Count Cesare, the King’s envoy, strode into the room and claimed the podium near the entrance where Cardinal Del Mare had been standing. As the envoy ascended, the Cardinal hastily stepped aside to yield the space.
Looking down at the guests who had prostrated themselves before him, Cesare unfolded the King’s decree. The King’s message was delivered through his voice.
“Hear me, my subjects. Today, Ariadne De Mare, the second daughter of Cardinal Del Mare, holds her debutante ball.
Ariadne De Mare, a faithful subject of San Carlo, is a girl of deep piety who serves as a worthy model for the people of this land, and she has previously rendered distinguished service to the kingdom.
Therefore, in celebration of her coming of age, I send Count Cesare De Como as the partner to escort her to this debutante ball. So be it.”
The spectators in the ballroom treated him with the same reverence one would offer to His Majesty, as if he were the King himself. Relishing the thrill that rippled up his spine, he rolled the parchment and handed it to the attendant nearby. Only then did he make eye contact with Cardinal Del Mare and offer a greeting.
“It is a pleasure to see you today, Your Eminence, Cardinal Del Mare.”
Cardinal Del Mare bowed in return.
“Count Cesare. It is an honor to have you grace our humble home.”
“I shall take good care of your daughter for the day.”
“I must offer my thanks to His Majesty the King.”
Cesare inclined his head, accepting the greeting intended for the King in his stead.
He stepped down from the podium and began to walk toward the dais at the opposite end of the main hall, where Ariadne and Prince Alfonso stood.
It was the march of a conquering hero. Cesare moved through the ballroom like the protagonist of the evening, drawing every eye upon himself. Only the guests who had witnessed Prince Alfonso’s earlier arrival whispered among themselves.
‘…!’
Reaching the edge of the dais, Cesare finally spotted Prince Alfonso standing below. Seeing the expression on Alfonso’s face, his rigid posture, his pure white attire, and the way he had been escorting Ariadne, a dangerous smile curled at the corners of Cesare’s lips.
‘What is this? Is that how it is?’
Feigning exaggerated surprise, Cesare greeted the Prince.
“Well, who is this? If it isn’t the kingdom’s little sun?”
A slight crease formed between Alfonso’s handsome brows. Cesare taunted him with a sneer.
“As I have come as the representative of His Majesty the King today, I shall omit the usual salutations, Your Highness.”
It was a retort meant to repay the humiliation of the knee-bowing from a few days prior.
“King Leo III, the Sun of the Etruscan Kingdom, commands that I be this young lady’s debutante partner. You should step aside, should you not, Your Highness?”
No one could defy the King’s decree. Not even Prince Alfonso, the heir to the throne, was an exception here.
Ignoring the rigid Prince, Cesare reached his hand toward Ariadne.
When she did not readily take it, he added a single word.
“It is the sovereign command of the King, Lady De Mare.”
His hand, extended toward her, was encased in his trademark deerskin gloves. Ariadne reluctantly offered her left hand. It was, at least, a small comfort that his skin would not touch hers.
As she reached out, she scanned Prince Alfonso’s countenance. Alfonso looked as though he had been struck. Ariadne apologized to him with her eyes.
*I’m sorry it turned out this way because of me.*
Noticing that Ariadne was not focused on him, Cesare kissed the back of her hand with an exaggerated, grand gesture. It was a spectacle performed with the express intent of taunting Prince Alfonso.
Alfonso smiled blankly and offered a polite bow to Ariadne.
“My role for today ends here. See you in a little while, Ariadne.”
*I’m sorry, Alfonso.*
1.
Ariadne mouthed the farewell to him.
Cesare found the situation so thrilling he could barely contain himself. He had arrived at this ball inwardly cursing his mother, Countess Rubina, for every demand she had made. He had deemed it a useless endeavor—his mother’s sweet-talking King Leo III into issuing a royal decree—and he had dragged his feet to the Cardinal’s ball only under duress. He had never dreamed such an entertaining development would unfold here.
