Chapter 83: The Duchess’s Invitation
The air in the dining hall turned frigid in an instant, as if a single calm remark had doused the room in ice. Damian’s words, delivered with devastating precision, silenced every mouth at the table. Unfazed, he continued his meal with an air of indifference, while the Duke’s face slowly flushed with heat.
To anyone watching, it was clear that Damian’s comment was a direct jab at his father. After all, in this very room, the only man who had fathered a child with a woman other than his wife was the Duke himself. The Duchess, implicated as that “other woman,” also reddened. Her hand, gripping the knife, trembled faintly with a mix of rage and shame.
“Damian Vandemir, you insolent brat! How dare you speak so rudely in front of your elders!” the Dowager Duchess thundered, her voice sharp with reproach. To her, a son pointing fingers at his parents was an unforgivable affront. She had always seen herself in Damian, and his words felt like an attack on her as well, stoking her fury.
“Why the fuss?” Damian replied coolly. “I only said there’s no need to worry.” Then, with a faint smirk, he added, “Unless, of course, someone feels guilty.”
“Damian!” The Duke, unable to contain himself any longer, shot up from his seat. Damian merely shrugged, as if to say, What’s the problem?
“You’ll keel over if you keep this up, Father,” he said, meeting his father’s crimson, fuming face head-on. “It’s rare for the whole family to gather like this. Shouldn’t you stay seated and enjoy it?”
The Vandemir family looked ready to collapse one by one, clutching the backs of their necks in exasperation. But Damian, utterly unruffled, turned his attention to Aracila, tending to her with a gentle care that stood in stark contrast to the tension. “My lady, why aren’t you eating? Didn’t you say you love meat?”
“Oh…” Aracila blinked, caught off guard.
“Is it not to your taste? I can have the chef bring something else. You need a good cut of meat to feel satisfied, don’t you?”
Aracila, momentarily dazed, shook her head. She took another bite of the tender, perfectly sauced meat, savoring its rich flavor. It wasn’t Damian’s audacity toward the family that had startled her. Rather, it was the realization that he remembered something she’d said long ago, during a chance encounter with Frederick at Vesta Restaurant. “I prefer meat. Forgot already?” she’d teased Frederick. “You need meat to feel full.”
She hadn’t even said it to Damian, and yet he’d remembered. It was a small thing, trivial even, but the fact that he’d held onto it warmed her heart. A faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
Oblivious to the family’s glares—some chewing mechanically, others staring in stunned disbelief—Damian and Aracila finished their meal with an air of breezy contentment.
***
“My lady, a word, please!”
Oscar’s urgent voice rang out as he hurried from the dining hall, catching Aracila just as she ascended the staircase. Damian’s brow furrowed as he looked down at his brother. Aracila, too, regarded Oscar with a less-than-welcoming expression.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
“It’s… just come with me. This isn’t the place to talk.”
Oscar shot an uneasy glance at Damian, who stood protectively by Aracila’s side, and gestured with his chin. But before Aracila could respond, Damian stepped forward, extending an arm to block Oscar’s path.
“Say it here, brother,” he said, his tone firm.
“Don’t interfere, Damian. I want to speak with the lady.”
“And why exactly do you need to speak to someone else’s wife alone? You’re not some beast who drools over every woman you see, are you?”
“What did you say, you—!” Oscar, stung by the insult, shoved at Damian’s shoulder. But Damian didn’t budge, his expression suggesting the push was barely a tickle. Oscar’s pride smarted all the more, especially as he recalled how easily he’d been overpowered by that refined young man at Iris’s side not long ago.
“I’m not interested in speaking with you alone either,” Aracila said, peering over Damian’s shoulder. “Like Damian said, say it here. Or I’m leaving.”
Did he think she was foolish enough to follow him somewhere private? With no other choice, Oscar cleared his throat and, under Damian’s watchful gaze, forced out the question he’d been holding back.
“Is Lady Hugo’s… romantic life complicated?”
“Me?” Aracila asked, confused.
“No, I mean your sister.”
Aracila’s face crumpled before she could school her expression. The mention of Iris from Oscar’s lips soured her mood instantly. It was, quite frankly, disgusting. The nerve of this shameless man, asking such a question when he’s the one with a tangled love life.
She opened her mouth to snap at him to watch his words but paused. There was something odd about Oscar’s anxious demeanor, the way he awaited her response with bated breath. A creeping unease settled over her. No way… he’s not interested in my sister, is he?
