Deceived 6

Chapter 6

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***

Benjamin looked utterly bewildered, as if he had no idea what he was talking about.

"What?"

"My dick won't get hard."

Edmund added the explanation, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette. He brought it back to his lips and sucked on the filter with an attitude that was utterly nonchalant. Benjamin, watching Edmund through the haze of smoke, let out a hollow laugh.

"I didn't ask because I didn't know, Edmund. This isn't some photo I showed you to stimulate your lower region.”

Benjamin's face, seated across from him, grew even more serious.

"Are you going to claim infertility like Rufus?"

"Let's be clear. Unlike my poor half-brother, who was declared impotent, mine is simply unresponsive below the waist. You, as my physician, know my health best."

"Then why refuse the marriage proposal? The Duke of Liberte hasn't yet designated you as his heir. It's rude to say this, but while he's still alive..."

"I know full well I should secure a suitable wife to solidify my position."

Noble houses preserve power through bloodlines. For an heir to cement legitimacy, he must produce an heir, which required first securing a spouse. Marriage was the foremost condition for inheriting the ducal title.

Exhaustion washed over Edmund as he leaned his head back against the sofa's headrest. Despite his impeccably tailored attire, his words and actions were those of a reckless fool.

"But I have no intention of marrying a woman I don't even fancy."

"Enough excuses. You'd do well to hide that vulgar way of speaking. If the ladies who approached you with expectations found out, they'd all run away."

"I'm living up to society's expectations of a bastard with no real pedigree, aren't I?"

Benjamin stared in disbelief at Edmund's half-drunken, unfocused eyes. Then, realizing he could never break the stubbornness he'd known since before Edmund's voice broke, he sighed. Slamming his bag shut, Benjamin rose  from his seat.

"Now is your chance, Edmund. If you propose marriage, even the Duchess won't be able to stop you."

Edmund let out a hollow laugh. The noble Duchess. His stepmother, not a drop of blood shared with him. She had tried every possible means to preserve her own son's fertility.

How unfortunate. With her birthday just days away, the only news reaching her now was not the death of that bastard she loathed so much, but only his glittering future.

How would she react now?

"I'll leave the photos of the young ladies here. Their basic details are written on the back, so refer to those."

Benjamin, his sweat from struggling at the main gate barely dried, trudged out. 

Thud. The door closed, and only the ticking of the clock echoed through the study. Edmund, finally alone, felt a bitter displeasure settle in his eyes.

The reason his only true friend was so passionately invested in this marriage, as if it were his own, was abundantly clear. Though lacking a title, he came from a long line of physicians and had become the Duke of Liberte's personal physician at a young age. In vulgar terms, he had climbed Edmund's ladder. Therefore, it stood to reason that Edmund, the illegitimate son, inheriting the dukedom over the legitimate son, Rufus, would be advantageous for him. And, of course, for Edmund himself.

His father, the Duke, too, was gradually leaning toward Edmund, who had brought the family business to its peak, rather than the eldest son who could not produce an heir. Even if he was only half a Duke, he was still a Liberte. The path to the dukedom was truly paved with gold.

So, while the obvious solution was to take a wife and produce an heir as soon as possible, the repulsion welling up from deep within his chest was irresistible.

"Hmm."

Having been born with even half noble blood, a political marriage was inevitable. Especially for someone like him who needed to solidify his authority. He knew his options were limited, yet how long could he keep putting off the marriage by clinging to his aversion?

Wasn't it contradictory to engage in such uncharacteristically inefficient behavior, offering advice to a woman he'd just met that reflected his own desires?

A memory from days past suddenly surfaced. Yes, that woman he'd encountered on the balcony. Edmund paused the cigarette he'd been bringing to his lips, his mind momentarily seized by the lingering image of that unknown woman.

That night had been a time without any particular meaning. As usual, the swarming crowd around him had been tiresome, and he'd simply needed a moment alone. Some boarding school buddy, unable to resist his desires, had brought his mistress along, and they'd ended up in that very reception room with the balcony, whining like dogs, forcing him to endure their disgusting sounds like background noise.

