Chapter 193

The young host of the classical poetry salon greeted the Grand Duchess and her husband with great delight.

“It’s the greatest honor to have both Your Graces here today!”

It was understandable. Thanks to the Empress’s tastes, classical poetry was in vogue throughout the Empire, and there were dozens of such salons in the capital alone. But for one of them to be chosen by the Grand Duchess and her husband—what greater honor could there be?

Though her status hardly required her to attend such small gatherings, Nerys had deliberately chosen this particular salon. The host was a favored student of Sir Sheridan, the Academy’s social etiquette instructor, and a senior member of the “Sheridan Circle.” Nerys also knew that this very salon would become one of the most prestigious in a few years.

Being an early member of a famous salon was always useful—especially for someone who intended to keep a close eye on the movements within the imperial court.

“Thank you for inviting us. The salon is wonderful.”

Nerys smiled gracefully as she greeted the host, who proudly led them to the drawing room where the gathering was being held.

The room was bright and filled with spring flowers, its curtains drawn back to let in sunlight. Within it were several prominent figures—those who would one day make this salon famous. Of course, Nerys recognized all of their faces.

“Oh my, Megara.”

Among them was someone particularly familiar. Nerys called her name with exaggerated delight. Seated beside her father, Megara replied with a polite smile, aware of the eyes on her.

“Your Graces.”

Cledwyn stood quietly beside his wife, her arm linked through his, looking as if he were only there for her sake. But that very image irritated Megara more than anything.

Why did ‘Nerys Truydd’ deserve a husband like that? What on earth was so special about her?

The Marquis of Lykeandros thought his daughter was the very definition of an angel. He had known for years that Megara and Nerys disliked each other, and he firmly believed that anyone who could dislike his perfect daughter must have a twisted personality.

Thus, Nerys had never pleased him. Yet, given her rank as Grand Duchess, he could hardly voice such feelings aloud. He bowed courteously.

“It’s our first time meeting, Marquis.”

“It is an honor, Your Grace.”

Normally, such an exchange would be followed by light jokes or polite compliments—common etiquette in high society. But Nerys, having greeted him, passed by without another glance.

As she took her seat with calm elegance, the Marquis felt a surge of irritation. Unlike her initial friendly greeting, the Grand Duchess clearly despised his lovely daughter—and had made no effort to hide it. She’d even shown that disdain openly, in front of others.

Now that he thought of it, it was around the same time that the Grand Duchess first appeared in court that Duke Ganielo began finding fault with his son’s engagement to Megara. Could it be related? Suspicion and anger began to stir within him.

Meanwhile, seated beside Cledwyn, Nerys studied the Marquis out of the corner of her eye.

It wasn’t strange for Megara to attend this salon—she had been one of Sir Sheridan’s cherished students. Young gatherings were her element.

But the Marquis? What was a middle-aged nobleman doing here, surrounded by young ladies and poets reciting verses? He might claim to love poetry, but if that were true, there were plenty of gatherings suited to his age and status.

While each harbored their own questions, the salon continued in a warm, sociable atmosphere. Invited poets presented new works, while enthusiasts shared their thoughts or read well-known pieces aloud.

After some time, the guests began forming smaller groups. Just then, someone flung open the salon door.

“Pardon my lateness.”

“Your Highness the Crown Prince.”

Everyone immediately rose to their feet, bowing deeply. The host was so overjoyed he nearly trembled.

A gathering attended by even one member of the royal family carried a completely different prestige. He had sent invitations to the royals countless times, but never imagined that Prince Abelus himself would attend—not even Princess Camille, but the ‘Crown Prince’!

Though the meeting was already halfway through and the prince made no effort to appear humble, who could fault him? Everyone eagerly shifted seats, hoping Abelus would join their group.

The host approached to guide him to his table, but Abelus waved dismissively.

“No need for that. I’m not a child to be led around. I’ll just sit here.”

The host faltered at the curt response. Nerys, watching him point to ‘Megara’s’ table, smirked inwardly.

Of course. Abelus had no interest in poetry. He barely tolerated memorizing proverbs, let alone poems.

Megara’s shameless skill at stealing other women’s men seemed to be working once again. It was almost amusing—her charm worked even on someone like Natasha, not “ugly” Nerys.

Though, everyone knew that even while Abelus was courting Natasha, he’d flirted with several other beautiful women. It was never serious—none had become official mistresses like Megara—but still, it spoke volumes.

As Abelus tried to sit beside Megara, the Marquis cleared his throat loudly. All eyes turned to him.

“Meg, His Highness doesn’t have enough room there. Go take a seat over there.”

