannibal was offended. But when he saw Ann’s pale, uneasy expression directed at him, his stomach dropped.

He quickly bit his lip and stammered out an excuse.

“When we were young, Ann often looked after me and ate with me. That’s the only reason I know.”

The topic seemed amusing to Count Arthur, who burst in with a laugh.

“To remember even such trifles—remarkable! Why, I can barely recall the faces of women I’ve spent the night with by the next morning! Hahahaha!”

Somehow, his hand now held whiskey rather than wine.

Like a bucket of cold water, his vulgar outburst smothered the cheerful chatter that had filled the table.

Beneath the table, Ann clasped her hands together, scratching nervously at her nails.

I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have seen Grey again.

And yet, somehow, she had caused Hannibal trouble.

Her heart was now filled with fear—what if Hannibal was disappointed in her? What if he grew to hate her?

“No more drinking at the table, Father.”

At Hannibal’s signal, a servant swiftly removed the count’s glass.

“What—!”

He nearly shouted at his son, but under Hannibal’s chilling gaze, his voice faltered and fell silent.

“Father.”

The fury in Hannibal’s eyes was unmistakable. Yet in truth, it was not his father he was truly enraged with.

“Ahem. I was simply impressed by your memory, that’s all. A foolish slip of the tongue. Forget it.”

“Very well.”

Grey accepted Count Arthur’s words, and the matter seemed to settle.

But surely Hannibal’s suspicion had now sprouted. Perhaps he was even convinced of the rumors.

Ann had no appetite left at all.

“Bring another serving of meat—without spices.”

At Hannibal’s order to the chef, Ann lifted her downcast head.

“My lord.”

Her voice was soft. Hannibal, seated beside her, turned to meet her eyes.

But instead of anger, suspicion, or mistrust… his gaze was calm, warm, and steady.

“Is just salt and pepper acceptable?”

“…Only salt.”

He immediately set down a salt jar beside her plate, setting aside the pepper. What was the meaning of such an action?

“Thank you.”

Perhaps he was giving her time—a chance to explain herself. At least for as long as she remained his fiancée.

With that hope, Ann forced her kindest smile for Hannibal.

“You two seem very close.”

Miss Mighty remarked suddenly, eyes on them both.

Ann’s ears turned red as she realized all eyes were on her.

Sensing the chance to redirect the mood, Oliver quickly jumped in.

“Of course they are! They’ve been apart for so long. Hannibal carried every one of Ann’s letters with him during the war, never losing a single one!”

He exaggerated for effect, saying it had been almost unbearable to watch.

The conversation shifted toward Hannibal’s devotion—how he painstakingly wrote replies on the blood-soaked battlefield. Victoria eagerly joined in.

“Really? I never imagined it! In the middle of all that, you even searched the marketplace for stationery?”

Unable to explode in front of Ann, Hannibal simmered quietly, his face turning red and blue by turns.

Thanks to this, the dinner, which had been on the verge of collapse, ended on a much warmer note.

All except for Grey, whose trembling hand clutched his untouched knife in white-knuckled rage.

* * *

“Then what was the point of the deal? How could she remember and yet not love me?!”

Back in his room, Grey stormed in circles, fuming.

Ann… loving another man?

When Hannibal had returned, she had greeted him with eyes like a maiden struck by love at first sight.

He had tried to convince himself otherwise.

There were many eyes watching; she was only pretending.

It must have been mere courtesy, he told himself.

But at dinner, when he had slipped up, Ann hadn’t looked to him at all. Instead, she had watched Hannibal—turning pale, then blushing with relief as she looked into his eyes.

It was unmistakable. It was the look of Ann Ferro in love.

But that was impossible. Grey Benton had laid down his life for her against the witch.

He had traded his very life for her love, turning back time itself.

“After giving up my life, shouldn’t she love me again?”

Kicking over a hapless trash bin in his rage, Grey froze when a knock sounded. Jamie entered.

“I’ve come to prepare your chambers for the night.”

Though the room was already spotless, the young servant tidied once more, lit candles by the bedside, and set out a pitcher and cup.

“Jamie.”

Just as he was about to leave, Grey stopped him.

“You once said you wanted to live with Ann in the capital, didn’t you?”

“Yes… but she’s engaged to Lord Hannibal of Teganess now…”

Jamie’s voice softened; he knew of Grey’s feelings for Ann.

“Then find out how happy she truly is here. If I know, perhaps I’ll be able to accept it.”

“Yes, my lord!”

Jamie’s face brightened as he hurried out. Watching his transparent eagerness, Grey gave a wry smile and lay back on the bed.

For now, he needed to gather information. Only then could he find weaknesses—cracks to exploit.

He was already having his lieutenant Seth gather intelligence about the witch and the western lands. Until then, he would wait quietly in the annex.

“An audience will come after that.”

The First Prince’s letter, entrusted to him for the lord of the West, still sat undelivered.

If he could not reclaim Ann, then the West itself would mean nothing.

As Grey firmed his resolve and began to close his eyes—

Knock, knock, knock.

“Duke Benton, are you already asleep?”

Count Arthur had come.

Even before leaving for the West, Grey had never once heard good things about the man. Meeting him now only confirmed it—useless and incompetent.

Thus far, Grey had only greeted him in passing, never sparing him more time.

“Not yet. Enter.”

He barely concealed his annoyance.

“There’s fine liquor in the West, but my son didn’t even think to bring it out tonight.”

Arthur entered, carrying a bottle, and Grey’s brows drew together. Was he really here at this hour for drinking?

“I have something to say as well.”

Seeing Grey’s reluctance, Arthur hurried to cut him off.

He was still a count, the head of his house. There was no reason for Grey to make an enemy unnecessarily. So, reluctantly, Grey accepted the bottle.

Soon, the two were seated, pouring drinks.

“Wine is pleasant, but the true taste is in whiskey. Ahhh!”

The count drained his glass in one go and wiped his mouth.

Grey, however, poured barely a sip into his own glass, wetting only his lips.

“What is it you wish to say?”

If it proved useless, he would send the man away immediately.

Catching his meaning, Arthur set down his empty glass and chuckled.

“…The lord may be Hannibal, but the head of House Clayde is still me, Arthur Clayde. Remember that, Duke Grey Benton.”