Deceived 7

Chapter 7

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Sponsored by LC. Thank you ❤️ (3/6)

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Without giving it much thought, Blair nodded and picked up the book before rising from her seat. Her steps toward the mansion, leaving the garden behind, were somewhat hurried. She needed to hurry a bit to greet her father and his guest without being late, after his four-day absence.

Since there was no mistress of the house at the residence, maintaining the household's decorum—welcoming guests and attending to them—fell entirely to Blair.

Upon entering the mansion, Blair stopped at her bedroom upstairs to hide the book containing the painting before descending to the first floor. Standing before the drawing room door, she hesitated just as she was about to knock. Laughter echoed from within, suggesting conversation was underway.

"Since ancient times, the strongest alliances have been forged through marriage, haven't they?"

"You are absolutely right. It is an immense honor to be able to make a deal with the Marquis during such a difficult time."

"Thanks to each of us having a son and daughter of marriageable age."

Swallowing hard, Blair found himself drawn closer to the doorway, pressing her ear tightly against it.

"If the marriage is successfully arranged, I will fully open the overland route through our estate to the northern trading port of Glasford to the Marquis."

"Excellent. We'll be able to ship raw materials directly without middlemen. I'll also transfer a certain stake in the Hampton factory to your name. Review the contract for details."

"I'm sorry, but the advance payment..."

“If it’s 100,000 flans, I’ll pay it immediately after the ceremony. Don’t worry about that part.”

"You are truly magnanimous."

Laughter erupted like firecrackers within the reception room once more. Blair drew a shaky breath. The atmosphere inside and outside the door had shifted in an instant.

She knew full well that a marriage between two families was ultimately a matter of profit and loss. But hearing the cold, hard reality that she was a commodity, a bargaining chip, before she was a living, breathing human being or someone's daughter, was entirely different.

Blair turned her head, sensing movement. Maids who had prepared refreshments were now staring at her with puzzled expressions. Blair composed her drained complexion and knocked on the parlor door.

"Come in."

"You're back, Father."

Stepping inside, Blair bowed respectfully. In the parlor, a man and woman in their forties, presumably a married couple, were watching her with sparkling, interested eyes.

"Greet our guests. You met them after the last concert, at the event. Surely you remember them?"

The face of the man seated across the low table from her father looked familiar. Blair instantly remembered him.

"Of course. It's an honor to see you again, Marquis Doman And... the Marchioness. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Blair Twyford."

"Pleased to meet you too. Honestly, you don't resemble Henry at all."

For a moment, the Count of Twyford's face seemed to flush crimson, but he remained silent. Had it been ten years ago, he might have retorted that she took after her famously beautiful mother, but now that she was gone, such a retort was impossible.

Blair responded with a polite smile and shifted her gaze to the Marchioness. A heavily made-up lady covered her lips and smiled.

"How lovely to meet you, Miss Twyford. I wish we'd had a chance to greet each other at the charity event, but I was feeling unwell that day."

"I'm delighted to finally meet you, madam."

The Marchioness of Doman, who had been an opera singer in her youth, laughed aloud. Even as she did, her eyes darted quickly over Blair's features.

"Miss Twyford, might you spare a moment?"

"How could I refuse the Marchioness's request?"

Mrs. Norris, who had followed in, poured black tea into the guests' cups. Blair offered a brief thank you before gesturing to the head maid to leave.

"Did you know we were coming?"

"No, Your Grace."

"I thought so."

The lady, wearing an utterly satisfied smile, exchanged a glance with her husband. After taking a sip of tea, the Marquis glanced at Blair and then cast a smiling look at the Count of Twyford.

"Even without being informed of the distinguished guests' arrival, she was dressed so impeccably?"

"It is my daughter's habit to purify both body and mind each morning. She is a child who truly embodies grace and decorum."

Her father wore an expression of immense pride, as if introducing a porcelain doll dusted and polished daily with a silk handkerchief.

"I'm starting to trust what you say more and more. You're not just a braggart after all."

"Of course. Haven't I told you many times?"

"She's the very model of a perfect woman, like a textbook example. I wish my wife could learn from her."

"Oh, you!"

