RAMHM Chapter 53

I Told You You'd Regret It

It was late evening, but the Crown Princess's palace bustled with activity.

"You must be tired from handling the event, yet you're still busy, Your Highness."

"Since I'm always busy on the rare occasions you stop by, perhaps next time you should visit more frequently so we can converse when I'm not occupied."

Doris responded coldly to Crown Prince Bardenaldo's words. The Crown Princess's maids were grinding charcoal, mixing it into medicinal compounds, and slathering the mixture thickly through her hair. Doris lay stretched on an elongated couch, only her head extended beyond its edge. Through half-lidded eyes, she swept her gaze over Bardenaldo.

"Yesterday and today, everyone unanimously praised how splendid the reception for the diplomatic delegation was. I came to tell you how grateful I am that Your Highness gave her utmost effort."

Doris, who had briefly lifted her head in a pretense of courtesy, lay back down and laughed lowly. Bardenaldo couldn't possibly be ignorant of whose assistance she'd received—both for arranging the event venue and preparing the Ellaconian language materials.

"Such praise is unnecessary. The Empress worked harder than I did—I merely imitated her efforts. You already saw whose contribution was greater, didn't you? How embarrassing, such words."

"Being able to bring such capable people into your service is also Your Highness's talent. You have an excellent eye for people."

"Well, that's not untrue, so I'll accept the compliment graciously."

Doris smiled, genuinely believing it.

"My aide tells me that lady's reputation isn't particularly favorable... I was secretly impressed by your discernment—both in how she managed the Grand Ducal Estate and in this recent matter."

Bliea's reputation. Arrogant. Foolish enough not to realize her own vulgarity. Something along those lines, surely. She didn't need to hear it to know.

Bliea Acacia. A beautiful noblewoman who had somehow caught the eye since her early debutante days. That face resembling Adrienne Pirreta. If that woman kept her mouth closed, she possessed a remarkably refined quality—as if she'd received the highest education. But the moment she opened her mouth, she became a complete fool. Naturally, evaluations of such a woman couldn't be favorable.

Yet there was considerable entertainment in watching someone with Adrienne's face behave like her own tongue—utterly under her control. And as demonstrated, the woman proved useful. She herself had chosen to abandon the beautiful Rhodness and select Bardenaldo with his brilliant future. She herself had decided to bring in Bliea, passing over the countless noblewomen lobbying to become her lady-in-waiting. So Bardenaldo's words weren't entirely wrong, were they?

"Since this diplomatic reception was quite successful, Duke Castagna contacted me saying Epero might even return home."

"So that's what displeases you enough to visit?"

Doris tilted her head back again to receive the maids' ministrations. Her voice and movements had grown considerably sharper.

"Have you finally realized what sort of things your father-in-law is capable of doing?"

"I thought I should mention it, Your Highness, since you don't seem to have conveyed my message that the timing isn't favorable."

Doris smiled with her eyes closed, her expression saying of course.

"How lonely it must be to have a brother who tells you 'the timing isn't favorable' when you wish to return home."

"Epero must simply fulfill his duties as an Imperial Prince."

The voice was affectionate, but the meaning was cold. Epero Ronteaux was an Imperial Prince born to the new Empress who had been enthroned only a few years ago. He had been raised under the previous Empress before leaving to study in Ellaconia.

"The Ninth Prince should also find a fiancée soon. If he stays only in Ellaconia and catches the eye of some woman there, the Empress won't be pleased."

"I didn't realize you and your father held such concern for Her Imperial Majesty the Empress."

"Well, now you know."

In the cold silence, the maids carefully rinsed Doris's hair. She could feel Bardenaldo's wordless gaze observing her as she received their ministrations.

'Coming to say thanks, my ass.'

What had she expected from someone who never approached the Crown Princess's palace without business? As Bardenaldo's eyes swept over Doris's subtly smiling form, he finally spoke quietly.

"You kept your hair golden for quite some time once, and now it's black?"

"Thank you for your interest."

Doris answered as if delighted to receive attention after so long.

"But Your Highness, the more I look at that Count Acacia's wife, the more she seems to resemble the late Grand Duchess."

"I told you so at your birthday banquet, didn't I? You pretended not to know then."

"So this time, are you imitating that lady?"

"...What did you say?"

"Just as you imitated Adrienne Pirreta several years ago."

"...What did you just say?"

Still tilted back at a forty-five-degree angle, black water dripping from her hair, Doris abruptly sat fully upright. The maids gasped in alarm and draped a towel over her shoulders, but the black water flowing down her neck had already drenched her shoulders and chest in dark stains.

"Ask anyone else. It wasn't something I initiated. My ladies-in-waiting recommended it."

Doris's lips twisted as she spoke, bristling at Adrienne Pirreta's name. Bardenaldo shrugged with a smile, as if satisfied, unconcerned with her mood—or perhaps because of it. That leisurely expression provoked her further.

"You know perfectly well why Father had no choice but to act as he did. So why are you deliberately upsetting me like this?"

"......"

Watching Bardenaldo's silent response, Doris spoke in an even more spiteful voice.

"You know how much I suffer in the middle, don't you? When the Grand Duke, your right hand, does nothing but obstruct my father at every turn?"

The Wife Inheritance Law. That absurd law allowing a wife to inherit a family estate when its head died without an heir. Normally, when a family head died without successors, the estate passed to the closest relative—even a collateral branch member would do. But Novian Trovika—that bastard blinded by love who wanted to give his wife everything—had proposed the insane Wife Inheritance Law and, with the Crown Prince's support, successfully enacted it.

