“Lady De Mare! You’ve arrived early.”
Ottavio De Contarini, already present, welcomed Isabella with warmth. It was a more immediate and effusive greeting than the one he had offered Camellia, Isabella’s companion, or even the hostess of the afternoon, Leticia De Leonati.
Isabella accepted his greeting with a radiant, practiced smile.
“Isabella. Please, call me Isabella. There’s no need for family names between us, is there?”
“Shall we? My beautiful Isabella?”
Watching her fiancé openly flirt with Isabella, Camellia De Castiglione gripped her fan until her knuckles turned white, but there was no one to come to her aid.
“Oh my, Isabella!”
“Leticia.”
The hostess, Viscountess Leticia De Leonati, welcomed Isabella with matching enthusiasm.
Isabella beamed, basking in the adoration of her circle.
*See that, Julia De Baldessar? No matter how high-born a Marquis’s daughter you are, people prefer me.*
As it happened, Julia De Baldessar seemed entirely unimpressed by Isabella’s display of social dominance. She had watched Camellia tremble as her fiancé’s attention drifted, but showed no interest; she simply unclasped her shawl and handed it to the handsome *il domestico*.
Though of high standing, Julia’s father was a court noble in the capital with no provincial power base, forcing her to maintain cordial ties with the Cardinal. She saw the foolishness of Isabella’s antics clearly enough, but she had no intention of interfering—and certainly no desire to help Camellia, who was cut from the same shallow cloth.
As Julia scanned the guest list with a flicker of boredom, her gaze drifted back to the *il domestico*.
*He really is quite striking.*
He was a manservant with looks far too refined for the employ of a Viscount’s house.
*He is handsome enough that it wouldn’t be strange to see him in the Royal Palace, so why is he working in a place like this?*
Julia resolved to ask Leticia De Leonati about the man’s background later.
* * *
That opportunity arrived sooner than expected.
“This is the new *il domestico* who started working for us recently.”
Viscountess Leticia De Leonati gestured toward the handsome manservant with a sharp tilt of her chin. It was telling that she didn’t bother with a name; the House of Leticia did not exactly treat their staff with human warmth.
“He is originally from the Galico Kingdom, though he had to immigrate to the Etruscan Kingdom in a hurry, it seems.”
Ottavio narrowed his eyes, feigning a look of concern.
“After the passing of the late King of Galico the year before last, there were purges of many individuals on charges of treason.”
Ottavio stared at the handsome man with cold, suspicious eyes.
“Could he not be a follower of the rebels who fled here to the Etruscan Kingdom?”
“Oh my, so a nobleman is working as an *il domestico* at Leticia’s house?” Isabella giggled. “Being served by a nobleman… it makes me feel like royalty, doesn’t it?”
Ottavio had spoken with the clear implication that they should keep their distance and have the man dismissed, suspecting he was a political threat. But Isabella had no interest in the “important political implications” or “rebel groups” Ottavio fretted over. Her entire focus was on the thrill of having a nobleman wait on her.
Viscountess Leticia was no different in her vanity.
“No wonder; if he is a nobleman, it explains a great deal. He claims to be from Galico, but he speaks both Etruscan and Latin perfectly. He is skilled in etiquette and well-versed in poetry. I enjoy having someone so handsome, smart, and elegant serving me.”
Unable to suppress her curiosity, Julia turned to Viscountess Leticia.
“What is his name?”
“…It’s Francois.”
“A disgustingly elegant name for a commoner.”
Ottavio, unable to mask his disdain, interjected abruptly. Isabella tilted her head, her eyes curving into a smile that scratched at the itch of Ottavio’s ego.
“He does look a bit too much like a gigolo for a commoner, though—”
Isabella turned to Camellia, who sat beside her, and scanned her from head to toe.
“My dear Camellia, you’re wearing such a lovely dress. I haven’t seen it before. Did Leticia tip you off that there was a handsome *il domestico* here, so you dressed up for the occasion?”
Camellia De Castiglione startled, waving her hands in a frantic denial.
“No, not at all! I truly didn’t know there was such a handsome *il domestico* at the Viscountess Leticia’s house.”
“Oh my. So, even you think that *il domestico* is handsome, Camellia?”
Isabella’s ability to corner others was nothing short of extraordinary. The Viscountess Leticia, playing her part to perfection, chimed in.
“What are you talking about, Camellia? I told you in my last letter that we had a new, incredibly handsome *il domestico* and that you should come visit to see him.”
At Leticia’s words, the gathered young ladies and gentlemen erupted into boisterous teasing.
“Are you lying because you’re embarrassed?”
“Lady Castiglione, you shouldn’t do that while your fiancé is standing right there!”
Camellia’s face turned beet red as the crowd teased her for her supposed shyness. Meanwhile, the face of her fiancé, Ottavio, shifted from red to a bruised shade of purple. He wasn’t angered because his betrothed was being teased; he was fuming because he suspected she was coveting another man in his presence.
Isabella laughed, a sound as light as cotton candy, and brushed Ottavio’s cheek with a snow-white hand—a touch as soft as a feather.
“Look at how hot your face is.”
Isabella gazed into Ottavio’s eyes, a flicker of feigned pathos lingering in her violet orbs.
“My manly Ottavio, please don’t pay any mind to such a servant. Camellia is a lucky girl to have a fiancé like you.”
Camellia sat frozen in her chair, blindsided. She had been subjected to a heavy serving of verbal abuse despite having done nothing, and now she was forced to watch as Isabella claimed territory over her own fiancé. Yet, she had no avenue for protest. Most of the young ladies present were close allies of Isabella, and the young gentlemen—whether they knew her well or not—were unconditionally on her side.
