Chapter 20
The debut of the young ladies meant just one thing—
Someone would take their hands and dance with them at the ballroom.
And that single image was enough to drive someone completely mad.
“Ha. No. Absolutely not.”
“My lord…”
The aide looked utterly grim.
Their commander, now crazed with jealousy, apparently couldn’t even tolerate that.
Gabriel spoke without pause.
“Prepare for the assault.”
A cold silence followed. Gabriel’s eyes flared with a savage glint.
“Why the shock? Discipline’s slackened. Get yourselves in shape. I won’t allow even a moment of rest.”
“…”
“Everyone, back to your posts. Immediately.”
As if he would never permit anyone to so much as touch Lady Hildea’s hand, Gabriel gripped his glinting sword and gave the order to attack.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Thanks to Gabriel, who seemed utterly consumed by bloodlust, the war surged forward with staggering momentum.
And finally, just days ago, the twelve-year-long war came to an end. The enemy surrendered.
The imperial throne, once thought to be unstable, was now secure.
And the Empress—who had hoped to profit from the chaos—ground her teeth in frustration.
So then…
What kind of reception awaited the youngest duke ever, the returning war hero, the now-legendary Duke Belkius?
“Won’t he become the center of attention the moment he returns?”
Indeed. He was currently the most talked-about figure in all of high society.
“They’re saying all sorts of things—how the ghost duke might have changed. Rumors are flying.”
“Can we even call him the ghost duke anymore? He’s a war hero now. The Empire gained a lot through him—His Majesty’s favor is bound to lean in his direction.”
One noble chuckled sarcastically.
No doubt referring to the current Emperor and Crown Prince, who, despite being father and son, had long had a rocky relationship.
“Didn’t His Majesty openly reprimand the Crown Prince during the cabinet meeting yesterday? Hmph. Truly heartless. His Highness has been working hard, hasn’t he?”
“Not only that—His Majesty insisted three times that there must be a lavish victory banquet once the Duke returns. Thanks to that, the nobles aligned with the imperial faction are practically singing with joy.”
“If the Duke returns in this situation, the atmosphere will only grow worse.”
As the buzz about Belkius heated up, another name naturally began resurfacing alongside it.
“What ever happened with that engagement?”
A name that had been utterly quiet—silent as a mouse—for years.
Hillington.
The Duke of Belkius—once merely a boy swaddled in noble titles—His betrothal had been arranged when he was still a child.
And now, that was what everyone was focused on.
Would the war hero, whose status had changed so dramatically, still intend to marry one of the Hillington daughters?
“What’s there to wonder about? We’ll know based on who he enters the victory ball with—whoever’s holding the Duke’s hand will likely be his betrothed.”
Listening nearby, the noble ladies sneered.
“But Hillington isn’t what it used to be, is it? Belkius may have changed his mind.”
“If the engagement really dissolves… well, then the biggest prize in the marriage market is up for grabs. That’ll send everyone into a frenzy.”
“Maybe we can make that happen?”
“Oh my!”
These women had already set their eyes on the most eligible bachelor.
The Hillington girls? Already erased from their minds.
“Still, it’s the Duke’s house. The union of two noble families isn’t something to take lightly.”
Even if there had long been rumors that the Duke had gone off to war without properly discussing the engagement, due to the tension between the Hillington and the Belkius family.
“It’s going to be fun.”
This was shaping up to be a very entertaining spectacle. The nobles’ eyes gleamed with anticipation.
The most important figure, of course, was the war hero Gabriel.
The key question: Whose hand would he take?
Would it be one of the Hillington daughters, with whom he had likely never had any meaningful interaction?
Or would it be some unknown newcomer, a fresh face who would steal the famed hero’s heart?
Whatever the outcome, it was sure to be deliciously entertaining.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
A debutante at twenty.
There’s too much to prepare.
“How about this dress, milady?”
I raised my chin and carefully examined the dress in front of me.
“Mm. I’d like the lace to be fuller. The waist cinching looks outdated. And the ribbon doesn’t match the fabric—it just floats awkwardly.”
As I pointed out each flaw with cool precision, one of the assistants started sweating bullets, quickly jotting down my comments.
I glanced at her briefly, then turned my gaze to the woman standing calmly nearby.
“Don’t you think so too, Madame Rumier?”
I still wasn’t very good at smiling.
But she, a seasoned professional, simply nodded without so much as a flicker of discomfort at my blunt, frosty demeanor.
“Yes, I agree completely with your opinion, Lady Hildea. Thanks to you, I barely have anything to do, hoho.”
“You flatter me.”
“Oh my?”
“You know very well that who handles the fitting can completely change how a dress turns out—are you teasing me now?”
Madame Rumier gave a playful wink.
“Oh dear. I don’t say things like this to just anyone, Lady Hildea. Do you think I’d say something like that to Lady Rosé, for example?”
“……”
Even at the comment from the capital’s most renowned dressmaker, I couldn’t smile.
Rosé. Rosé!
I ground my teeth silently.
“Speaking of which, Lady Rosé is still nowhere to be seen. When will I actually get to see her at one of her fitting appointments?”