“What’s it to you?” she replied coldly.
“As a family ally, I’m concerned,” Oscar said. “I happened to see Lady Hugo having a secretive meeting with some strange man the other day…”
“Mind your own business,” Aracila cut in. “Iris is popular. It’s no surprise she’d be out with someone.”
In truth, given Iris’s reserved nature, such a thing would be shocking. But Aracila said it deliberately, determined to keep Oscar from thinking Iris was naive or easy to dismiss. Men like him always found women with experience harder to manipulate.
Oscar, looking as if he’d been struck, fell silent, at a loss for words. Aracila, seizing the moment, turned and headed to Damian’s room with him in tow. They’d already been on their way there to talk privately.
What a creep. He’s seriously getting on my nerves.
Stepping over the threshold, Aracila was still silently cursing Oscar in her mind when she froze, struck by the sight of the room before her. This is the heir of the ducal family’s chamber?
Damian’s room was even bleaker than the guest quarters where Aracila was staying. Despite its modest size, the sparse furnishings—only the bare essentials—created an air of hollow desolation. It felt like a room caught in the grip of midwinter. Not only did it seem untouched by human hands for ages, but it also carried an unsettling sense that no one had ever truly lived here, never poured any warmth or attachment into the space. There was no trace of the lived-in patina or affection one would expect.
“…Is this the room you’ve used since you were a child?” Aracila asked.
“Yes, it is,” Damian replied evenly, seemingly unaware of anything amiss.
Her thoughts drifted to something he’d said on the way here—that he had no fond memories of the ducal estate. Suddenly, the room’s pervasive loneliness made sense, and a quiet understanding settled over her. Deciding it was best not to linger on the subject, Aracila shifted the conversation.
“Oh, by the way, Damian, I noticed a locked room on the third floor. Do you know what it is? The door handle was gilded.”
“It’s my mother’s room,” he answered simply.
Aracila blinked, caught off guard. There was only one person Damian would call “mother,” and she hadn’t expected his birth mother to come up so suddenly.
“It’s been locked ever since she passed away in there,” he added.
“Oh…”
“The Duchess holds the key. I haven’t been able to enter in quite some time.”
Aracila’s brow furrowed. Why should the Duchess, of all people, control the key, leaving Damian unable to visit his own mother’s room?
“Why does the Duchess have it?” she asked, her voice tinged with indignation.
“She’s the mistress of this estate,” Damian said matter-of-factly. “I haven’t had a good enough reason to demand it back.”
The unfairness of it deepened the crease between Aracila’s brows. Then, a sudden thought struck her. What if I managed to get that key myself?
If she could bribe a maid just right, it might not be impossible. Her desire wasn’t solely to give Damian access to his mother’s room—though that was part of it. She also couldn’t shake the suspicion that a will or some other secret might be hidden inside.
“Would it be alright if I got the key and went into your mother’s room?” she asked.
“There’s no reason you couldn’t, but don’t do anything reckless,” Damian cautioned.
“Don’t worry about me,” Aracila said with a bright smile, her confidence both reassuring and slightly unnerving. Damian’s expression grew complex, a mix of trust and unease.
This wasn’t the capital; they were in the heart of the ducal estate, where the family’s influence reigned supreme. Caution was paramount. After all, Damian had once been ambushed in this very room. But knowing Aracila wasn’t one to sit still when told, he hesitated before offering, “If you need someone discreet to handle something, use Colin. He’s my aide, and you can trust him.”
Better to provide her with a reliable ally than let her act alone. Aracila’s face lit up, and she nodded eagerly. Being in the ducal estate, finding trustworthy help would be difficult, so this was a welcome solution.
“It’s getting late. I should head back to my room,” she said, beginning to gather herself to leave.
“I’ll escort you,” Damian offered.
“You’re joking, right? It’s just one floor up.”
“I’m serious. Let’s go.”
He extended his arm with a gentlemanly gesture. Aracila found it a bit absurd, but seeing the resolute look in his eyes, she relented and took his arm. They climbed a single flight of stairs and arrived at her door. Feeling awkward about sending him off so abruptly, she ventured, “Well… do you want to come in and see my room?”
Damian paused, caught off guard. It was just a guest room, yet the invitation stirred an odd sensation in him. Aracila felt it too—a faint flutter of nerves, despite knowing it wasn’t even her personal space.
