On the Night Your Fiancé Sleeps — 18

For some reason, in that moment she had felt terribly ashamed of her own circumstances. It was the first time she had ever been embarrassed by the absence of a maid.

She had hesitated to reveal that the things any man took for granted were things she lacked, and at the same time, a faint relief had risen in her—he seemed not to know who she was.

She had wanted to hand the gloves back to him, but by then they were already soiled, far too disgraceful to offer.

Fidgeting, she had finally turned away in a rush, leaving behind nothing but a stiff word of thanks for his help. She had known perfectly well how rude it was, but she could not bear to let Raphael Pembroke catch the trembling in her eyes or the heat rising in her cheeks.

And to that Enya, Raphael had extended gentlemanly courtesy to the very end. Perhaps by then he had guessed something—that she was the Count's daughter everyone tormented.

"Albert, see the lady back to her dormitory."

At the matter-of-fact command from behind, her neck had instinctively shrunk inward, and the more it did, the more deliberately she had straightened her spine.

She had not gone so far as to refuse a valet's escort, and she had tried not to squirm under such solicitous treatment. All the while clutching the gloves tight in her hand, she had been escorted to the dormitory with impeccable courtesy by the seasoned servant.

It was the moment a protective shield settled over a count's daughter who had come to the Academy without even a maid—for no one dared torment, openly, someone who had received the Young Duke of Pembroke's kindness.

...Things are probably much the same now as they were then.

Whatever he claimed it was for a friend's sake, beneath that gesture would always lie a man's sense of entitlement.

Enya gave a hollow smile, brushed away the old memory that had surfaced unbidden, and gazed at Raphael, whose eyes were still crinkled with displeasure.

His blue eyes brimmed with deep irritation. And yet the way he still strove, as though duty-bound, to extend his courtesy—that, too, was utterly like him.

Enya thought back to the moment she had first opened the door of the salon to return his gloves.

When she had approached him to hand back the freshly laundered gloves, the indifferent glance that had skimmed past her remained vivid in her memory. She had felt a profound disappointment that the man did not remember her.

The gloves she had hidden against her chest that day were still asleep in the bottom drawer of her dresser. Laughing at herself for never managing to throw them away, Enya spoke slowly.

"...My sleeping arrangements are fine. I told you before, didn't I? You ought to look at your own conduct objectively. What do you imagine would happen if I misunderstood and started chasing after you?"

"I—"

"—And if that happened, the Young Lord Lucas would look utterly ridiculous. So if you truly care about your friend, stay out of my affairs from now on."

She had no intention of playing the fool who mistook his kindness for something more.

But whether or not the feelings that had once sprouted on their own, fed by that very kindness, stirred again— that was beyond her control.

Pretending not to notice her heart beating out of rhythm, Enya turned her back on him.

Faced with her unmistakable rejection, he did not try to hold her back again.

The amount of oil slumbering beneath the Campbells' northern lands may be enormous.

That rumor began circulating through high society with remarkable speed.

It had been confirmed that the depth the drilling equipment could reach might exceed all initial estimates, and the news arriving day after day only fed people's expectations higher.

And as those expectations climbed, so did the value of the collateral bonds Count Campbell kept scattering about.

Thanks to that bubble, swelling without any sign of bursting, countless invitations began piling up on Enya's table.

Behind the maid busily drafting replies stood boxes upon boxes of dresses and accessories sent by the Count, left unopened. Nor was that all—a carriage bearing the Campbell family crest, long forgotten, was now parked in front of the dormitory.

Enya welcomed none of these changes.

Bubble or real, the higher the Campbells' worth climbed, the higher her own market value climbed with it. Becoming prime merchandise on the marriage market was an offer she could have declined.

For now she had Lucas as a shield, of a sort...

But if the Marquisate of Whitmore sets its mind to it, the engagement talk might not stop at mere rumor.

The wedding itself might be rushed forward just as quickly.

And so anxiety crept up on her despite herself. If she acquired a fiancé, even a degree would not make fleeing to Eberdeen an easy matter.

The one small comfort was that Lucas, too, seemed to have little enthusiasm for marriage.

"By the way, Lady Campbell, you seem to be turning away quite a few suitors yourself these days. I've been busy enough fending off refusals of my own."

"...You get refused?"

"Mm. I can hardly marry everyone, after all. And truthfully, I have no intention of being tied to any one person just yet."

Recalling that conversation with Lucas, Enya thought it would be wise to align with him in preparation for any eventuality.

They might, for instance, become each other's shields to stay off the marriage market—or, should engagement talk arise, one of them would go find 'someone else to kiss.'

Just as she was about to give that plan concrete shape, the maid sorting the invitations suddenly spoke up.

"My lady, should I set this invitation aside from the others?"

Enya gazed quietly at the fine paper handed to her.

Two crossed swords beneath the profile of an eagle. She had never expected to receive an invitation bearing that seal again.

The man she had crossed paths with not long ago rose naturally to mind, and she gave a small, absent nod without taking it.

She wanted above all to avoid encountering Raphael again, but she had no right to refuse that invitation.

All she could do was hope that, this time, the flowers would be less fragrant than hyacinths. Only then might that memory fade, at least a little.

"My lady, you will take me along when you go to the parties, won't you? You need a lady's maid to keep your wardrobe in order."

"You wouldn't even get to see the party. Why bother?"

"Honestly, my lady, I wouldn't dream of such a thing. My grandmother always said a person is only happy when they live according to their station."

"......"

"Chatting with the other families' servants while I wait by the carriage will be plenty for me."

At the maid's bright voice, Enya let a faint smile slip.

Happy when they live according to their station. The words lingered oddly in her mind. Unable to manage the sudden wave of lethargy crashing over her, Enya sank down onto the bed.

The maid hurried over and slipped the slippers from her feet, then drew the sheets neatly over her—and just as she was closing her eyes, a knock sounded at the door.

"It looks like the Count has sent another gift!"

Joy spread across the maid's face—no doubt because Enya, indifferent to gifts as she was, so often handed them over for the girl to keep.

Enya watched the maid giddy with excitement, then closed her eyes again.

And just as she was finally slipping into sleep, the maid returned, disappointment written plainly across her face.

"My lady, a servant from the Whitmore household brought this for you."

Enya raised an eyebrow at the letter in the girl's hand.

The letter held nothing but a place and a time.

Enya yielded to that one-sided summons, which offered no room for refusal. The walkway branching off from the library—secluded enough to feel furtive, the sort of place she would rather avoid—was where she met Lucas.

She stopped, keeping a careful distance between them.

"Please refrain from sending your valet to my dormitory."

"I wanted to see a face that was pleased to see me, but it seems that was asking too much."

Lucas said it with a lazy lift of his brow. Having apparently come straight from whiling away the hours in a salon, the man carried a faint scent of alcohol mingled with perfume.

When a sweetness far too cloying for a gentleman brushed the tip of her nose, she understood at once that he had been spending his time with a woman.

Enya's gaze traveled over his strangely disheveled appearance before she shook her head. It would have been rude to imagine anything further.

Still, she offered a fragment of what had been on her mind to this man who looked, if anything, even more freewheeling than the rumors suggested.

"...I hardly see the need to summon me separately at this hour. You're not planning to actually do something with me, are you?"

At the wary expression on her face, Lucas let out a soft laugh.

"That depends entirely on what 'something' means. Which answer would you like?"

At the mischievous voice that followed, Enya's brow furrowed.