‘I really should show my mother some filial piety.’
He revised the image he had previously held of the young woman before him. He had once thought her wretched, fierce, and possessed of an atrocious sense of style. But Ariadne, standing before him now in all her finery, was quite beautiful.
Her skin was flawless and serene, and the features he had once deemed fierce appeared unexpectedly poised and elegant now that her eyes were emphasized with makeup. The dress she wore today was cut low, gracefully accentuating her collarbones and décolletage.
Cesare escorted Ariadne up to the dais as cautiously as if he were handling fine porcelain. On the opposite podium, Cardinal Del Mare was delivering a speech to the guests about how excellent and virtuous his second daughter was, praising her deep faith and gentle character. Ariadne and Cesare stood on the dais like a picture-perfect pair, the subjects of all the curious gazes piercing into them.
After Cardinal Del Mare’s short speech concluded, the guests offered their congratulations and drank from the fruit wine that attendants brought around, lifting their glasses in a toast. Ariadne and Cesare also took a sip of the wine provided to them. It signified that she had come of age.
Soon after, the music of the orchestra began to swell. It was time for the first waltz. Since no one could begin dancing until the debutante and her partner had taken the floor, Cesare escorted Ariadne to the center of the ballroom.
Assuming the starting position, his arm wrapped around Ariadne’s waist while he held her hand, he greeted her affectionately.
“It has been a few weeks, Ariadne.”
The most attractive, confident smile Cesare possessed played upon his lips.
“A promise is a promise, so from today on, I shall speak to you with formal courtesy.”
It seemed he had not forgotten his previous remark—that he would drop the formalities because she was a child. Ariadne maintained her scowl as she stepped in time with the music.
“Please call me Lady De Mare.”
The spirit not to be swayed by a cheap smile. Perfect. Bravo.
He had never held even the slightest interest in the beautiful Isabella’s wretched younger sister until now, but following today’s events, he was becoming genuinely intrigued by Ariadne.
Whatever Alfonso possessed, he wanted to snatch away. That it turned out to be a spirited, beautiful girl made him want to pluck out his own eyes for failing to recognize it sooner.
“I shall wait until the day we become closer, Lady De Mare.”
Cesare led the waltz, maintaining the impeccable manners he reserved for women he had marked as his targets. Ariadne was not the finest dancer, but she moved with proficiency.
“For a young lady who has just debuted in high society, you dance quite well. Did you learn much at home?”
I didn’t learn much at home, but I danced with you. For fourteen years. Repeatedly. Many, many times.
It was difficult to adapt to Cesare’s newfound, drippingly sweet attitude—a far cry from the man who had been so unwilling to dance with her in her past life.
Ariadne thought of Cesare, who had asked if she wouldn’t sell the ‘Heart of the Blue Deep’ just as a glimmer of hope had risen within her to suppress her growing, complicated emotions. No—she thought of the Cesare from before her regression, the one who had shouted, demanding to know if she had any idea of the humiliation he felt when her father had shoved someone like *you* onto him. Automatically, her heart rhythm faltered, cooling like a late autumn downpour. Her gaze and voice chilled to match.
“I am not a good dancer. I merely know the basics.”
As the climax of the waltz approached, Cesare released her other hand, guiding his partner away before pulling her back into his chest as if winding her in.
“So, this is the ‘Heart of the Blue Deep.’ The gem shines, but it seems it cannot keep up with my lady’s beauty.”
“Don’t waste your breath on empty flattery.”
Regardless of the cold words falling from her lips, the girl’s body temperature was searingly warm. Cesare focused on the heat of her frame as she nestled into his arms, a stark contrast to her sharp tongue. He was confident that, given enough time, he could melt the heart of this clumsy young girl as much as he liked. He did not know it, but he had already done so perfectly in his past life.
For Count Cesare, the most sought-after man in San Carlo, winning a woman’s heart was merely a matter of time.
