Chapter 188

“No, I just thought I’d give my husband a little privacy—he might want to stash away a bit of secret money.”

“Haha! I wish my wife would think like that.”

“In return, my husband pretends not to notice when I do the same.”

“Is that so? Well then, do you have any good tips? My own pocket money has been running a bit dry lately.”

Though he clicked his tongue in mock complaint, Duke Ganielo was managing his house’s finances quite responsibly.

But money wasn’t why Nerys had deliberately created this opportunity to speak with him. She smiled faintly, the picture of discretion.

“Oh, there’s nothing much to it. I just do what everyone else does, little by little.”

“Even that’s something! To start so young means you must be exceptionally clever. I hear you graduated early from the Academy—every noble knows that’s no easy feat.”

As expected. He had brought up the Academy.

Among the highest-ranking nobles, the art of conversation lay in drawing out what one wanted without ever saying it outright—and in recognizing what the other truly sought beneath the pleasantries.

Feigning modest embarrassment, Nerys replied softly,

“I only studied hard, that’s all. There were plenty who did better than me. In my year, Megara was quite popular and smart. She was the one who really enjoyed her school days.”

“Oh? Lady Megara Lykeandros, you mean? I recall hearing you were in the same year.”

“Yes. We took many of the same classes from the start—we were both in the language department. Right, I heard she’s in talks for a ducal marriage.”

“That’s correct. She’s a very sweet girl.”

The duke stroked his mustache, clearly pleased. He seemed fond of Megara.

But if he truly was, he wouldn’t have approached Nerys to ask about her. More likely, he’d heard of the strained relations between Megara and Valentin and wanted to confirm her reputation among her peers.

Nerys lifted her shoulders lightly.

“Megara is… a sweet child.”

Her tone—too neutral, too measured—said far more than her words. The duke hid his stiffening expression behind a practiced smile.

❖ ❖ ❖

Megara found the salon she was attending unbearably dull.

It wasn’t the talentless cello performance she had to endure for the sake of social courtesy. She had long since mastered the art of pretending to listen politely.

It was the adults that bored her—those hypocritical faces that smiled now, but would probably mock her behind their fans the moment they opened them.

‘What on earth went wrong?’

The marriage negotiations between the Lykeandros marquisate and the Ganielo duchy had been progressing perfectly. They’d reached the point where all that remained was to set a date for the engagement ceremony. That was why she’d been allowed to remain in the capital even during the school term.

The Academy was normally strict about attendance; only major family affairs could excuse an absence.

But just when the agreement seemed ready to be signed—everything suddenly stopped.

The halt came entirely from the Ganielo side, who began nitpicking ridiculous details about dowries and the timing of the wedding.

‘What happened all of a sudden?’

Even before this, Megara had been dissatisfied after seeing Nerys’s proud appearance in the Imperial hall. Being engaged to Collin no longer felt impressive. Now that the engagement itself was being delayed, frustration and humiliation simmered inside her.

If it were Collin’s elder brother—the heir to the duchy—that would be one thing. But Collin himself?

Was ‘he’ keeping ‘her’, Megara Lykeandros, waiting?

Everyone in high society would know the situation—that the lady who was supposed to be engaged hadn’t yet set a date and was lingering awkwardly in the capital. The shame of it made her seethe, though she kept smiling sweetly.

The cello performance ended. The young noble girl bowed, face red from effort, and left the room. The adults took the opportunity to mingle and chat.

Megara had no desire to stay among them, so she rose and slipped out onto the terrace—and then down to the garden beyond.

Fresh shoots of grass were pushing through the soil beneath her shoes when a voice called out.

“Lady Megara, isn’t it?”

Arrogant, disinterested—but from someone who had the right to be both.

Crown Prince Abelus greeted her with casual familiarity.

“Your Highness.”

Megara’s face lit up with a radiant smile. Abelus found himself briefly impressed—she had grown into someone even more beautiful than he’d imagined when she was young.

“Have you come to fetch Lady Natasha? You two still seem so close—I’m jealous.”

Rumors said Abelus and Natasha would soon announce their engagement. They’d been together long and were of suitable age.

But…

‘If it hasn’t happened yet, that means there’s still something unsettled.’

Abelus shrugged, the picture of indifference that only long-term lovers could manage.

“I was just passing by. And what about you? Isn’t Collin following you everywhere?”

“He’s not chasing me.”

A delicate sigh. Abelus frowned.

“Why, is there a problem?”

Megara studied his face—the same senior who used to scold her harshly in the student council room was now watching her expression with concern.

If she hadn’t grown so beautiful, he wouldn’t even have looked at her, whether she sighed or wept.

Abelus was simple—so simple he couldn’t even hide it.

Smiling inwardly in satisfaction, she began her lament.

“The truth is, for some days now, Collin has been…”

She mixed in a little lie—and just the right touch of fragile sorrow.