The lady playfully scolded the Duke of Doman, then leaned toward her husband and began whispering.

"Look at that luscious hair, dear. And her face is quite pretty too..."

"Hmm."

"It's a shame she's so thin. Still, she should have some curves where they belong."

The Marquis scanned her up and down as if appraising her. Blair pretended not to hear, lifting her teacup to take a sip of the hot tea. Unfortunately, the woman’s richly resonant voice continued.

"Isaac won't be disappointed, I suppose."

"Well, women have an uncanny knack for spotting these things."

"What nonsense! Men are the ones who see through the veil of secrets best."

Bright sunlight streamed into the drawing room at midday. The cream-colored wallpaper, adorned with gold patterns, shimmered in the light. The velvet sofa with its elegant embroidery and the antique coffee table constantly released the soft fragrance of black tea. Nothing in the room felt oppressive, yet breathing felt as difficult as being submerged in thick seawater.

"If you just sit still on the display stand, you’ll keep being treated like merchandise."

Blair couldn't fathom why that low voice came to mind. Was it because she was being treated not as a person with feelings, but as an object where utility value came first?

A product had no self. Even as potential buyers scanned her up and down, gauging her worth, and even as they handled her here and there, she couldn't express dissatisfaction.

She didn't want to just sit quietly in this unpleasant situation either. But she couldn't leave without permission. In a situation like this, with her father present, how to respond was something. Blair, who had lived obediently her whole life, couldn't easily figure it out.

So she couldn't say it. That she didn't want to be betrothed to some unknown man. That if possible, she wanted to be with the man she truly desired. Like her mother, who had run off with the stablehand.

There was no way she could say that.

"I have news for you, Miss Twyford."

After finishing their dreadful conversation among themselves, the Marquis of Doman lifted his chin as if bestowing some great favor.

"Though the two families have already discussed the match, I would like for the two of you to share a cup of tea together before the wedding, if only as a formality. My son, as it happens, has expressed a desire to meet the young lady."

Her heart pounded. The realization that she was being completely excluded from her own marriage arrangements delivered one shock after another.

Even if she mustered every ounce of courage she had and confessed to her father that she wasn't ready to marry anyone, could she possibly break off this engagement?

"It seems his schoolmates who saw Miss Twyford at the banquet that day must have told my son about it. And where on earth was he hiding at the banquet that he didn't even exchange greetings with the young lady? Tsk tsk."

"Why do you speak like that, dear? He was completely absorbed in sharing the joy of reuniting with an old friend."

“Anyway, we should formally arrange a date soon. What do you think?”

“…of course, Your Grace.”

"Good."

After finishing his business, the Marquis took his eyes off Blair and took a sip of his tea. The quick-witted Count of Twyford gestured toward the door with his chin.

"You may leave now, Blair."

"It was an honor to meet you, Your Grace, and the Marchioness."

Blair rose from the sofa with polite deference and began to walk away. Before she knew it, cold sweat had soaked her palms. She gasped for breath as if she had just barely escaped after desperately flailing in the dark night sea, unable to calm her heaving chest for a long while.

***

The telegram from the Duke of Doman had arrived only a few days later. As previously informed, it was for a private meeting with the Duke's only son, and Blair had no say in the matter.

The appointed time they had notified her of was 5 PM, the location was a lounge bar situated by the river. It was a place that sold tea during the day and, as evening drew in, dimmed the lights to serve wine and cocktails. By the time Blair arrived, dusk had already fallen.

She breathed in the unfamiliar air and glanced at the wall clock. The agreed time had long passed, yet the other party still hadn't arrived.

'How much longer must I wait?'

Sitting alone as a woman, she felt uncomfortable as eyes darted at her from all sides. She couldn't just get up and leave, so she wished she'd brought a book. Just as she was lost in these fleeting thoughts, a man dressed in bright aqua-colored formal wear strolled leisurely into the lounge.

"Miss Blair Twyford?"

Though they had never met, the man recognized her instantly. Approaching close, he offered a broad smile on his handsome face and extended his hand.

Blair's eyes flicked downward. His hand was exceptionally white and smooth. It looked like it had never known hardship in its entire life.

“Isaac Doman. Pleased to meet you.”