As Camellia fanned herself with aggressive, jerky motions, Isabella announced to the group that a ball would soon be held at her estate.
“This time, the Cardinal De Mare has decided to host a separate debutante ball at our home for my younger sister, Ariadne.”
At this declaration, the rising stars of San Carlo’s social circle began to murmur.
“A debutante ball at home? The Cardinal must value his second daughter very highly.”
Isabella felt her insides twist, but she could not allow her indignation to surface. She smoothed her expression into a charming smile.
“Of course. Our Ariadne rendered great service this time and received recognition and charity from the King and Queen. Our family must support her accordingly.”
*Having another successful child in the family isn’t a bad thing for me,* she consoled herself, taking a sharp breath. She intended to scrape up every bit of profit she could from this affair; only then would the knot of bitterness in her stomach begin to loosen.
“After all, it is a party held at my home for the first time in a long while.”
The hostess of a party was, after all, always the one treated with the most special consideration.
“I’ll get Mother’s permission to reserve a separate parlor for our own powder room. We can gossip in private there.”
The young ladies’ faces brightened.
“I hate having to mingle with those nobodies at the ball.”
“It would be so lovely to have our own cozy space!”
“Isabella, you’re just amazing. You’re so resourceful.”
Isabella cast sweet, lingering glances not only at the young ladies but at the gentlemen in the room as well.
“You all have to attend, promise? You must.”
She needed an audience to admire her dress—crafted with no expense spared from silk imported from the Moor Empire—or, to be more precise, to admire Isabella, who was incomparably more beautiful than her dowdy, gloomy younger sister. Besides, if those gentlemen were in attendance, the likelihood of Count Cesare appearing would increase significantly.
She craved the attention of the man with the highest standing in San Carlo. Everything good in this world belonged to her; that was how her life had always unfolded, and she had no doubt it would continue that way.
* * *
While Isabella was busy posturing for her friends and plotting to outshine her sister, the true protagonist of the ball had no particular concern for her own appearance.
“Madame Marini from Ragione Tailoring has arrived.”
Ignoring Sancha’s insistence that she find a more prestigious boutique now that she had come into such a windfall, Ariadne had called upon her usual tailor.
“My budget isn’t very generous. I think I can spend about 5 ducats on the dress?”
“My Lady! His Eminence the Cardinal told you that you could have more if you needed it!”
“I have to manage within the allowance he has already given me. And I need to purchase a full set of cosmetics, so it’s not as plentiful as you might think.”
At that, Sancha, who had been full of complaints, gave a begrudging nod of agreement.
In San Carlo, young ladies who had not yet made their debut were forbidden from wearing makeup. Until now, Ariadne had been unable to use anything but basic skin ointments. With this debutante ball, she would finally be allowed to wear cosmetics and step out into the world.
“My Lady, your features are perfectly balanced. You’ll be a real beauty once you start wearing makeup.”
Sancha was full of ambition, and she possessed the talent to match. During the dress selection, Sancha’s enthusiasm had been infectious, earning her high praise from Madame Marini.
“Let’s go with something simple and modest. I want no fussy decorations, and I would prefer not to show too much skin. Let’s bring the neckline up above the collarbone.”
In her past life, Ariadne had lived for nearly ten years in the center of unwanted scrutiny. Having endured a decade of voices calling her lewd if she wore a low-cut gown, tacky if she was flashy, and shabby if she was plain, her choices had become increasingly conservative.
Because she chose clothes based on avoiding criticism rather than what actually suited her, she was frequently told she had “no fashion sense.” If you hear that for ten years, you inevitably become timid.
In the end, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Ariadne truly did lack an eye for style. At her request, Sancha and Madame Marini cried out in unison.
“That won’t do!”
“You can’t do that, My Lady!”
Madame Marini laid out the philosophy she had preached to Ariadne once before.
“If you have a fuller figure, you can’t just cover it all up! You need to show some skin and create a sense of space; that is what makes you look slimmer.”
“Exactly! Besides, My Lady, you have lovely collarbones and a small face, but your neck isn’t particularly long. If you raise the neckline, you’ll look incredibly stuffy.”
Madame Marini glanced back at Sancha, visibly impressed.
“Young Lady De Mare, your attendant has quite an eye, doesn’t she? Very sharp.”
“Of course she does!”
Sensing her opening, Sancha preened at the compliment and turned her persuasion toward Ariadne.
“My Lady, we’ll lower the neckline, but I’ll bind that plain cotton chemise you favor even tighter that day. It will keep your silhouette flat and prevent anything from looking lewd, while leaving your neck exposed to look elegant and refreshed.”
Ariadne raised both hands in surrender, defeated.
“Since you are both so insistent, I suppose I have no choice. Please, keep the first dress simple and elegant, and make the second one comfortable enough to move in. I leave the details to the two of you.”
Sancha and Madame Marini clapped their hands in delight.
* * *
Preparation for the debutante ball was not all dresses and pleasantries. During lunch at the De Mare household, Lucrezia raised the subject of Ariadne’s escort.
“Your Eminence, by rights, Ariadne’s debutante partner should be Ippolito.”
“Hmm. That is true.”
Ippolito, the eldest son of Cardinal De Mare and Lucrezia, was currently studying abroad in the university city of Padua.
“He won’t be able to return to San Carlo just for this, will he?”
“It would be difficult, I expect.”
“So, we have decided to bring in a distant relative to stand as Ariadne’s partner.”
It was the first Ariadne had heard of it. Cardinal De Mare’s brow furrowed.
“You don’t mean someone from your own family, do you?”