A Foul That Never Ended
“I can't beat the Young Duke, can I. And here I thought I was rather confident this time—beaten again.”
The familiar sly voice conceded defeat. Instead of checking the game gathered at one end of the billiard table, Raphael cast a sidelong glance at his friend's green eyes.
Those eyes, curved as they always were, betrayed not a trace of regret. As if the remarks that had been needling him so delicately at the weekend salon had all been a figment of imagination.
“For instance… blonde hair, and golden-brown eyes.”
“I think I spotted my ideal type at the salon last week.”
“A beauty who loves a good debate.”
But Raphael had no intention of writing off those convenient little utterances as coincidence.
Lucas's way with women was lavish to the point of being filthy, so he assumed the same trait had been on display then, too.
Presumably, Lucas—having found a woman to his taste—had marked his territory quite openly in front of Raphael, who appeared equally interested in that same woman.
The sort of behavior only a male beast would stoop to.
Raphael's gaze drifted naturally to the dead game. The fact that he felt no regret over the carcasses suggested his earlier reading had been fairly sound.
…How laughable.
The subtle standoff of late kept needling at his nerves. It was almost impressive, how long he'd dragged out a situation that deserved nothing more than a single dismissive snort.
His black ball had long since stopped its dizzying circuit of the table and been called a 'foul'—and yet he felt as though that moment were still somehow in progress.
Displeasing.
All the more so because the woman he'd expected to face again soon was nowhere to be seen. He couldn't deny that Lucas's provocations had swollen his curiosity about her.
At some point, a faint crease had formed between his brows, lending Raphael a sharper look. He handed the cue he was holding to Albert and pulled off his gloves.
Then, rubbing the space between his brows lightly with a bent knuckle, he suddenly let out a dry laugh.
It had been a very long time—since childhood, in fact—since he'd last wanted to land a punch on his smirking friend's face. That, in the end, was the clearest truth of his heart at present.
Of course, having no taste for undignified brawling, he opened his mouth instead.
“It wouldn't be the first time, would it.”
The words he uttered so carelessly were an attack. Blatant enough to freeze Lucas's green eyes on the spot.
“Which would be?”
“You losing to me. Wouldn't it be tedious, conceding defeat one match at a time?”
Too obvious and too juvenile to qualify as an elegant strike. Then again, Raphael had never been the least bit gentlemanly, as that crooked little smile of his made plain.
Lucas's smile wavered, just slightly. Raphael took in the hairline crack in his friend's face and swallowed a laugh of his own.
It was absurd that he'd taken the bait of a provocation—but it was equally absurd that Lucas had taken a hit from such a childish jab.
No—perhaps what was most absurd of all was how satisfying it felt.
He considered for a moment.
Should he kindly inform his friend—this blind male animal—that he had no intention of scrapping over a woman like some half-wit?
That such ugly displays of bravado were entirely beneath them?
He thought better of it, but when Lucas's reply came a beat later, a cold smile crept across his lips.
“Well, I'll grant you hunting and billiards… but anything else, I'd say it's too soon to call.”
Despite his rational mind, his mouth opened on its own once more.
“Good luck. You'll need it.”
In Raphael's blue eyes, which did not shy from Lucas's gaze, an unmistakable competitive fire had risen.
We're not children, and yet this is embarrassingly juvenile.
“You came back with nothing to show for it? And you knew full well what that invitation was worth?”
Count Campbell's fury meant one thing: the stepmother's hands were free to do as they pleased. He was a foolish man who had seated the courtesan who bore his son as the Countess—and yet, for all that, he had a remarkable talent for cowardice.
He never laid a hand on anyone himself, you see. He simply looked the other way while his commoner wife was disciplined in his stead.
Count Campbell had, from the very first, been a man of strong grievances: the frail health of his first wife, joined to him by an arranged marriage; the fact that she had borne a daughter instead of a son; and her subsequent barrenness. Around the same time, his investments began collapsing one after another, and the man's distaste spread from his wife to his young daughter as well.
And so, once the whip called a stepmother entered the household, he swung it at Enya without restraint.
Enya recalled the sorry past in which her cheek had been slapped as routinely as meals were served, and a bitter smile crossed her lips.
In fairness, once she'd grown, she'd learned to dodge them quite deftly.
…I let my guard down.