A strange silence hung between them until Damian spoke, his voice measured. “No need. I had Colin check the room’s safety during dinner. He says it’s fine, so you can rest easy.”
“What? When did you even—?”
Aracila stared, dumbfounded, but Damian merely dipped his head in a polite nod and turned to leave without hesitation. Watching his retreating figure, she muttered under her breath, “Honestly, he could’ve just come in for a moment…”
***
The maids of the ducal estate revealed their true colors starting the next day. Their insolence was subtle, just enough to be irritating without crossing into outright defiance. They’d only respond after being called three or four times, pretend to misunderstand instructions until repeated, or set down objects with careless disregard. Yet their tone remained polite, and they never outright refused Aracila’s orders, making it difficult to reprimand them without seeming overly sensitive. It was a calculated move, designed to provoke without giving her grounds to assert her authority.
The Duchess has trained them well, Aracila thought.
If the maids were openly insolent, it would only give her an opportunity to put them in their place. Instead, they played this sly game, needling her just enough to make her question herself—Am I being too sensitive?—while slowly wearing her down with their subtle disrespect.
From some point onward, the maids ceased calling her “Young Madam” and instead addressed her as “Lady Aracila.” It was as if they were pointedly reminding her that she was an outsider, not truly part of the family. Aracila, who preferred being an outsider anyway, didn’t dwell on it much, though she occasionally called out the slight. When she did, the maids would feign surprise, offering excuses—saying they were still adjusting or that it was their first time dealing with her—before correcting themselves. But it never took long for them to slip back into their old ways.
“Lady Aracila, this is from the Duchess,” one maid said, yet again using the wrong form of address. Too weary to bother correcting her, Aracila silently took the paper extended to her. It was an invitation from the Duchess to a tea party that afternoon.
What scheme is she cooking up now, summoning me like this? Aracila wondered. She wasn’t particularly curious, but she knew that failing to attend would only give the Duchess an excuse to find fault with her. With no other choice, she began preparing for the event.
Having dressed in time, Aracila made her way to the pergola in the eastern garden where the tea party was to be held. There, the Duchess sat at the head of the gathering, surrounded by a cluster of elegantly dressed noblewomen.
“Good afternoon, I’m Aracila Vandemir,” she said, approaching with a polite greeting.
The noblewomen glanced at her briefly, but not one returned her courtesy. Even the Duchess, who had invited her, pointedly ignored her presence—a brazen display, considering she was the host.
So, I’m the uninvited guest who showed up without a clue, Aracila thought wryly.
Still, turning back now would only make her look foolish, so after a moment’s hesitation, she moved toward the single empty seat left at the table. It seemed, at least, that a place had been reserved for her.
That’s when a faint snicker reached her ears.
“Pfft, it seems a child is still a child. Couldn’t even get the dress code right,” one of the women remarked.
Aracila’s eyes slowly scanned the group. Sure enough, each woman held a fan and wore a dress adorned with yellow patterns—the apparent dress code. Aracila, who hadn’t been informed of any such requirement, stood out in her navy-blue gown, her hands bare.
It was a classic tactic of social sabotage: deliberately withholding the dress code to humiliate the outsider. But Aracila didn’t flinch. She showed no sign of embarrassment or shame. Instead, she turned to the woman who had spoken, her voice sweet and composed.
“Thank you for your understanding, madam. I was invited on such short notice that my preparations were a bit lacking.”
The noblewoman faltered, caught off guard by Aracila’s unruffled response. She couldn’t press further, knowing full well that the “short notice” came from the Duchess herself. Clamping her mouth shut, she said nothing more. Aracila, flashing a serene smile, took her seat.
All the while, the Duchess maintained her aloof posture, chin tilted upward, refusing to spare Aracila even a glance. Undeterred, Aracila addressed her directly.
“My apologies, Duchess. You were kind enough to invite me, and yet I failed to match the dress code. I’ll make sure to instruct the maids to inform me properly next time.”
The words carried a subtle sting—a veiled accusation that the Duchess had deliberately left her in the dark. The Duchess’s eyebrow twitched, and behind the fan that obscured her face, the corner of her mouth quivered with irritation. Aracila’s knack for speaking her mind, even in such moments, clearly grated on her.
And so, the uneasy tea party began.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
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