COARV Chapter 20

He's already finished preparing.

Lesche's appearance in a clean white suit matching his silver hair was enough to steal one's breath for a moment. Beauty like cold water dumped on a head blazing with anger. He certainly wore suits well—probably because of that body.

Naturally, I thought I should finish preparing quickly too. I needed to go sit outside.

"Excuse me, Your Grace."

I bowed my head to Lesche and moved to walk away quickly, but he began following beside me. I looked at Lesche in confusion.

"...Your Grace? Why are you following me? Do we have the same destination?"

No, before that—I'd never even stated my destination. At my question, Lesche wore an expression of disbelief.

"What are you talking about?"

"Pardon?"

"I've been following you since your bedroom. You just didn't notice."

"...Since my bedroom?"

"Yes."

Lesche frowned slightly, then added:

"Did I walk too quietly? I thought I was making reasonable noise."

I hurriedly shook my head.

"No. I must not have heard because I was thinking about something else. I apologize."

"No need to apologize."

Lesche responded simply, then looked me over and asked:

"You've attached something strange to your cheek—where are you going? Is it some accessory trending in the capital?"

Only then did I realize how ridiculous I must look. But even so, I didn't want to lower my head and hide my face—because of Seria's solid confidence in her beauty... No. Because I knew Lesche wouldn't care what state Seria's face was in.

He's not the type to fall for a woman's face. I should just tell him honestly.

As I unfastened the silk pouch hanging like a mask from my neck and ears, I opened my mouth.

"It's not an accessory. This is... Your Grace?"

Lesche suddenly grabbed my chin and lifted it, leaving me unable to breathe, only blinking repeatedly. Lesche's red eyes right before me were strange. Unlike me, frozen in bewilderment, his eyes were narrowed.

"Where are you getting hit?"

"Well..."

"The technique seems like the old you."

...How did he know?

Still, so the original Seria went around hitting other people's cheeks with this intensity. I could see why over a hundred servants fell ill.

I swallowed dryly and said, "You're right. I hit my own cheek. But Your Grace, could you... let go?"

Lesche stared at me, then released my chin a beat late. My heart pounded belatedly. After taking a breath for unknown reasons, I looked at Lesche again.

"I struck my own cheek during an argument with the saint."

"An argument?"

"Yes."

The reason I deliberately called it an argument in roundabout terms was because my mouth simply wouldn't open. That Lina had mentioned my mother's status, and because of that I'd gotten so heated I'd nearly struck Lina, but exercised my last patience and raised my hand to my own cheek instead.

I wasn't refusing to speak to hide it. It was similar to how Seria's whole body trembled against my will when hearing insults about her mother. To this body's owner Seria, insults about her mother seemed to be truly devastating.

Thanks to that, my explanation became quite unhelpful. But Lesche didn't press further, only gazed at me. He asked:

"Who was with you besides the saint?"

"Designer Begonia."

"I see."

Is he going to call Begonia and ask?

Right. That would probably be better. I guessed roughly and tried to secure the silk pouch to my cheek again.

It was definitely better than ice. By now moisture should have formed as it melted, but it maintained coldness without any dampness, so my cheek didn't get wet—nice. I could see why Begonia always carried it.

Though fixing it alone without a mirror was a bit difficult. As I struggled, Lesche clicked his tongue and reached toward me.

"......"

He easily wrapped the string around once, secured the silk pouch to my cheek, then lifted his head without hesitation.

"Since you've come this far anyway, we can wait together then go to the hall where the reception is held."

"You'll wait at the annex?"

It would take a good three more hours for me to finish preparing, and he'd wait here?

"I'll just finish preparing and come find you at the main castle, Your Grace."

"Marquess Haneton will come looking before you reach the main castle."

"He already came once—surely he won't come again?"

At my answer, Lesche paused slightly for the first time. He turned to look at me. His expression asked if I'd known Kallis came to the annex. I nodded.

"I smelled his cologne."

I'd known the moment Begonia pushed me out the door. Kallis's cologne scent had been faintly present. Since my annex was maintained exceptionally clean, I could recognize that cologne scent immediately.

I'd guessed when I didn't actually see Kallis. He must have come to my annex, then chased after Lina when he saw her run out crying.