I don’t know either, Madame.
“Please, make sure she joins us next time.”
“……I will.”
My darling younger sister was already twenty… yet still wildly unpredictable and full of mischief.
To the point where I sometimes felt a headache building just thinking about her.
She’s not climbing a tree again today, is she?
I couldn’t even voice my inner thoughts and merely darted my eyes awkwardly.
The debutante ball was just around the corner.
And yet Rosé showed no interest in the most important part—preparing her dress.
“You pick it for me, teehee!”
“Don’t say that. And don’t laugh like that either, Rosériel!”
“It’s fiiiiine!”
Pressing a hand to my chest, I braced myself—once again—so Rosé wouldn’t become the target of gossip at her debut.
“In any case, Madame, we’ll go with this one for Rosé’s dress.”
“Understood, Lady Hildea. Hoho, I’ll do my best to create a dazzling masterpiece that brings out both of your beauty.”
Twelve years later.
Gabriel—now hailed as a war hero—was no longer the same person he’d once been.
Things had already been noisy when he first became the youngest-ever Duke, but now? He was practically revered by all.
Even though I hadn’t seen Gabriel’s face in twelve years, rumors about him—embellished and idealized—were passed around like sacred tales.
“And that’s the problem.”
Even without seeing him, I could already guess.
In Young Lady Is Sweet, the reason the originally gentle and delicate Rosériel had become a target for endless abuse from other ladies… was because her fiancé was Gabriel.
This time, there were two candidates (me and Rosé),
so there would be even more women desperate to push us aside and bring Gabriel into their family instead.
Shaking off my thoughts, I signed the paper in front of me and lifted my head.
“I’ve reviewed all the items.”
I saw the faces of the nervous merchants awaiting my approval.
“Let’s wrap it up for today.”
“Then we’ll see you at this time tomorrow. Wishing you a pleasant afternoon, Lady Hildea.”
Before the last word even finished, the merchants bowed deeply and quickly exited.
I let out a long sigh.
When I gave Lyra a subtle glance, she understood immediately—handing the merchants appropriate gifts before closing the door behind them.
And I? I collapsed face-first onto the bed.
“Ughh… finally, I can breathe again.”
A groan escaped me like some old woman.
Who said being a noble lady meant living a life of luxury and ease?
I felt wronged. The older I got, the more it felt like my workload only increased.
‘No, wait. Am I the one increasing it myself? Then… is it all my fault?’
I furrowed my brow and played with the ends of my hair while lying down.
Honestly, I did have a reason to keep my mind focused—anything to block out unwanted thoughts.
‘Don’t think about anything.’
I reflexively glanced at the drawer on my bedside table… and immediately squeezed my eyes shut.
‘No. I didn’t see anything.’
Just then, Lyra came back in after sending off the merchants. She paused for a second, staring at me sprawled out across the bed.
With her usual cold, expressionless face, she began scolding me like, “What are you doing just lying there like that?”
Ugh, whatever.
“Please, save the scolding for Rosé, not me, Lyra.”
“I only bother scolding people who might actually listen.”
I was speechless.
“So you’re saying Rosé’s a lost cause now?”
Lyra had always been like this, but still—was it really okay for a noble family’s maid to say something like that? Even if we were talking about Rosé and her constant giggling?
“Did you not know, Lady Hildea? You’re the only one in this whole household who still bothers to nag Lady Rosé in the hope she might change.”
…Wait, really?
As I blinked in confusion, Lyra, as if reading my thoughts, nodded firmly.
“Yes.”
“I see…”
It was a truly depressing thought.
My dear Rosé, when did it all start going this way?
“W-Well… she’s still lovable.”
The rest of the family could barely exchange two words with me, but they always crowded around Rosé, chatting away like old friends.
Sometimes, I honestly wasn’t sure who were the nobles and who were the servants.
“I just hope the noble young men in the capital don’t learn that a single punch from that ‘lovable’ lady could put them to sleep forever.”
“Lyra, was that really necessary?”
“It’s just the truth, my lady.”
More than a pen, more than a sword—Rosé had grown more accustomed to clenching her fist.
“Well, it’s fine. She doesn’t need to impress the other noble heirs.”
The only one she had to look good for… was Gabriel.
As I massaged my temples and sighed, Lyra struck with her usual, brutally honest delivery:
“And His Grace hasn’t said anything, either. You remember what Lady Rosé did just a few days ago, don’t you?”
Ah. The day Rosé nearly burned down our father’s study came rushing back to me.
What was it again?
She said she wanted to roast sweet potatoes… but why did she have to do it there, of all places?
“Lyra, next time you see Rosé, please scold her properly. Tell her I’ll be angry.”
“Of course. But, my lady—”
“What?”
A strange feeling crept over me. Or rather, it was familiar.
I clutched at my chest, feeling my heart beat with that now well-known anxiety, and looked at Lyra.
She wore her usual calm expression as she handed me something.
“It’s arrived again.”
Ah. I was left speechless.
“That letter.”
A letter… sent to me by someone.
Faithfully. Every single time. For the past 12 years.
That cursed, problematic letter.
