IWAPUF 38

As I stared intently at the Marquess’s outstretched hand, his throat-clearing grew louder. The tips
of his ears seemed to flush a faint red. I reached out and took his hand, feeling a gentle warmth
seep through my palm.
With his support, I climbed into the carriage. Just before letting go, he tightened his grip briefly, a
firm but painless squeeze.
“We’ll talk when you arrive,” he said.
He watched until I was seated, then personally closed the carriage door. I blinked in surprise at his
sudden attentiveness, caught off guard by the unexpected shift in his demeanor. It was a change I
hadn’t anticipated.
“My goodness!” Isabella’s voice broke the silence, laced with amusement. “Who would’ve
thought the Iron Chancellor, Marquess Eliont, could be so tender?”
Her laughter rang out, bright and melodic, as the carriage began to move. It was a vehicle
provided by the imperial household for my use, spacious and comfortable enough for two.
“I’ve missed you so much, Beonne,” Isabella said warmly.
“The honor is mine, truly,” I replied.
“Oh, that stiff tone of yours—it feels so distant!” she teased, her lips curving into a playful smile.
Her expression reminded me of the Crown Prince’s sly grin.
“Do you love the Crown Prince?” she asked abruptly.
The question nearly made me choke. She gazed at me, her face suggesting she’d anticipated my
reaction.
“Was that too forward?” she asked, tilting her head.
“I didn’t expect such a question,” I admitted.
“Forgive me if I seem too bold,” she said, her voice softening. “To me, he’s like a son.”
Her eyes curved gently, their warmth revealing the depth of her affection for the Crown Prince.
That single look spoke volumes.
“My mother passed away right after giving birth to me,” she continued. “Did you know?”
“Yes, I’m aware,” I replied.
The First Princess’s mother, the Emperor’s legitimate consort, had tragically died giving birth to
Isabella just before his ascension. Though Isabella was the Emperor’s legitimate daughter, her
mother’s death before being crowned Empress meant Isabella could never be recognized as an
Empress’s daughter.
“Empress Lyra took me in when I was just a newborn,” Isabella said.
Empress Lyra, the former Empress and the Crown Prince’s mother, had raised her. This was new
to me. But hearing Isabella’s words, I began to understand why she, unmarried, had devoted
herself to raising the young Crown Prince.
“After Empress Lyra passed, I looked at the lonely little Crown Prince and thought to myself, *I’
ll repay her kindness through him,*” she said, her smile tinged with bittersweet resolve. Despite
the weight in her voice, her face remained serene, unshadowed.
“You know I married late, don’t you?” she asked.
“Yes, I know,” I answered.
In our society, whether noble or commoner, women typically became engaged or married between
sixteen, at their coming-of-age ceremony, and twenty at the latest. By twenty-five, remaining
unwed often branded a woman as flawed. Isabella, however, had stayed unmarried until thirty.
Rumor had it that some nobles had even petitioned the Emperor to arrange her marriage.
Though not born of an Empress, Isabella was undeniably the Emperor’s legitimate daughter. For
the Emperor’s daughter to remain unmarried at thirty was seen as a stain on the imperial family’
s honor. The nobles’ petitions were only natural.
What surprised me was the Emperor’s stance. Unlike the other princesses born of concubines,
who were paired off with nobles or foreign royals before twenty, he never publicly addressed
Isabella’s marriage until she reached thirty.
“To be honest, I never planned to marry,” she confessed with a mischievous grin, a dimple
forming on one cheek. It was a charming, girlish feature that suited her youthful air. “Father
always felt guilty toward me, and I knew how to use that to my advantage.”
Her cheeks flushed faintly. “If it weren’t for *him* persistently asking for my hand, I’d have
stayed by the Crown Prince’s side.”
Count Seyt’s proposal to Isabella was still a topic of fascination, even after a decade. Few nobles
looked kindly on Isabella, who remained a princess and unwed at thirty. Even her fellow royals
disparaged her, some calling her a disgrace. Yet she stood firm.
What finally swayed her was Count Seyt, a young man of twenty who’d come to the capital to
inherit his title. His relentless pursuit of Isabella—falling for her at first sight—was the stuff of
legend.
To many noblemen, Count Seyt’s devotion to a woman ten years his senior was madness. But
women, noble and commoner alike, envied Isabella. Her romance with Count Seyt inspired plays
that remained wildly popular, their story captivating audiences. Once seen as a flawed woman,
Isabella became an object of admiration overnight.
Count Seyt’s courtship lasted six months, and in the end, Isabella accepted his proposal. As a
border count guarding a frontier territory, he couldn’t stay long in the capital. So, as Countess
Seyt, Isabella had to leave for the south.
“Even when I left for his estate, the Crown Prince was always on my mind,” she said, sitting up
straighter, her expression growing serious. The playfulness vanished from her face.
“That’s why I was so curious about you, Beonne—the one who’d stay by his side in my place.”
She leaned toward me slowly, her voice earnest. “I’m truly sorry for testing you.”
She held her bow, waiting for my response.
“Must I forgive you?” I asked.
I didn’t understand why she felt the need to apologize. Our conversation had been led mostly by
her, and I couldn’t fathom what she meant by “testing” me.
“I’m not demanding forgiveness or expecting you to understand my heart,” she said softly, still
bowing.