It wasn't surprising; it had happened before, just at different times and places. Since it was an important banquet, he needed to make an appearance, so he planned to take a few puffs and head down to the banquet hall. Even if they were in the middle of their affair.

It was then that the woman, unable to hide her bewilderment, rushed onto the balcony.

Blocking the door, he asked her to step aside, only for her to declare she wanted to smoke too. She looked like someone who'd never even tapped cigarette ash in her life – what on earth was she smoking?

He easily guessed her reason, but Edmund readily agreed to her request. He believed it was chivalry acting on its own, that one must never put a lady in a difficult position.

‘Facing an unwanted betrothal, perhaps.’

He recalled the woman pretending everything was fine as she spoke. Her softly pinned-up golden-brown hair and the delicate nape of her neck revealed beneath. Her voice, low and mature-sounding, contrasted with the soft downy fuzz on her cheeks. Her eyelashes fluttered slowly, a habit perhaps, her bright hazel eyes matching her hair. And her red lips, parting slightly.

Edmund, who never took a single puff from the cigarette tucked between his knuckles, bit down firmly on the filter. His gaze suddenly drifted toward the photo envelope lying on the table.

There were no familiar faces in the photo. Of course, he might have exchanged greetings with a few during the dozens of banquets he attended, but none left an impression.

So there was no need to rummage through that envelope. That woman definitely wasn't in there.

Before long, Edmund picked up the photo envelope and tossed it into the trash can with a thud. The unpleasant feeling still lingered, unwashed away.

***

The townhouse in the capital city of Borsa, owned by the Count of Twyford's family, was a four-story detached residence, including the basement. Though not located in an affluent neighborhood like Chiles, this splendid building boasted a garden with a small fountain, a rear garden lush with rose bushes, and no fewer than eight guest rooms. 

Blair's favorite space within it was the rear garden.

She loved the profusely blooming roses, but it was also because few people disturbed the peace there. Aside from the gardener finishing his work early in the morning, there were scarcely any servants coming and going in the rear garden.

Today, after lunch, Blair once again took a book out to the garden. Even though no one was watching, she glanced around unnecessarily before quietly pulling out a sheet of paper tucked between the book's pages.

Blair's ears flushed slightly as she looked at the unfinished drawing on the paper. It was a sketch of the man she had encountered just a few days ago on the balcony of the banquet hall.

"His eyes seemed a bit sharper..."

Picking up her pencil, Blair finished drawing Edmund's face. That night had become an oddly vivid memory etched in her mind, but as time passed, the man's face faded like an afterimage.

It had been a week since she picked up the pencil, driven by that regret. Every day, pretending to read as if someone might see, she headed to the courtyard. Blair's heart pounded as if she were hiding some great secret. Yet, from that day on, her curiosity about the man began to burn like an unquenchable flame.

That night, returning to the banquet hall, Blair couldn't focus on how the party was unfolding. Even as her father's 'new friends'—all drunk and flushed red—breathed heavily and used utterly unpleasant language, her attention was elsewhere. Yet, her frantically searching gaze failed to find the man.

‘If only we could have talked longer on the balcony.’

Blair, who habitually recalled that night, returned to reality and looked at the sketch she had drawn, which turned out quite passably. It was the profile she had gazed at intently while standing side by side with him at the railing, yet it didn't quite satisfy her. When she first picked up the pencil to draw him, she had considered herself fortunate to have a talent for drawing.

‘After all, the real thing is incomparably better than a crude drawing.’

His jawline felt sharper than this, didn't it? If she saw him again, she could probably tell for sure…

"Miss."

Lost in such deep thought, she noticed the head maid opening the arched gate to the garden and walking in a beat too late.

Carefully covering the painting with the paper, Blair pulled the open book toward her chest. She slipped the paper between the pages and put on an expression as if nothing had happened, looking quite sly.

"Mrs. Norris, what is it?"

"The Count returned home a short while ago."

"Father?"

"Yes, Miss. He came with a guest and went straight into the drawing room."

He brought a guest?

“Thank you for letting me know. I’ll go greet him now.”