Or rather, the woman had thrown herself at her with vicious zeal—probably working off the humiliation of the day the invitation was handed over.
By now, a faint bruise had risen on Enya's swollen cheek to join the swelling.
Fortunately, she had made no friends to speak of. Having intended from the day of her enrollment to leave her homeland, the Darkel Empire, she had kept her circle empty.
Which meant no one was around to ask after marks that hardly befitted a noble daughter.
Though to be precise, no one asked—there were still plenty of sidelong glances.
Enya walked toward the library wearing a deliberately unconcerned expression. She intended to study to her heart's content in preparation for the upcoming examinations.
Ordinarily she would have gone to the salon to join the wagers played over tokens and money pouches, but ever since her visit to the Pembroke townhouse last weekend, the salon had somehow felt difficult to face.
She'd have thought herself past such luxuries as shame, but it seemed the lingering heat of that day had not yet faded.
She brushed her cheek without quite knowing why, let out a hollow laugh, and headed toward the far side of the salon. A few steps later, someone seized her wrist in a sudden grip.
It was an excessively familiar gesture. With the afterimage of violence still fresh, Enya registered the hand holding her as an attack in an instant. She struck it away sharply, and her assailant froze mid-motion.
Only then did a face framed in black hair come into view.
He looked bewildered. She couldn't tell whether he was startled by his own action or by her reaction, but the blue eyes, dark pupils dilated, were unmistakable.
The moment their gazes met, Enya clutched her own wrist. Noting the bruise on her wary face belatedly, the man furrowed his brow.
“Do you have a hobby of brawling, by any chance?”
And at that insolent question—hurled out instead of any apology for grabbing her—the crease between Enya's brows deepened as well.
“…I believe I told you I don't offer private tutoring in Eberdeen.”
“Then perhaps you'd teach me how to fight, instead?”
Enya's expression turned cold. For all that he'd tossed the words out like a joke, Raphael's face had not improved in the least. His blue eyes were still resting on her swollen cheek.
He looked, if anything, rather pleased with himself. It was only natural—a bruise like that had no business sitting on a noble daughter's face. And beneath his scrutiny, Enya felt a sudden flush of embarrassment.
The man before her seemed to have a gift for stirring up things she had long since forgotten. That was not a good sign. Flutters of the heart, anticipation, shame—as she had told herself before, all of it was a luxury.
Moreover, the one-sided feeling born of a small kindness three years ago was something that deserved to be killed.
She steadied her breathing quietly, then produced her coldest voice without ceremony.
“If you've said everything you came to say, may I take my leave?”
At the wall she drew between them, his eyebrows lifted. His expression looked vaguely… something. Much as it had when her hand had knocked his away.
“Have I done something wrong, perhaps?”
“…That's a difficult question.”
“Don't overthink—”
“There are far too many to count. You chased after me, you spoke to me without so much as a greeting, you pressed a token into my hands, and then you seized my wrist. Ah—I won't count the question of whether I knew who you were as one of your offenses.”
As that measured, unhurried voice of hers went on, the man's expression grew steadily stranger. It was a face for which strange was the only available description.
“And, better late than never—I am Enya Campbell. You're well aware the Campbell family's circumstances are rather dire, aren't you, Young Duke? We live worse than moderately comfortable commoners, my household.”
At this abrupt, acerbic self-introduction, Raphael's eyebrows rose again. Enya looked straight into the blue eyes of the silent man and continued.
“So if you go around pretending to be friendly of your own accord, I might mistake it and latch on.”
It was, perhaps, a fairly effective warning to deliver to the gentleman before her.
“I mean that I won't simply let future rudeness pass.”
The man furrowed his brow briefly at her words, then finally spoke.
“And if you don't let it pass?”
“I latch on.”
“…What a shame. That sounds rather appetizing.”
“…….”
“Go on, then—latch on. And while you're at it, teach me Eberdeen.”
Faced with the man's shameless grin, Enya found herself at a loss for words.
Only belatedly did she realize that the strange expression she'd noted earlier had been him holding back laughter. And into the hand of the woman still frowning, he finally pressed a token engraved with the emblem of Pembroke.
“A family in dire straits like yours can hardly pass up an opportunity like this, no?”
At that follow-up remark, so supremely arrogant, a hollow smile spread across Enya's lips.