Megara’s eyes widened, her expression a mix of surprise and hurt. But the Marquis, usually so indulgent toward his daughter, was firm this time.

“Go on.”

Such a direct order couldn’t be defied. After all, she was still his daughter and under his authority. With a downcast face, she glanced at Abelus, but he quickly intervened.

“There’s no need for that, Marquis. We can all sit here.”

“No, Your Highness. There happens to be one seat short at that other table—it works out perfectly.”

The “other table” he indicated was the one where Nerys and Cledwyn sat. Perhaps it wasn’t intentional—he’d simply noticed that table had fewer people—but the outcome was the same.

His reasoning was impeccable. So Megara reluctantly rose and moved toward the Grand Duchess’s table, where a servant pulled out a chair for her.

Up close, Nerys could see that Megara truly seemed upset. This hadn’t been a ploy between father and daughter to provoke Abelus—it was genuine.

And indeed, sitting beside Abelus now was not the gentle Nerys of her past life, but Natasha—the woman who had kidnapped her to sell her off. Given that Megara was soon to be engaged, it made sense to draw a clear line before gossip could spread.

But Nerys also recalled that even in her previous life, the Marquis hadn’t been particularly supportive of Megara’s relationship with Abelus.

It was strange. Back then, Megara had been the queen of high society, while Natasha was far less esteemed. Nerys herself wasn’t even a competitor. If the Marquis had truly wanted to, he could have pursued the ambition of making his daughter Crown Princess.

After all, Abelus had been madly in love with Megara—so much so that he lost all sense of reason. Was it truly impossible for him to have divorced Nerys and married her instead? Politically, the imperial family might have preferred a union with House Elandria over House Lykeandros, but it wasn’t beyond reach.

No parent would rather see their daughter remain a prince’s mistress than his wife—at least, not under normal circumstances.

Perhaps the Marquis’s reluctance stemmed from more than just political caution.

Nerys’s gaze lowered slightly. Cledwyn took her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, his sly smile suggesting they shared the same thought.

That quiet, knowing smirk seemed to mock everyone else in the room. Megara clenched her fists, but restrained herself with lifelong discipline.

A young man at their table, oblivious to the tension, spoke brightly.

“Do any of you have thoughts on the poem’s theme?”

❖ ❖ ❖

After the salon, the couple went their separate ways. Cledwyn had military matters to attend to outside the city, while Nerys headed to the Moriér shop to meet Joan.

Stepping down from the carriage with her maid and a few guards—pretending she was there to shop for clothes—Nerys was greeted by a bowing attendant.

“Your Grace.”

The attendant was Aaron, whom she had met at a previous party. Aware of the glances from nobles nearby, Nerys spoke naturally.

“My steward should have placed an order.”

“Yes, of course. It was a special item, so we’ve given it our utmost care. Please, this way.”

To the watching nobles, there was nothing odd about the exchange. As the Grand Duchess of Maindulante, it was only natural that even the Moriér shop’s staff would speak of her “special order.”

Following Aaron, Nerys entered the shop’s private area—an opulent section reserved for high-status or high-spending clients.

The corridor, as refined as a noble estate, had three red doors spaced evenly apart. Two were closed, one open. The closed ones likely housed other customers, but not a sound leaked out.

Soundproof magic. Costly, but perfect for a place like this—where clients often preferred discretion when purchasing certain items.

It was also useful for someone like Nerys, who didn’t want her dealings with the merchant group made public.

Aaron led her to one of the open rooms.

“Please wait a moment.”

Nerys nodded and motioned to her attendants.

“Wait outside. If you’re bored, go have some dresses fitted.”

There was nothing in this conversation that Cledwyn couldn’t know—but Joan might feel more comfortable without extra ears around. That was why Dora alone remained.

As her attendants filed out, a startled voice came from just outside.

“Oh my, pardon me, Lady.”

It was one of Nerys’s knights, apologizing courteously to someone they’d nearly bumped into. A refined, confident woman’s voice replied,

“It’s quite all right.”

Just that brief exchange—and the earlier “oh my”—felt strangely familiar to Nerys. Whose voice was that?

Before she could recall, the commotion quieted. A knock soon followed.

“It’s Joan.”

“Come in.”

At her command, Joan entered, looking rather exhausted.

“My apologies for the delay, Your Grace. The previous customer was unusually persistent.”

“Really? My knights nearly bumped into someone in the hall—was that her?”

“I believe so. At this hour, besides Your Grace, the only other client was Lady Shirley.”

Ah. Rebecca Shirley. Nerys understood immediately. Indeed, the voice had sounded like hers.

“What was she so persistent about? Something she shouldn’t be buying?”