That's why I felt even worse. Enough to take a wrong turn.

Lesche opened his mouth slowly.

"Cologne scent?"

"Yes. Marquess Haneton has a cologne he favors at every reception..."

Lesche's expression changed slightly. I asked "Uh...?"

"Your Grace? Are you, perhaps, displeased?"

Lesche's face hardened instantly. As I shrank back, he spoke briefly:

"The High Priest came to mind."

"Ah. Yes, of course. It must be troublesome for Your Grace."

Usually nobles—no, even kingdom kings—welcomed the High Priest's visit with open arms. High Priests stood at the very pinnacle among hundreds of thousands of clergy. A High Priest's personal visit meant blessing the ground they walked on and conveying divine grace. Above all, it was a tremendous honor.

But oddballs existed everywhere. Lesche was one. Of course, in Lesche's case, the honor he already possessed overflowed so abundantly that he didn't need the High Priest's honor added to it.

A man who owned the unprecedented title of Grand Duke of Berke. He needed no more honor or glory. So to Lesche, the High Priest's visit was merely one more bothersome event added to his schedule.

The place I chose to sit for an hour was a bench in the garden. Sitting there, I glanced at Lesche beside me without making it obvious. He'd followed me and sat beside me, yet said nothing particular.

Lesche, leaning back against the bench gazing straight ahead, asked without turning his gaze:

"Why do you keep looking at me?"

What? How did he know I was looking?

Flustered, I told Lesche honestly:

"Your clothes are white, so I was worried they'd get dirty."

Lesche looked at me like I was absurd.

"I really want to open that head of yours once."

"My... my head? Why?"

Whether I was shocked or not, Lesche continued in a casual tone:

"You think all sorts of things."

"But you don't clean garden benches every day."

"Linon cleans your annex daily, so it doesn't matter."

"Linon?"

Is this the same Linon I know? Linon, the chief aide of Berke territory? Since when had he been handling servants' chores? I backtracked, but even so, cleaning and scrubbing benches daily didn't make sense, so I lightly brushed the bench with my fingertip.

Then I was quite startled. I'd expected at least some dust, but surprisingly nothing came off. What on earth...

"You make your aide clean too?"

"As if."

Lesche answered, then said, "He suffers from mysophobia."

"Mysophobia... you say?"

"Yes."

I'd never heard of such a thing. Well, naturally—in the original novel, the story mainly followed Lina and her men. Like Lesche and Kallis. A few others besides. Detailed settings for supporting characters like Linon weren't even mentioned.

Still, someone suffering from mysophobia actively volunteering to clean my annex means... am I very dirty?

I spent nearly an hour in shocked daze. But since time until the ball wasn't exactly generous, I stood immediately when Begonia's specified hour was nearly up.

"Your Grace. You said you'd come to my room together?"

That sounds a bit odd.

Lesche followed without particular answer. It felt awkward somehow, so I kept unconsciously fiddling with the silk pouch containing snowflake crystal until my hand went numb. I was opening and closing my hand when suddenly warm body heat touched me. Lesche. He lightly grasped my hand, then released it.

"Your hand is cold."

"...My cheek is much colder."

Flustered, I blurted out anything and cleared my throat while averting my gaze. Lesche laughed.

"Perfect. Even an enemy would fall in love with this appearance."

Begonia wore a satisfied expression. The pink-beige dress painstakingly adorned with hundreds of silver beads sparkled as though enchanted even under small light. I admired Begonia's skill anew and turned around.

Remarkably, Lesche sat there. This was my bedroom, but it couldn't be helped. My drawing room hadn't received guests these past few days, so we weren't heating the entire space and cold air circulated in the corridor. I couldn't leave the master of this castle in such a frigid place.

Besides, Begonia had wanted to let Lesche in. Seeing beautiful creations gave her strength, or something. Though I wasn't a designer, I understood that sentiment. Lesche Berke was truly a man so magnificent in appearance that he drew sighs.

"Your Grace the Grand Duke."

Begonia smiled her business smile and asked Lesche:

"This may sound rude, but as the designer who created this masterpiece, may I ask your impression of your wife's dress?"