Isabella straightened from her bow, her gaze steady and warm.
“Why share all this with me, then?” I asked.
“I simply didn’t want to hide what I’d done,” she replied, her smile bright and unguarded. “I
want to be genuine with you, Beonne, without any ulterior motives.”
Her eyes, fixed on mine, radiated sincerity. From the moment we met, I’d sensed her goodwill,
though its source had remained a mystery until now.
“You haven’t asked what I meant by testing you,” she remarked, a playful lilt in her voice.
“I’m not particularly curious,” I said.
Her eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before she laughed, her expression
softening with amusement.
“Ha! No wonder the Crown Prince is said to go wild with jealousy over you,” she teased, her
laughter bubbling like a young girl’s.
“Rumors aren’t reliable,” I countered.
“Like the ones about you?” she shot back, her tone mischievous.
She was clearly referring to the gossip swirling among the people these days. After I’d cast out the
relatives who’d been leeching off the Pison family, the rumors about me had taken a sharp turn for
the worse. They varied in detail, but the gist was that I was a cold, conniving woman who’d
betrayed even my own kin to seize the Pison fortune.
The accusations were absurd, but those ignorant of the truth lapped them up. Unlike me, who
cared little for others’ opinions, Anasha and Evan had taken it upon themselves to quash the
slander. Their efforts were thwarted when, at a suspiciously convenient moment, a story from four
years ago resurfaced among the commoners. It claimed I’d cruelly dismissed innocent maids,
even driving out a nanny who’d tearfully tried to intervene, leaving them penniless.
The names of a few maids from that time were even cited as witnesses. Anasha and Evan searched
for the source of the rumor but came up empty-handed. To make matters worse, tales of my
supposed dalliances with other men—despite being engaged to the Crown Prince—began to
spread. Swift action from the Crown Prince and the merchant guilds managed to suppress those
rumors, but the damage was done, and their efforts had little lasting effect.
“I didn’t entirely believe the rumors,” Isabella said, her expression turning apologetic. “But
when it comes to the Crown Prince, who’s like a son to me, I couldn’t help but worry. I’m only
human, after all.”
Her concern for the Crown Prince, as natural as a mother’s, was understandable. As the saying
goes, birds of a feather flock together. I couldn’t fault her for her loyalty to him.
If her actions had caused me harm, it might’ve been different. But I’d suffered no loss, no injury.
“What did you think of the gift I sent with my letter?” she asked, shifting the topic.
“It seemed quite versatile,” I replied.
She chuckled. “It’s a multipurpose shawl, you know. Common women in the southern regions
use it as a cloak or a knee blanket.”
“I see.”
The shawl Isabella had gifted me was indeed practical. Made of fine material, its design was
simpler than what noblewomen typically favored. Most aristocratic women obsessed over ornate
embroidery—gold or silver thread, or even tiny gemstones—making their shawls impractical for
everyday use.
Isabella’s gift, by contrast, suited me perfectly. Its generous size and thickness made it ideal for
draping over my shoulders during a garden stroll or using as a blanket while reading.
“Did the commoner’s design offend you?” she asked, her tone probing.
“Were you trying to provoke me?” I countered, meeting her question with one of my own.
She shook her head. “Not at all. I thought it was something you’d find useful. I made it myself,
stitch by stitch, with care, looking forward to the day we’d meet.”
“Was that the test you spoke of?” I asked.
Her expression grew resolute. “If you were the sort to dismiss someone’s effort just because it
wasn’t flashy, I didn’t think you’d be good for the Crown Prince.”
Her words carried a firmness that suggested I wouldn’t be sitting here now if I hadn’t passed her
test.
“Judging me by such a thing does leave a bad taste,” I said.
“I’m truly sorry,” she replied, bowing again.
“You apologize, but you don’t regret it,” I observed.
“You’re right,” she admitted, straightening to meet my gaze. “Even if I could go back, I’d send
you that gift again, Beonne.”
Her eyes were unwavering, her conviction clear—she felt no shame in her principles.
“I’ll accept your apology, but only this once,” I said. “I don’t take kindly to one-sided
probing.”
“Of course,” she said, exhaling in relief, her hand brushing her chest. “I was pretending to be
calm, but I was so nervous you wouldn’t forgive me.”
Despite her refined appearance, there was an endearing, almost youthful charm to Isabella, hard to
believe she was well into her forties.
“There’s one question you haven’t answered, Beonne,” she said, her tone shifting.
“What’s that?”
“Do you love the Crown Prince?”
I didn’t respond. I’d told the Crown Prince himself that I wasn’t sure if I loved him. If I couldn’
t answer that question for myself, I certainly couldn’t for her. My silence cast a shadow over
Isabella’s face.
“You don’t love him?” she pressed.
“What does love matter in a political marriage?” I replied.
At the time, I had loved him, but he hadn’t loved me. Yet we married and became husband and
wife. My love had meant nothing in that arrangement.
“You’re not so naive as to believe otherwise, Isabella,” I added.
She had survived thirty years in the viper’s nest of the imperial palace. She was no fairy-tale
princess, too innocent to endure. If she were, she could never have protected the young Crown
Prince in that ruthless court.
“You’re right,” she said, her voice steady. “I’m not naive enough to seek love in a political
marriage. But Beonne, even in such a union, love can still find a place.”