Episode 4

4.

The Duchess fidgeted, then acquiesced in a subdued voice.

“That may be so, but…”

For a woman born into nobility, marriage was not a matter of choice but an inevitability. Aside from a dowry, no woman could inherit wealth or family title. The worth of a young lady making her debut in society could, without exaggeration, be measured by the quality of the family into which she secured her engagement. And should such a long-standing engagement be broken, the disgrace would be beyond measure.

“Even if her wits wander now and then, she is still one of only two ducal daughters in the Empire. She should count herself honored to wed even penniless.”

Silence.

“However, for the sake of Valdemore’s dignity, her dowry shall be the diamond mine.”

The Valdemore diamond mine produced in a single month what could rival the annual budget of a modest province. To offer it meant, quite literally, an unshakable resolve to see the daughter disposed of at the earliest possible moment. The Duke's stern gaze cut toward Rosetta.

“Therefore, if you fail to secure an engagement within the month—”

Silence.

“You shall be sent to the Citron Convent to take your lifelong vows. Prepare yourself accordingly.”

Rosetta’s mouth fell open. The Citron Convent—its infamy had reached even her ears. A vast prison built by nobles as a place to “dispose of” the family’s shame. At this point, there remained but one path. Rosetta clenched her fists tightly.

Yes, she would snare herself a fool.

And within three months—she would escape, no matter the cost.

---

In less than three months, the news had swept through society: the Valdemore ducal daughter had gone mad.

It was said she had failed to recognize even her own mother, bowing in her nightclothes, and had screamed upon seeing her reflection in the mirror. Rumors bordering on scandal claimed she had abruptly groped her own chest, and whispers likened her gulping down wash water to drinking wine.

The tales had grown lurid, but even to the jaded habitués of the social scene—men and women unshaken by most gossip—this was a shock.

For Lady Lea Lennox Valdemore had, for the better part of a decade, been the very model of a perfect Crown Princess. That her suicide attempt had been provoked by the Crown Prince’s infidelity only drew public sentiment closer to pity than scorn.

“A pity—she was at least easy enough on the eyes.”

One young nobleman, idly dealing his cards, opened the conversation in a tone of subtle suggestion. Several viscounts at the table laughed at the overt assessment.

“I hear her mind is utterly gone.”

“Perhaps it’s nothing more than a performance to win back His Highness’s affections.”

“If the Duke offers a dowry of that magnitude, she may well be truly unhinged.”

Being soldiers in the throes of their own appetites, the talk slid ever further into the vulgar.

“Even if they were engaged for ten years, it wouldn’t bother me so long as they weren’t… too close.”

“The lady may have her own thoughts about your face.”

“Indeed—at that point, it would be divorce, not a broken engagement.”

“A second-hand ornament dressed in fine wrappings—and with a defect of the mind to boot.”

A shrug accompanied the remark, and voices of agreement rose from several corners. The man, emboldened by the chorus, cast his words toward someone seated behind him, half-drunken on their approval.

“Wouldn’t you say so, Kadrier?”

The room fell still. The raucous chatter ebbed into a quiet charged with the unease of prey sensing a predator’s presence.

In a sunlit corner, a man reclined with a book, lifting his gaze with languid grace. Someone among the men drew in a sharp breath.

Hair of golden brilliance, a face seemingly sculpted with divine indulgence, eyes the deep blue of the sea—and draped over it all, a mantle of bored arrogance.

“And what was the subject?”

His tone made clear he had been listening only with half an ear. The faint curve of his lips carried a chill that forbade easy familiarity.

Yet the man who had first spoken his name pressed on, buoyed as if honored merely to receive a response.

“The Valdemore daughter. She’s searching for a new fiancé. With a dowry like that, everyone plans to call on her this season. I mean to propose myself. Thought you might be considering it too.”

As a justification for tearing down the lady’s worth, “for the sake of a proposal” rang hollow, reeking of sour pretense. Kadrier's smile was as if drawn with a fine brush; his reply came a beat late.

“I doubt it’s something worth my interest.”

The effort he made to answer at all was apparent. Still, a few laughed, for men are quick to recognize the apex predator in their midst and bow their heads accordingly. The speaker, cheeks tinged pink, shrugged.

“Well, my father insists on it. You, destined to inherit the entire Eastern Sea, can afford to turn down even Valdemore’s mine if you wish.”

Silence.

“And with women queuing for your attention, you’ve no need to take one with… deficiencies.”

Astonishingly, there was no malice in his voice—only sincere admiration. And indeed, Kadrier was considered the most flawless man in the Empire.

Even setting aside his peerless looks—enough to make any mortal turn twice—graduating the Imperial Naval Academy in two years where most required six was a feat of unmatched prestige.

And far from being of humble origins, he was the sole heir to the Eastern Admiral, the Duke of Montrosa—said to have power enough to fell a bird in flight. Even among the heirs of the Twelve Great Houses gathered here, Kadrier was a creature of a different world.

When he gave no answer, the man’s smile turned a shade more obsequious.

“If only you’d sit this one out…”

“A tedious topic.”

To call both the Valdemore mine and its lady a tedious matter—such arrogance could only belong to one who thrived on his own self-regard. A few cast him sour looks, but these quickly withered.

For indeed, a man that handsome, and yet disinclined to toy with women, was worthy of reverence. Should he ever turn his mind to such pursuits, not a single debutante in the capital would remain untouched.

“Perhaps so, from your point of view—”

“Shut that mouth.”

Kadrier closed his book with open displeasure.

“If the lady has any eyes at all, she would never choose you over me, so I can, with effort, understand your wish to see me removed.”

“No, that’s not—”

“But to tarnish a lady’s honor behind her back in such a fashion is base beyond measure.”

From a man who seemed the least likely to care for such honor, the rebuke was all the sharper. Those gathered in the card house knew well: this was simply Kadrier in a foul temper. Had they not seen him dozens of times ignore young ladies swooning at his feet?

“Kalitzdorf. Graham. Whittlesey…”

The names of those most eager in slandering the lady.

They had admired her since her days as the Crown Princess-to-be; their intent was obvious—to eliminate a rival. Petty motives, no matter the dressing. Kadrier's lips curved with icy precision.

“Whatever sordid ambitions you harbor, they’re of no concern to me. See to them yourselves.”

His cold gaze swept over each in turn. The man who had sought his agreement shrank back into his seat. The storm passed, and the room soon found a new subject for its chatter.

Kadrier leaned back again, content with the shift in attention—until:

“Funny. The Duchess of Montrosa seems to think otherwise.”

The words, laced with faint amusement, made him lift his head slightly.

“Owen.”

His narrowed eyes regarded the childhood friend with suspicion, the flawless lines of his brow creasing.

“What do you mean?”

“A proposal has been delivered in your name.”

“…Surely not—”

“Indeed. To the Valdemore lady. Sent by your mother, personally.”

Kadrier bit back a curse.

---

Prev || Toc || Next