RAMHM Chapter 8

Among Cuckolds, Countess Acacia

The Count's pleading voice didn't register. Instead, what suddenly surfaced was what Bianca had firmly warned me before I became Grand Duchess.

'Rienne, even if His Grace takes a mistress someday... just pretend not to know.'

Everyone kept quiet and took other lovers themselves, after all. Bianca had offered that advice—such as it was—for me, who had no mother. I hadn't listened carefully to those words then, but now they echoed through my chest alongside the Count's sobbing. When my already weakened body had left me so diminished that I couldn't even sit up in bed alone without help...

If he takes another woman—healthy and beautiful—as his mistress, how could I tell him not to?

I'd occasionally entertained such thoughts myself, it seemed. So I'd suffer alone, then find reassurance in his gifts and letters full of love—an endless cycle. He was always affectionate, warm. He'd treated me as delicately as a glass doll.

But why?

Why had Novian taken a woman who resembled me this much as his mistress? Face, height, build—even our eyelash color identical. What new quality could he possibly have discovered in this woman? Black-haired women were abundant in this country. Half the people passing by had black or brown hair. Had Novian's taste been so devastatingly consistent that this woman caught his eye? Then what of the tender emotions he and I had shared for so long? If he'd wanted it strongly, we could have consummated our marriage. My body hadn't been quite so glass-like from the beginning of our marriage.

Because you're precious.

Those words had warmed the nervous bride's body and heart, made me believe this man was truly my partner to trust and share life with completely. At twenty, I'd been young. At twenty-eight, he'd been far more adult than I. That Grand Duke Novian was devoted to his wife and her family, the Pirreta duchy, was a tale everyone in aristocratic society knew. Adrienne had been a beloved Grand Duchess. At least to her husband, Novian Trovika.

On a day when desolate winds blew, Neil felt a terrible chill, his nerves more on edge than ever. His liege Rhodness hadn't slept since returning to the capital. The fuss was so extreme that anyone watching might think he was the Grand Duchess's husband, not someone else. Everyone thought it the second prince's caprice, but Neil, who'd served him closely for two years, thought differently. Rhodness had clearly been shocked by the Grand Duchess's death. The reason was easy to understand—wasn't a wind colder than the northern Trovika territory blowing right before his eyes?

"Grand Duke."

Because in the palace where proper etiquette should be observed, Rhodness stood facing his uncle—half-naked with bandages wrapped around him, arm in a cast, only a jacket thrown carelessly over his shoulders—wearing a frigid expression.

'Please, don't say anything strange and just let this pass.'

Neil, standing behind, held his breath at the ominous atmosphere. Grand Duke Novian's gaunt face looked precarious enough to make anyone want to comfort him. The Grand Duke bowed his head lightly first. Always sharp and cool, those blue eyes now had dark shadows beneath them, his face drawn. In contrast, Rhodness—equally gaunt but seeming to contain every light—didn't bow. His eyes, catching the light and glowing blood-red, deliberately looked down at his uncle of similar height.

Did Adrienne Pirreta truly die?

He only needed to say that one sentence. Despite his arrogant expression, Rhodness's mouth felt completely parched, unable to move his tongue.

"I hear there's to be some useless ceremony called a victory commemoration..."

"I congratulate you on your victory, Your Highness."

"Naturally, Your Grace will grace the occasion with your presence."

"......"

Behind him, Neil tugged slightly at Rhodness's jacket as if to tell him not to speak, but his mouth didn't stop.

"I won on the battlefield Your Grace personally sent me to—wouldn't I feel slighted if you didn't come?"

"As you know..."

Novian's blue eyes turned precisely toward Rhodness.

"I am currently in mourning."

"......"

"I must see my wife off on her final journey, so I'll be leaving the palace now."

Immediately, Novian's rough voice echoed through the cold corridor. Rhodness forced strength into his neck. Final journey. Those words alone made his ears ring dully.

"...I'll pay my respects."

Novian forced only his mouth to smile. Whether it was gratitude or something else, he couldn't tell. Showing that subtle, sad smile, Novian soon bowed his head and left. Neil, who'd been watching this pointless standoff with trembling limbs, approached Rhodness standing motionless.

"You already paid your respects, Your Highness?"

"I never confirmed the body, so I haven't properly paid respects yet."

"The Grand Duke has already been informed that Your Highness visited."

"Doesn't matter."

"But Your Highness, the Grand Duke hasn't presented the body since the first day of the funeral."

Vincento, who'd been silent, spoke up.

"......"

"He personally petitioned His Majesty the Emperor, saying he didn't want Her Grace the Grand Duchess's body to become a spectacle."

"Wow. Coming on quite strong, isn't he? The romantic of the century, as they say..."

"How long can even a Grand Duke hold out? This is a procedure even the late Empress Letina couldn't avoid. If you wish to pay proper respects, it must be done according to protocol."

"No need."

"Pardon...?"

"That bastard won't present the body."

"What do you..."

