Deceived 2

Chapter 2

***

01. The Encounter

Blair Twyford was a girl who had never once strayed before becoming an adult.

Not only did she abstain from drinking or smoking, but even when her schoolmates, nearing the end of adolescence, giggled over provocative topics, she would cover her eyes and ears, trying hard not to listen. It was as if she feared the mischievous talk of her peers might stain her spotless world black.

Even when sitting in a chair, Blair never leaned back, maintaining an elegant posture. She always carried a parasol and hat, even on days when the sun wasn't strong, and never removed the gloves from the hands that gentlemen often kissed.

This was the influence of her father, who had emphasized proper decorum until his lips were worn out.

The Count of Twyford was a father who would immediately raise his cane if young Blair came home with even a skirt hem soiled from playing in the dirt.

He taught that purity and obedience were the virtues a woman must possess, forcing his only daughter into his rigid, cold mold.

Blair sometimes wondered if the underlying reason for such teachings might be a curse directed at his wife, who had once run off with the stablehand.

Therefore, she had to become a demure woman. She had to be the woman her father desired—one who inherited not a shred of her mother's licentious history.

Though she couldn't help inheriting her mother's striking resemblance and bright hazel eyes, Blair, subjected to harsh discipline, grew into a model of propriety in anyone's eyes.

She wasn't particularly sociable, nor was she especially skilled in the art of social maneuvering. Yet, when she stood with her lips pressed together, her eyes downcast in quiet sorrow, her innate beauty lent even that demeanor a peculiar weight.

Her first taste of transgression came when she attended a concert at Kensington Hall in the capital city of Borsa.

More precisely, it was at the charity event held after the two-hour performance ended. It was an occasion the Count had painstakingly arranged through his connections for his newly adult daughter. At least, that's what Blair believed.

To travel from the Count of Twyford's estate to the capital city of Borsa required a full seven hours on the southbound train. She had, of course, obediently complied with her father's sudden order to pack her bags and prepare to leave, but since her last visit to Borsa had been a full ten years prior, she had many questions.

Yet excessive curiosity was far from the ideal woman her father desired. Blair had never been particularly close or friendly with her father to begin with.

Thus, in the early spring when the night air was still cool, Blair arrived at the townhouse in Borsa after leaving the estate. Before she could properly recover from the journey, she had to join the schedule following the Count of Twyford.

Exhausted from the unexpected journey, she nearly closed her eyes to the music, which sounded almost like a funeral dirge, but she couldn't show it. A noblewoman nodding off at a concert? It was probably the worst image Blair could conjure.

"Refrain from alcohol with so many guests present. We cannot afford any mistakes on a day like today."

"Yes, Father."

After the hellish concert ended and they moved to the banquet hall where the charity event was held, the Count instructed her thus. Blair nodded as she accepted a glass of non-alcoholic cider from a waiter.

Curiosity surged about what exactly father meant by "a day like today," but as always, she remained silent. A woman's curiosity was not a virtue to be proud of.

"Oh! You've arrived, Your Grace. We've been waiting."

Blair, who had been quietly sipping her cider, suddenly looked toward the direction of her father's voice. A man in his forties with an arrogant expression was shaking hands with the Count of Twyford.

"You insisted I attend this banquet, so of course I had to come."

"I'm truly grateful you made the effort to come. By the way, where might your son be...?"

"My son came along, of course. He seems to have gone off to greet some familiar faces at the banquet. Ah, this is..."

"This is my daughter, Blair. Blair, say hello. This is the Marquis of Doman, who runs the largest textile mill in the south."

The Count’s voice, now noticeably lower, fell on her ears.

"He may soon become your father-in-law, so conduct yourself with care."

The Marquis of Doman flashed a sharp-toothed grin. Then he swept her up with a strange, swift glance. Blair hesitated for just a moment.

"Pleased to meet you, Your Grace."

She smiled without showing it and gave a slight curtsy. His gaze, still clinging persistently, examined every part of Blair's face. It was a strange look, as if appraising the value of an object.

"Indeed. The claim that you are the kingdom's most desirable bride was no mere boast."

"You flatter me."

"The more I look at you, the more beautiful you are. How could the Count possibly marry off a daughter he’s cherished so dearly?"

"I cannot keep her forever, can I?"

While they chatted and laughed, Blair quietly swallowed hard.

The marriage had been arranged without her knowledge. She was flustered, though she couldn't say it was entirely unexpected. She had never imagined she would choose her husband herself.

"To finally bring out the daughter you kept so carefully hidden—you must have been in quite a hurry. Anyone watching would think you needed quick cash!"

"Haha..."

"Well, it might be good to arrange a meeting for the young people to get acquainted."

"Would that be advisable?"

"There's such a thing as compatibility, so they should test it. We're a family that values sons, so we intend to follow our son's wishes as much as possible. Well then."

After a brief farewell, the Marquis of Doman set his wine glass down on the round table. Then, he extended his hand toward Blair. It was an invitation to kiss the back of her hand.

Though the Marquis's lips, glistening with some unknown liquid, and the fingerprint-like grease smudges on the transparent glass bothered her, Blair obediently offered her hand. Looking down at the top of his head, she felt immensely relieved she was wearing gloves.

"The worthless bastard. How dare he bring up a story that's long since ended?"

The Count of Twyford cursed at his back the moment he left.

"Somebody came down from the North without a moment's rest, and all he does is strut around, while his son doesn't even show his face, that good-for-nothing."

“......”

"Come here, Blair. We should also greet the Count of Middleton and his eldest son. It's safer to have multiple insurance policies."

"Insurance….?"

"Shouldn't we prepare for the possibility that the marriage with the Dormans might fall through?"

“…Ah.”

After that, an unpleasant conversation ensued for some time. The Count of Middleton’s son, who appeared at least ten years older than Blair, used a manner of speaking she couldn’t easily grasp.

"Miss Twyford, you graduated from a girls' school, did you not?"

"Yes, I did."

“I’ve heard that girls from girls’ schools tend to be particularly curious in that regard and leave early. Is that true?”

"......?"

"Well, isn't that so? Miss Twyford is so beautiful, it's hard to imagine men leaving her alone. If she'd wanted to, it would have been possible anytime."

"What do you mean?"

“Haha, just joking.”

Anyone but a fool could tell this was an uncomfortable topic. The Count’s son fired off several more unpleasant questions afterward, but comically enough, Blair managed to escape him by using her father’s order to make as many appearances as possible among the nobility that day as an excuse.

The next person introduced, the second son of a certain Count, reeked of alcohol, his eyes half-glazed over, clearly not in his right mind. What was even more horrifying was the sinister smile he wore as he slowly, deliberately slid his hands up her back and toward her chest.

"I'm sorry, but could you please keep your distance..."

"Do you happen to be wearing perfume? The scent is truly, truly intoxicating. It makes me feel like I'm rolling around in a field of blooming roses."

Unable to endure the harassment and nonsense any longer, Blair shot a pleading glance toward the Count of Twyford, standing several paces away. But he was engrossed in a conversation with middle-aged men, laughing so loudly it hurt her ears, completely oblivious to his daughter. By then, she concluded that even if her own father had witnessed her being harassed, he probably wouldn't have cared much.

What was truly unbelievable was that every man she encountered the moment she stepped into the ballroom stared unabashedly at the curves revealed beneath her fabric, as if they had all made a pact, their heads tilted back to gaze at her.