Chapter 77
Sensing Marsha’s tension, Claudio bent down and whispered against her ear.
“If it’s too much for you, then don’t.”
His voice, so close, made her skin tingle down to the marrow. She almost shivered but forced herself still. Not here. Not in front of so many eyes.
“I-I’m fine,” Marsha stammered.
It wasn’t that his closeness felt burdensome or unpleasant. On the contrary—it was… comforting. The warmth of his hand seemed to shield her from the countless stares that were anything but kind. And besides…
So warm…
It was a strange blend of tingling nervousness and gentle comfort that she didn’t think she could feel at the same time.
The gathering, meanwhile, fell into a hush. Of all people, Gloria’s Duke showing such tenderness in public—no one had expected that.
A hollow laugh escaped Count Beveridge.
“Ha.”
Claudio raised his glass and announced with casual ease, “I hope tonight proves a pleasant time for all.”
Music swelled, elegant and bright, marking the start of the party. Unlike in other cities, Delua had no fixed hour for dancing. Guests could step into the hall and dance when they pleased, or linger over food and conversation. Yet everyone here shared a single purpose.
Like birds drawn to seed, the nobles flocked to Claudio. Even Beveridge had made the long journey for this very encounter—but unlike the others, he had no intention of rushing like an overeager pup.
“ tch.” He sipped his wine, thinking sourly.
And I was worried because Lucas said he’d be late… pointless concern.
Days earlier, he had frowned at Lucas’s letter. Since Claudio’s visit to Sedem, security had grown stifling. Every traveler from the Duchy of Domique was being subjected to full searches.
Not like the Duke to act so. What need is there for such measures?
Because of it, Lucas’s arrival had been delayed. He should’ve reached Delua two days ago.
At least he’ll arrive today… surely.
He sighed and drank.
Well, if nothing else, the wine is excellent. Better than the bottle I brought as a gift, damn it.
He had just drained half his glass when Claudio’s gaze caught his.
What the—why’s he looking at me?
Before he could puzzle it out, Claudio leaned to Marsha, murmured something, and left her with a cluster of elder ladies—then strode straight toward him.
Beveridge nearly hiccuped.
“It’s been a while, Count Beveridge.”
“I greet Your Grace, the Duke of Gloria.”
“No need for stiffness between us. Still, I appreciate your making the long journey.”
“It was only natural. After hearing of your… peril, attendance was my duty.”
“Ah, yes.” Claudio smiled faintly, though there was no hint of embarrassment. His glance slid to Marsha among the women, her smile soft and shy.
“Still, thanks to that misfortune, I met her. Fortune, wouldn’t you say?”
“…Indeed.” Beveridge’s lips twitched. Claudio—speaking like some lovesick youth. Unthinkable.
“I had a gift prepared,” Beveridge tried to cover his unease, “but the Domique merchant carrying it has been delayed.”
“Ah. That’d be on me. My visit brought an influx of outsiders, and among them… plenty of riffraff.”
Beveridge finally understood why Claudio had ordered such invasive inspections.
Of course. Gangsters and their cursed tattoos.
Markings carved into flesh as bonds of brotherhood and symbols of power. Though, to be fair, tattoos were not only for criminals.
“…I worry the westerners may take offense,” Beveridge ventured. In truth, the practice of etching a family’s crest into one’s skin had long been honored in the West.
“If trouble comes of it, I doubt I could stand idly by. Though of course, Your Grace needs no help.” He forced a smile.
A low chuckle. Then Claudio leaned in, voice just for him.
“Walk with me a moment.”
“Eh?” Beveridge faltered, stepping back.
Claudio’s smile was easy, but his tone left no refusal. “There’s something I’d discuss with the Count who claims he must protect the West.”
Beveridge’s face tightened. Has some Westerner stirred up trouble here? He had boasted he would protect them—yet if they’d harmed the Duke, Claudio would not forgive it.
This man never lets a thing slide…
Suppressing a sigh, he followed the Duke from the hall.
The onlookers exchanged baffled whispers.
“Why the Duke and Count Beveridge…?”
“Surely he isn’t leaning toward the West?”
“Nonsense. Even if he wished it, he wouldn’t show it before us all.”
“True. Perhaps they’ve business, that’s all.”
Most were satisfied with that, but not Marquis Hemes.
Damn it. Why is he speaking with that man?
If Claudio turned neutral, withdrawing support from the crown, the throne itself would tremble.
That bastard—trouble whether he lives or dies. Hemes’s head throbbed. He had hoped that prying Beatrice away would be the evening’s only problem. Now this.
Meanwhile, Marsha was bewildered. She had braced herself for sharp stares, for cutting questions, once left alone. Instead…
“The Duke clearly cherishes the young Lady Railford.”
“I never knew the viscount had such a pretty daughter.”
“I hear her health kept her secluded. I hope she’s not overexerting herself tonight.”
“Do tell us if you grow weary, child.”
The matrons Claudio had left her with were as warm as their appearances suggested.
“And I heard you stopped a thief?”
“Heavens, how brave! You must’ve been terrified, yet you acted with such courage.”
Flustered, Marsha murmured, “It wasn’t anything grand…”
“Oh, but it was. Countess Hughes herself said she owed you dearly—had you not stepped in, she’d have been gravely hurt.”
“Ah.” So the tale had spread beyond Severia’s lips.
This society weaves a web of whispers… one kind act today, a single misstep tomorrow—and both echo everywhere.
I must be careful. So careful.
Still, the conversation drifted pleasantly enough, until the ladies began talking only of their grandchildren.
Marsha listened politely, but when her glass ran dry, she rose.
“May I step out a moment?”
“Of course, dear.”
She had scarcely taken a step when her assigned maid appeared.
“Where are you going, my lady?”
“To the terrace.”
“Were you uncomfortable in conversation?”
“No, only a little warm. I’ll take some air.”
“I’ll fetch your shawl.”
“That’s not nec—”
But the maid was gone before she could protest.
Quick one, isn’t she…
Not wanting to be waylaid by prying eyes, Marsha slipped to the terrace alone.
Cool air swept over her.
So refreshing.
She breathed deeply, savoring the quiet.
I could stay here forever… but they’re surely watching the clock already.
And Claudio—when would he return? She remembered the way he had introduced her, guarding her as if she were fragile glass. Entrusting her to the ladies with words so earnest it had nearly undone her.
“She is delicate. I leave her in your care.”
It hadn’t felt like mistrust, but… something warmer. Something she had only once before known—from her father.
Come to think of it, it isn’t so different from how he usually treats me… except with fewer teasing remarks.
Still, her shoulder burned with phantom heat, as if his hand yet rested there.
Does that mean he really has always…?
Her ears flushed red at the thought.
She was still scolding herself when a presence stirred at the terrace entrance. She turned, startled. A man’s silhouette slipped past the curtain, backlit by the glow.
Who—? Someone followed me? Or just wandered in?
Either way, she meant to leave—until the figure spoke.
“…Marsha.”
The voice, too familiar to mistake.
“…Lucas?”
