BPOTWC Chapter 14

But to this very day, Brielle had never once spent a husband-and-wife's night with Maximilian.

Not even on the day of the wedding itself.

Brielle had worn the shamefully revealing garment Betsy had dressed her in, but he had only said, "The nights are cold here," and returned to his own bedroom.

After that, they only treated each other with awkward distance. Nothing more.

If asked to name the period during which Brielle had lived most comfortably in this marriage, it would be the half-year Maximilian had spent away at war.

Betsy hadn't badgered her during that time, after all.

'Though it's been much easier now, without Betsy around……'

That didn't mean she could live easy here as lady of the house, either.

With Betsy's regular letters gone, she couldn't stop thinking of what Count Darlington might do—and felt nothing but unease.

And she had no wish to beg the Duke to release Betsy, who had done such cruel things to a child. So Brielle had decided to resolve this matter herself.

By writing to her father while pretending to be Betsy.

Even a trick like this, she thought, might be enough to keep the Count looking after her mother.

But she couldn't very well hand this letter over openly to the postal carrier assigned to the ducal household—so she'd decided to slip out of the mansion in secret and post it in the mail box herself before returning.

Though she'd been caught on her way back, in the end.

'At least I'd already put the letter in the village post box…… but His Grace must think me even stranger now.'

What would happen to her if her identity came out like this?

'I suppose I'd be thrown in prison.'

A commoner deceiving a royal into marriage by posing as a noblewoman—she might well be put to death for it.

Since it was, in fact, a crime she had committed, Brielle felt not the slightest fear for whatever punishment might fall on her.

'But Mother……'

Her mother had done nothing wrong, not the smallest thing.

No—she had taken in Brielle, abandoned in the noble hunting grounds, and raised her as her own true daughter. She ought to be called an exceedingly good person.

'If only I could avoid being found out, at least until Mother's illness is fully healed.'

After that, she thought, she would reveal her own identity to the Duke herself and accept whatever punishment came.

"I'm sorry…… Your Grace."

She whispered a sincere apology toward the firmly closed door.

For it pained her terribly to deceive someone so upright and just.

As if in answer to her apology, a knock sounded just then.

Knock, knock.

From the Duke's room, no less.

"……Ye-yes?!"

She answered, startled and stammering, and soon the door opened to reveal the Duke, returned once more with medicine for treatment in hand.

"My apologies. There are knights about the outer door, so I couldn't come that way."

He spoke as though it were essential that no one discover the two of them were together in one room.

"Ah…… ."

"I'll examine it briefly. Do you permit it?"

He set down a bright lamp near her ankle and carefully lifted the fabric covering the wound.

"We'll need to disinfect it first. Since it was an iron cut, you should also take the medicine I've brought."

"I—I……"

While Brielle hesitated, his hand closed around her ankle, cupping it firmly.

His touch was so warm it felt as though the body heat the winter wind had stolen away had all rushed back at once, and Brielle flinched and pressed her lips tightly shut.

He gave no attention whatsoever to anything but the wound, focused entirely on the treatment.

"……."

Brielle forgot even that she ought to decline such kindness, and only stared at him, blank and unseeing.

She had felt it since their very first meeting—he truly was a splendid man.

Almost too fine a match for a lowborn woman such as herself.

Perhaps even the real Lady Asella might fall short of such a man.

Surely, in the royal palace in the capital, there was some splendid young lady who would suit someone like him.

'Someday……'

This noble man, too, would someday find a woman worthy of him and pour out his aching, earnest heart to her.

Kneeling just as he was now, on one knee.

Imagining the scene, Brielle's cheeks flushed red without her meaning them to.

Even though it wasn't her who would be hearing such words.

"You need only tell me."

Then, quite suddenly—still quietly working at the treatment—he spoke, slow and measured.

"If there's someone else you need to correspond with."

His low, weighted voice seemed to strangle her breath.

"I can send it in secret, on your behalf."

"No, I'm……"

"I already knew."

At the answer he gave, lifting his head, Brielle froze utterly stiff.

Knew? Knew what……?

Could it be he'd discovered she was a fake? Her heart began racing with anxiety.

"That you're always……thinking of someone else."

"……What?"

"I thought, from the very start, that I would one day have to send you off. I know well enough that no woman……would want a marriage like this."

Maximilian lightly wound a bandage over the now-treated wound, then carefully set her foot back down upon the carpet.