As if releasing long-held breath, Rhodness exhaled deeply and ran his fingers through his hair, then suddenly spoke again.

"...Send that shitty victory commemoration invitation to Count Acacia's estate."

"Suddenly?"

"Won't they decline since they're the Grand Duke's vassals?"

When even the liege lord won't attend, his vassals can hardly laugh and chat there. Neil and Vincento muttered back and forth, then suddenly looked up at Rhodness again.

"Could it be...?"

"That household's lady is a young woman, I hear. Then she'll have at least one maid who always accompanies her."

Neil and Vincento simultaneously stopped dead, eyes widening.

"You intend to meet Lady Marge directly?"

"Why suddenly the Acacia Count house's maid...!"

Rhodness stood staring for a long moment at the corridor where the Grand Duke had disappeared, then vanished in a different direction without answering their questions.

I'd been sequestered in the estate for some time from shock. Though I was flipping through newspapers and gossip rags Marge brought, my will had evaporated and my once-energetic body had gone completely slack.

「A ball to commemorate the victorious Second Prince Rhodness! What are the latest trending dress and hat brands to capture the veiled, beautiful, dangerous unmarried prince?!」

Flipping through the gossip rag, it was all about Second Prince Rhodness. News that he'd returned to the capital earlier than expected after completely eliminating western rebel remnants and monsters seemed to interest the aristocracy considerably. Understandably so. Second Prince Rhodness hadn't come to the capital in recent years.

Public activities were led by the Crown Prince and his wife, while the princes and princesses beneath them didn't show their faces around unless there were personal connections. Second Prince Rhodness appeared frequently in gossip rags because of rumors about his exceptional appearance, but even he wandered battlefields accumulating merit rather than attending parties with dancing and music.

Perhaps when his elder brother the Crown Prince ascended the throne, he too would be recognized for those achievements and become Grand Duke or Duke of some choice territory.

'Just as Novian had.'

The moment my thoughts turned to Novian, my chest suddenly tightened.

'I no longer want to be entangled in this. I hate being caught between you two like this. Wasn't the whole point of that ridiculous marriage ceremony with me so you could lawfully become His Grace the Grand Duke's mistress?'

Count Acacia had told me clearly. The reason Bliea married him was to become Novian's 'lawful' mistress.

How absurd.

As if there's such a thing as a lawful mistress. That phrasing implicitly followed aristocratic social custom of not taking unmarried men or women as lovers. Even with one's partner's eyes wide open, this empire—so tolerant of keeping mistresses—washed away guilt by specifying that mistresses be already married individuals.

"Ha."

From my position of complete ignorance, the feeling was truly filthy—but everyone lived this way. Everyone...

"My lady. The dresses from the final fitting have arrived."

"Dresses?"

What interrupted the continuing pessimistic thoughts was a maid—Yona. Along with head maid Marge, Yona attended to me exclusively, and she'd apparently never been particularly afraid of Bliea, often initiating conversation.

"Yes, re-made as you ordered last time."

I recalled the things packed densely in the dressing room. The original me had rarely worn going-out clothes. But I'd owned quite many under the pretext of maintaining dignity and as gifts from Novian—yet Bliea owned an absurdly excessive number of clothes compared to the estate's scale.

"You said you absolutely wanted to make your debutante debut this season, didn't you?"

When I wrinkled my eyebrows without responding, Yona asked dubiously. Debutante. Originally, the debutante wasn't once but throughout the parties held that season. Though the original me, having received Novian's marriage proposal immediately after my first debutante, hadn't participated in many parties...

"I... haven't even made my debutante debut yet?"

"That's what you said, wasn't it?"

"I thought I was twenty-two?"

"Yes! You said it was so unfair not making your debutante debut even at twenty-two that you'd die, and if we didn't prepare appropriately, you'd burn down the entire estate—that's what you told the Count."

My face flushed crimson instantly. Though they weren't actually my words, the embarrassment belonged to me who'd taken over this body. What had Bliea been thinking, saying such things? Regardless, she clearly wasn't of noble birth.

"So... where are my dresses now?"

Matheus, who worked at Madame Leblais's atelier, swallowed hard. Countess Acacia—known as the ultimate dupe—was for some reason wrinkling her eyebrows while looking at the invoice today. She'd had no eye for quality and was indeed a dupe, but her temperament had been formidable. Recalling how his head had nearly split from the perfume bottle she'd thrown, complaining about inadequate hem finishing, made him dizzy.

'Still, what would she know?'

They couldn't deceive truly great ladies, but ladies from humble houses striving to chase after the great nobles' coattails were perfect marks. Starting with "You don't understand, but this part here..." and dazzling them with flowery speech made plenty of ladies nod along. Countess Acacia had been one such customer. Placing orders for 'the finest' or 'the most splendid' that didn't match her finances, unable to distinguish real jewels from fake. But...

"How cleverly you've arranged to commit fraud legally."

The ultimate dupe, Countess Acacia's frigid voice echoed through the main hall.