The law stated that a wife would manage the estate for five years before finding and establishing an appropriate heir. That such an idea had emerged from the mind of a grand noble—a Grand Duke, no less—was scandalous regardless of the duration.

The moment the legislation was confirmed, every newspaper and gossip magazine simultaneously dubbed him Ronteaux's greatest romantic. Every artist praised Novian Trovika's name without fail when speaking of true love. Recalling those behaviors, Doris wrinkled her brow sharply. Such disgraceful spectacles.

"In the end, he didn't even die before his wife, yet gained such fame. Truly a remarkable talent—worthy of skipping the vote to abolish the law and being dispatched to Ellaconia instead."

"That legislation was settled two years ago, Your Highness."

"Yes. Just as the ridiculous rumors that I was imitating Adrienne Pirreta—which made my life difficult—happened several years ago. So don't scold me over something trivial."

"We're finished, Your Highness."

"Stop fussing over me."

The maids braided her hair, now thoroughly dried with towels. Doris rose from her seat. Settling before her vanity, she snorted dismissively at Bardenaldo, who still watched her, and examined the mirror. Long, straight black hair. To achieve Bliea Acacia's wavy curls would require heated iron rods. As Doris caressed her jet-black tresses, Bardenaldo's reflection in the mirror gradually approached.

"Doris."

His large hands, speaking her name affectionately, enfolded both her shoulders from behind.

The Crown Prince's face gazing at her reflection in the mirror brimmed with his customary concerned smile directed at her.

"I don't like expending effort on things I cannot possess."

"......"

Doris stared at his deep blue eyes as he spoke those strange words.

"Rather than wasting time and energy on things I cannot possess, I believe it's better to concentrate on what I can possess."

"...Why?"

Doris bristled immediately, thinking this remark targeted her, and shrugged her shoulders once. But his hands didn't fall away.

"You should just possess everything."

Bardenaldo's expression shifted very subtly at those words. Doris met his eyes directly, refusing to back down.

"If you can have it, just take everything."

At her continued words, Bardenaldo smiled genuinely for the first time. He patted her still-damp shoulders encouragingly.

"Having a wife like you must also be the Lord God's will and blessing."

Bardenaldo glanced toward the maids hovering watchfully in the corner.

"My Princess mustn't catch cold, must she?"

And in an exceedingly sweet, affectionate voice, he chided them. Accustomed to indirect commands, the maids hurried to Doris's side, busily preparing to brush and dry her hair. Through the mirror, Doris watched Bardenaldo's departing figure, thoroughly disgusted by his habit of speaking in such vague, unsettling riddles.

The day after receiving news of Count Acacia's death. The funeral proceeded with unbelievable speed.

The servants' faces were clouded with anxiety about the future. The head butler and Marge especially greeted mourners with expressions even more dazed than mine.

In the morning, the wheel from the carriage Count Acacia had ridden arrived, loaded on a freight wagon. The thick wooden screws at the joint had snapped clean through, corroded. A common accident. An unlucky combination—a count who happened to go toward a cliff, and an old carriage whose inspection happened to be neglected.

"My lady, the estate manager sent a letter."

I mechanically tore open and read the letter Yona handed me. The contents were entirely predictable. Below the cliff, swollen from the previous day's rain, flowed a fast-moving stream.

They'd searched the day after the accident, but aside from carriage debris scattered nearby, nothing remained. Though they'd deployed search teams downstream, Count Acacia's body hadn't been caught anywhere—presumably it had drifted out to sea.

"My lady!"

My legs gave out. I collapsed heavily into a chair. Even my baseless hope of recovering a body shattered completely. A funeral without a body.

The funeral was held simply in the estate's back garden. Collateral relatives and distant family would hold their own modest memorial services on the estate. Here in the capital, I became the chief mourner. Because he had no heir.

We summoned a priest to pray that the Lord God might guide the Count to Abadelia, where paradise lay. Just for today, the first-floor lobby would become a grand chapel where mourners would share brief prayers throughout the day amid gentle music.

"Sir Neil, you didn't report this to His Highness the Second Prince, did you?"

"Ah, I was too preoccupied to... Should I report now...?"

"Don't."

I couldn't burden the already-busy Rhodness with worry over me. Rather than making a fuss by summoning Rhodness for a one-day funeral, I needed time to think quietly—alone—about how to conduct myself going forward.

"My lady!"

Yona, who had been occasionally receiving mourners' coats at the entrance, rushed toward me urgently.

"The, the Grand Duke is coming!"

Of course. The gazes of the few mourners present turned toward Novian, heads bowing respectfully. Most people in this estate belonged to either the Crown Prince or Novian's faction. Accepting Yona and Neil's worried glances, I quietly approached the entrance.

Novian calmly ignored the head butler's attempt to receive his coat. With a face outwardly somber and grave, he looked at me.

"I greet His Grace the Grand Duke, my lord."

Bending my knees slightly in courtesy, I looked at the hand Novian extended wordlessly. Black gloves. Black dress uniform. That sensitive, ascetic face was unmistakably Novian Trovika—known throughout the Empire.

"...Thank you..."

"I told you."

Instantly, an illusion arose—as if only Novian and I existed in that space. Novian, politely requesting a handshake, pulled me close the moment our hands touched. Against my crown and into my ear, his ominous voice poured mercilessly.

"...I told you you'd regret it."