* * *
While Count Cesare De Como spun honeyed lines for the impenetrable Ariadne De Mare, Prince Alfonso stood blankly against the wall of the main hall, watching the center of the floor.
Young ladies whispered and glanced his way, but none dared approach. It was a firm rule that a gentleman must be the first to extend his hand for a dance. With the Prince leaning against the wall, sighing deeply and devoid of motivation, no bold lady dared to bridge the distance. Except for one.
Wearing a dress of pure white organza imported from the Moor Empire, dressed like the cousin of a peacock, Isabella knew exactly what she had to do the moment she spotted the Prince.
Isabella approached with light steps and, without a moment’s hesitation, shoved the vase of white crepe myrtle decorating the chest of drawers beside him.
As the vase teetered, threatening to crash to the floor, Alfonso’s eyes widened; he instinctively lunged to catch the pottery. But where the vase was meant to fall, Isabella threw her own body instead.
– Clatter!
The sharp sound of shattering ceramic rang out. Instantly, all eyes in the room focused on Prince Alfonso—who was already the center of every lady’s attention.
Prince Alfonso inadvertently ended up catching Isabella in his arms. To the flustered Prince, she offered a brilliant, practiced smile.
“Let’s pretend the Prince decided to ask me for a dance.”
Countless eyes, bright with curiosity, turned toward them.
“Everyone is watching. Quickly, now.”
Alfonso feared that if he refused here, he would be branded a man who had grabbed a woman without permission, so he nodded reluctantly. He was immediately dragged to the center of the hall by Isabella.
Isabella, saccharine-sweet, took Prince Alfonso’s hand and placed it on her waist. With no other choice, Alfonso began to step to the rhythm of the waltz, his arm stiffly wrapped around her.
To the room, they appeared a perfect pair. Isabella in her white organza, Alfonso looking the part of a dutiful partner—from afar, they looked like a debutante couple. The contrast of their deep and light blonde hair made them a striking sight, and to a casual observer, they seemed the true protagonists of the ball.
However, the chemistry between them was hollow. Throughout the dance, Isabella persisted, trying to strike up a conversation.
“Do you like today’s ball?”
“It is a splendid ball.”
And the conversation stalled.
“You seem to dance with such poise, Prince. Who is your social dance instructor at the palace?”
“I learned from Master Lorevald.”
Alfonso’s answers were clipped, each one a dead end. But a persistent Isabella would not be deterred. As they waltzed, she executed a wide turn, pressing herself into the Prince’s arms as she cast out another lure.
“The interior decoration is quite unique, isn’t it? My sister, Ariadne, was the one who chose these.”
Only then did a spark of life return to the Prince’s eyes. Isabella’s own eyes brightened, convinced that her physical closeness had finally done the trick. But the Prince’s interest lay elsewhere, his response shifting to a sudden, sharp engagement.
“Your sister, Ariadne, is truly impressive. I was deeply moved by her creativity and intellect.”
Prince Alfonso’s reaction had nothing to do with the warmth of Isabella against him. Isabella, who had intended to use the mention of the unusual, untraditional tapestries to highlight Ariadne’s audacity, suddenly sensed that the Prince would react with disdain if she pushed that narrative. She had no choice but to pivot, latching onto his chosen topic and heaping praise upon her sister.
“Ariadne is indeed clever. She studies quite diligently, too.”
“What is her favorite subject? Is it theology, by any chance?”
Having never spared a thought for her sister except to fuel her own competitive fire, Isabella scrambled for an answer.
It was, she swore, the first time in her life she had been forced to speak to a man about another woman rather than herself. Heavens—when had the great Isabella De Mare ever been treated with such neglect by a man of her own standing?
Grinding her teeth, she began to cast anxious glances toward Ariadne. She had orchestrated an incident—a trap meant to expose Ariadne as a poor commodity. Once that went off, the Prince’s fascination with this uninvited guest would surely wither.
I set it in motion, she thought, so why hasn’t it exploded yet?