24.
Countess Milena pondered for a moment whether Lancelot had ever taken a wife.
Recalling that he remained the most eligible bachelor in the Kingdom of Montebio, she asked, “I ask just in case, but did you hold a secret wedding?”
“I plan to hold a short, quiet ceremony after the four-day mourning period for my father concludes.”
A wedding immediately after the funeral. I have lost count of how many times the Edenbahir estate has startled me today.
“That is something to be celebrated. If it is not an intrusion, may I ask which young lady you are taking as your bride?”
“Anita Boellony.”
No other event could compare to that statement.
The Duke of Edenbahir—a man scheduled to hold his succession ceremony, a relative of the King—was taking *her* as his bride?
It is true that Vincent Boellony received knighthood, but a knighthood is merely a knighthood. It cannot be weighed against the house of Duke Edenbahir.
‘Even if they possess investment management rights, is a daughter of a family without a title worth taking as a Duchess?’
It is something that could have been handled by adopting her into a collateral branch. Why go through the trouble?
Lancelot added a follow-up, his eyes sharp as if reading her thoughts.
“I have been promised the support of the Queen.”
Countess Milena’s eyes widened.
Promised the support of that formidable Queen? What kind of negotiation could he have possibly made?
“If you keep me by the Duchess’s side, the Grand Duchess will surely find it uncomfortable. Are you sure that will be fine?”
In the central social circles spanning from Hixen, the capital, to the sprawling city of Shavalon, the reputation of Countess Milena is divided into two categories: a liberated lady, or the godmother of the burgeoning art scene.
Countess Milena loved artists—both spiritually and physically.
There were many, domestic and foreign, who made a living off her whims. If one included the theater troupes, art schools, salons, and orchestras she had been funding for over a decade, along with the individual composers, painters, and poets she sponsored, the number reached into the hundreds.
She would provide anything for talented artists if it served their work: drugs, land, alcohol, women, men…
Some loathed her lack of ethical standards, while others envied her freedom.
From the perspective of the Grand Duchess, who clung to formality and lineage, Milena was nothing more than a creature to be abhorred.
“If the Countess is willing to permit it, there will be no problems.”
*Ho-ho.*
But the new Duke is not like her, is he?
Perhaps this could be an opportunity.
*My personality doesn’t allow me to just take things lying down.*
A chance to deal a blow to the Grand Duchess, who looked at her as if she were some dirty, mongrel thing.
“We need to have a more detailed discussion. May I call upon you again after Your Grace returns to Edenbahir from the funeral?”
Anita Boellony, the woman who would present her with that precious opportunity.
What kind of lady is she, exactly? I am becoming quite intrigued.
***
Anita’s statement left a massive ripple among the reporters.
A dizzying number of questions poured down. The crowd clung to them with such persistence that it became nearly impossible for the attendants to clear a path.
*Will I get an earful from Lancelot?*
In truth, Anita’s original goal was to settle her private feelings for him. Instead, she had reached the Duke’s residence at a pace no different from Lancelot’s. It felt rather ridiculous.
The Grand Duchess’s carriage was stalled, choked by the crush of the crowd.
Having barely reached the front gate, Anita waited for the doors to open. Beyond the tall, iron bars, a familiar silhouette stood waiting.
“Lancelot.”
*Creeeak.*
The obstacle that had been blocking the two of them swung wide. Anita stared blankly up at the man standing before her until he reached out his hand, snapping her back to her senses.
“Were you waiting for me?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out and pulled her in. As if on cue, camera flashes ignited from all directions.
*Of all times for this to happen.*
Anita looked at the reporters blocked by the attendants and whispered, “I’m really sorry. I was the one who revealed our marriage to the press first.”
His gaze shifted beyond the boundary of the mansion, where the Grand Duchess’s carriage was finally creeping toward the gate.
“And here I thought you were doing something uncharacteristic.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do not apologize. I said it on the train: the louder our marriage is announced, the better. And if you are willing…”
He gripped her hand with a sudden, sharp strength.
“I intend to make it even louder. May I?”
Anita struggled to grasp his meaning. Make it even louder? Unless he proposed on the spot—
“What are you planning? It doesn’t matter to me, but…”
“Miss Anita Boellony.”
It was a low call.
It was not a voice kept for their ears alone. It was louder, clearer, and distinct.
Clear enough for every reporter clinging to the gate to hear.
“…Lancelot?”
He let go of her hand.
The warmth retreated, but the air remained charged. Lancelot knelt on one knee before her, his green eyes flashing with a chilling intensity.
“I love you. Please become my lifelong companion.”
He held out a small velvet box containing a diamond ring.
*My god.*
This cannot be.
Anita lost her voice. A thrill, rising from the tips of her toes, sent a shock through her heart and head. In this moment, she could see nothing but Lancelot.
He proposed to me.
“I…”
He, to me…
*[The louder our marriage is, the better.]*
No.
*This isn’t real.*
That was right. This was a show. Like a circus performer breathing fire to attract a crowd.
I must not be deceived. I must smile. I must accept his proposal with the happiest face in the world.
She looked at Lancelot. His face was tranquil, devoid of even the slightest hint of passion.
Anita clasped her hands together and forced an answer.
“I would love to. I will accept your heart.”
The non-stop flashes threatened to blind her. Anita took the ring with trembling hands, feeling a cold bloom of dread.
*Am I actually smiling right now?*
Am I? Would anyone looking at me think I am happy? Or is my face distorted, half-smiling and half-grimace?
Lancelot rose to his feet with agonizing slowness. He slipped the ring onto her left finger and leaned in to whisper, his voice a mere thread of sound.
“Close your eyes.”
His long, white fingers pulled her toward him. Just before his lips touched hers, he breathed:
“It will be unpleasant. Think of it as a play.”
Unable to endure the intensity of the moment, Anita squeezed her eyes shut. His consideration stroked her heart, but it brought a sharp, stinging shame.
*Unpleasant? Think of it as a play? Is that something you are saying to yourself?*
The question died in her throat. A touch, softer than anything she had ever felt, grazed the corner of her mouth.
Not her lips—the corner of her mouth. He pressed his lips firmly just below her lip line. The warmth was tender, but his eyes, seen through the sweep of his golden lashes, remained glacier-cold.
Why is this?
*[Do not expect anything, Anita Boellony.]*
Like a curse, the memory of their conversation years ago rose to the surface.
*[I cannot feel anything like love for you. That has been the case until now, and it will be so in the future.]*
His attitude had been so resolute, as if he expected her to simply understand.
*[So you, too, should fold your heart away. Because I do not want to lose a long-time friend over emotions that cannot be empathized with.]*
*[Can you do it?]*
*[Yes.]*
And she had nodded, a madwoman terrified of the future.
*[It is not difficult. It is not such a deep feeling, after all. It can be… easily sorted out.]*
It had been two years since she made that vow.
Anita’s heart had still not been sorted out.
The next dawn, a scandal of the century broke across the Kingdom of Montebio.
The headline read:
It was exactly the reaction Lancelot had expected.