"Once the King and the Dowager Queen no longer concern themselves with me, I will certainly grant you your freedom."

"……."

"Fortunately, the marriage can be annulled—no blemish will touch your honor at all."

He picked up the lamp he'd set beside him and rose to his feet.

It seemed he meant to leave the basket of medicine here, just in case.

"Well then."

He gave a light bow of the head and turned away from Brielle.

"……."

Brielle stared blankly after his retreating back. What on earth had she just heard?

Thinking of someone else.

There was no way that could be true—was there?

"Y-Your Grace!"

Brielle rose awkwardly from her seat and called out to him.

Pain flared in the ankle just treated, but she forced herself to ignore it.

Maximilian's steps came to a halt.

Soon, his obsidian-dark eyes turned back to look at her.

"……."

At that, Brielle lost her words all over again.

No—thinking on it, there had never been anything to say in the first place.

She ought, right now, to feel grateful that he was thinking along lines not so different from her own.

That was: to sustain the marriage for a set period, then quietly end it.

Perhaps she could leave this place without facing any punishment at all.

Wasn't that truly something to be glad of?

'……And yet, why.'

Contrary to what she'd been thinking, Brielle felt as if a heavy stone were pressing down on one corner of her heart, crushing it.

"Are you all right?"

"Ah…… Yes."

Brielle straightened herself with effort and bowed deeply at the waist.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

And she offered the words that were properly owed.

When she lifted her head again, his gaze seemed, for a moment, to waver strangely—but Brielle told herself it was merely a trick of the dark night.

Soon, Maximilian gave a small nod.

"I'm only…… doing what needs to be done. Take your medicine now and get some rest."

"Yes, I will."

"The nights are cold here."

Hearing the same words from their very first night, Brielle found herself just staring at him, blankly. A faint smile touched her lips.

Just a moment ago her heart had ached, and yet how could her mood lift again so quickly?

"Ah, Your Grace, you as well……!"

Realizing that the time spent simply staring had grown too long, Brielle hurried to offer him a goodnight in return.

But he had already turned and hastened back to his own room.

"……Good night."

The small murmured greeting soon faded away, alone, into the silence.

She felt no regret over it.

For that noble man and Brielle were never, anyway, going to be of the same rank.

She made herself smile. Anyway, once today passed, there'd likely be almost no reason to meet again.

As it always was.

Sent down to the dungeon, Betsy was made to share a cell with the other prisoners.

'God, how filthy.'

While she feared the prisoners on one hand, on the other she found it dreadful that she herself had come to be classified among such low, degraded creatures.

Betsy pressed her lips tightly together and crouched in a corner of the cell.

Even as she fought her desperate, life-or-death struggle against the bugs there, she remained certain this wretched existence wouldn't last long.

To the Duchess—no, to the impostor Brielle—Betsy was an absolutely indispensable presence.

If she didn't write up her reports regularly and send them to the Duke, old Mrs. Uzae—Brielle's mother—would be left with no treatment at all.

So Betsy trusted that, given a little more time, Brielle would find some way, by whatever means necessary, to pull her out of this dreadful dungeon.

And yet, however long the time that passed, Brielle never once came to visit the dungeon.

Betsy grew steadily more anxious.

'Don't tell me…… she sent the letter pretending to be me?'

Thinking on it—Brielle might look like nothing but a sweet, gentle girl, but that wasn't necessarily so.

Was this not, after all, a woman brazen enough to have deceived a duke for three years?

For a woman shameless enough to do that, sending a fake letter to the Count would be nothing at all.

'If that's really what's happened…… does that mean I'll have to rot here for the rest of my life?!'

Betsy came sharply to her senses.

She could no longer simply wait here quietly.

'Can't let that happen—not now, not after all this—I'll have to do something!'

Just as Betsy sat there fretting, Sir Benson happened to pass by in front of her cell.

It was the once-daily patrol of the dungeon.

Whenever he passed the cells, the other prisoners there would all crowd against the bars, pleading for mercy.

Though Benson never once gave any of them an answer.

Betsy had never, until now, stooped to such a pitiful act.

Benson, like her, was of common birth. Grovel and beg before someone no better than herself, born the same low station—as if! Wasn't that enough to wound any woman's pride to the quick?

But now was no time to be picky about status.

"Sir Benson!"

Betsy dashed to the bars for the first time.