❖ ❖ ❖

Nerys held up a black mask against Cledwyn’s face and smiled, satisfied.

“This one looks best.”

The Duke of Maindulante, who had vanished from the capital only to reappear suddenly married, and his mysterious wife—rumors about the pair were the hottest gossip of the new season.

Every morning brought heaps of hastily written invitations. Courtiers left their cards with pleading notes, begging for the honor of their attendance.

In high society, one was expected to attend an event unless a serious excuse prevented it. But the ducal couple remained serenely indifferent to everyone’s entreaties. Neither felt the need to flatter others.

The only invitation they chose to accept was for a masquerade ball.

It was hosted irregularly by a wealthy commoner and known for mixing people of all ranks.

The hostess, Rebecca Shirley, was famed for her beauty and eloquence. She could easily have married into the nobility if she’d wished, but even as she neared middle age, she remained single, charming all with her wit and confidence.

She had friends among nobles and commoners alike, and her parties were always said to be thrilling.

Guests were free to conceal their identities—it was part of the fun.

For Cledwyn, Nerys chose a plain black cloak—not the richly embroidered kind he wore commanding his knights, but one of fine, unadorned fabric that wouldn’t draw attention.

From the dozen masks their butler Gilbert had hastily bought, she selected the simplest black silk one. The Duke now looked, quite literally, like “a man in black.”

Allowing his wife to fuss over him as she pleased, Cledwyn picked up a golden mask and placed it against her face.

“How about this one? It covers most of your features.”

Of course, anyone who saw her eyes would recognize her instantly—but at a crowded ball with hundreds of guests, few would look too closely.

In her previous life, Nerys had heard much of Rebecca Shirley’s famous parties, though she’d never dared attend—whether before or after marriage, appearances had always restrained her.

She met Cledwyn’s gaze and smiled slyly.

“Think so? If I wear a wig too, no one will know who I am, right?”

‘As if.’ That’s what Gilbert and Dora both thought as they watched.

It wasn’t about wigs or masks. Every person carried their own bearing—and these two radiated nobility effortlessly.

Even while choosing masks, their hands never parted; their posture remained perfectly upright, poised, and elegant.

Anyone could see they were a ducal couple.

But in truth, the idea of “hiding one’s identity” at a masquerade was just an excuse—to act freely and claim ignorance later. Almost everyone could still guess who was who.

“Milady, if you wear the gold mask, shall I bring a matching dress?”

“Maybe you should.”

Dora’s loyalty was impeccable; she never dampened her mistress’s mood. Nerys nodded.

Though she had lived in the mansion only a few days, her wardrobe was already overflowing with dresses. Some were from Maindulante, but most were custom orders Cledwyn had placed before her arrival.

He seemed to have developed a fondness for selecting her clothes—ordering so many that her closet could barely contain them. There was at least one piece made of every luxurious material imaginable.

And not just dresses—there were jewels, shoes, fans, gloves, hats… an absurd amount of everything. Why buy so much, when they’d soon leave the capital anyway?

His only explanation had been a shrug and a smile: ‘“I saw it and thought of you.”’

Dora soon returned carrying several gold dresses, each woven with heavy gold thread—true masterpieces.

But as Nerys looked at them, she removed the mask from her face and shook her head.

“No. I’ll wear a different mask. Take those away. I don’t like gold.”

The gleaming fabric reminded her too much of the day she’d died in her past life—of Valentin’s golden gown in the prison cell.

By law, garments woven with gold thread could only be worn by direct royals—those bearing the title “Highness” or above.

Aside from the ducal couple, only the Emperor, Empress, and Crown Prince couple in the entire continent were permitted such attire.

So yes, this time, she could wear it legally. And Valentin still could not. Moreover, unlike the stolen gown Valentin had worn back then, these were tailored precisely for Nerys and adorned with finer gems.

Yet the sight of them made her uneasy.

“Take them away. My wife dislikes gold—give them to whoever wants them.”

Without hesitation, Cledwyn brushed aside both the dress and the mask, as if discarding cheap rags.

His easygoing tone soothed her irritation somewhat. Nerys picked up another mask—a simple silver one with a few feathers.

“I’ll wear this. Dora, bring me that light blue dress I liked last time. I won’t stand out in that.”

“Yes, Milady.”

Soon, the dressing room was filled with the soft hue she’d chosen.

Once Gilbert left, Cledwyn spoke from beyond the partition as Nerys changed.

“So, what am I supposed to do at this party?”

“Just draw a bit of attention. Enough that people hear afterward we had a pleasant time there. It’ll boost Rebecca’s reputation too.”

“All right.”

He didn’t even ask why Rebecca’s reputation mattered—that was enough of an answer for her.

When Nerys finished dressing, she took the mask Dora handed her and smiled faintly.

She wondered what expression Megara Lykeandros would make upon hearing that her father’s longtime commoner mistress—Rebecca Shirley—had hosted a ball attended by the Duke and Duchess of Maindulante.