Deceived 31

Chapter 31

***

After leaving Chiles, Blair had no time to dwell on her confusing emotions. A letter arrived, just as she had been informed, inviting her to a party celebrating the exhibition's success. Unusually, the Count of Twyford was staying at the townhouse at the time.

"Your Lordship, a letter just arrived."

A maid approached him, carrying a silver tray, just as he was having lunch. Blair, who had been quietly playing with her cutlery across the table, glanced up. On the tray lay an envelope sealed with dark red wax. The Count of Twyford immediately recognized the family crest imprinted in the wax.

"That's the Liberte family crest, isn't it?"

He hastily tore open the envelope to check its contents. Seeing the invitation, clearly sent by Edmund, Blair slowly swallowed a sip of water. Soon, a hollow laugh echoed.

"So it was that famous bastard who sent it. Stamping the family seal so proudly and hosting a banquet too. Seems he's gotten a taste of power, eh?"

"......"

"This truly is the end of days. Duke Liberte is dying, the eldest son lost his manhood—such absurd rumors spread—and now this bastard of questionable lineage dares to claim the ducal title."

"...Are you planning not to attend the party?"

"What kind of foolish question is that?"

A dark ambition, calculating self-interest, glinted in the Count’s eyes.

"The illegitimate son label hasn't vanished, but he's a strong contender to succeed the powerful Liberte. They say the youngster has a knack for business too. Knowing someone of his caliber can't hurt."

Edmund was right. Precisely because he was an illegitimate son not yet a full duke, Blair’s father’s opinion of him was far from favorable. Her father would undoubtedly weigh the scales between Edmund and the Domans. So Edmund must have chosen the only way to make him choose him.

‘Did that man consider even a fraction of the suffering I would endure?’

...What good was such a question? Blair had already stepped into an irreversible realm. After agonizing over whether to spend her life caged or venture outside to flap her wings despite the unknown dangers, she had ultimately chosen the latter.

“…Hey there, Blair. Your name is on the guest list.”

“Ah.”

Blair, lost in thought, lifted her head. Unsure how to respond, she hesitated before nodding.

“I see. Would it be acceptable for me to attend with my father?”

“No. It means only your name is listed.”

Blair froze, and silence settled over the table. To send an invitation to the townhouse where the Count of Twyford was staying, requesting only her attendance—wasn't this blatantly obvious?

Fortunately, the Count of Twyford didn't seem to find it strange.

"Looks like they're gathering only the young ones for a party. Typical aristocratic games in the capital. How vulgar and crude."

"Then Lord Doman will be attending too. I recall hearing he and Lord Liberte were boarding school classmates."

This time, it was her father who fell silent. He gave a short, hollow cough and nodded his head in permission.

"It's scheduled for a weekend evening at the Bermond Gallery. Make sure you arrive on time."

"Yes, Father."

"Always mind your conduct and behave properly. Your name must never be the subject of gossip."

In her mind, she pictured herself doing the exact opposite, but Blair silently bowed her head.

***

The destination, Bermond Gallery, was a place she had visited before. Before Ogwiere’s exhibition officially opened there, she had personally visited, escorted by Edmund himself, to view the paintings.

Perhaps it was then. The moment her heart became hopelessly entangled with that man.

Arriving at the gallery with a heavy heart, Blair handed her invitation to the doorman guarding the entrance. She stepped inside, where beautiful string melodies flowed.

The guests filling the gallery were gathered in small groups. True to a party hosted by the Libertes during prime time, each was dressed in elegant evening wear, viewing  Ogwiere’s works, clinking champagne glasses, or exchanging laughter-filled conversation. Smiles gleaming like golden masks were the language here.

Blair scanned her surroundings as she slowly crossed the center of the hall. No awkward faces like Isaac Doman or Nicoletta were in sight yet. Instead, a familiar face caught her attention from across the room.

“......”

Edmund stood with two elegantly dressed ladies. And right in front of the very painting by Ogwiere that had made the deepest impression on Blair.

Was he giving them the same explanation? Had he praised the painting as truly serene and beautiful, then revealed it was actually Ogwiere’s final work before his suicide, imbued with a peace bordering on resignation?

At that moment, their eyes met. The soft string music playing like background noise seemed to pause for an instant. Blair couldn't tell what expression he wore. As their gazes met, Edmund, still wearing the smile from their conversation, gave a light bow. He added a few words, as if seeking their understanding, then soon made his way through the crowd toward her.

"Miss Twyford."

“…Lord Liberte.”

“You’ve come. Since it was an official invitation, I was worried you might not attend if your father objected.”

“I was able to persuade Father sufficiently.”

At the words, laden with subtle meaning, Edmund merely smiled faintly as he looked down at Blair.

“Would you care for a drink first?”

“That would be best.”

Edmund naturally guided Blair to the table where drinks were set. He picked up a non-alcoholic beverage and was about to pour Blair's share himself.

"I'd rather get a little drunk tonight."

Blair shook her head and lightly placed a hand over Edmund's wrist as he tilted the glass. Their gazes lingered on the empty glass before slowly drifting toward each other.

"Arming yourself with drunkenness seems like a dangerous strategy."

"Tonight, I just... don't think I can handle it sober."

"Ah."

Edmund chuckled briefly and picked up the champagne bottle. Pale bubbles rose into the glass and quickly shattered.

"I thought you were a bold young lady, coming into a man's home alone and pressing your lips to mine."

"Because others' gazes would scratch and tear at me. Lord Liberte never looked at me that way. So I could reveal myself honestly."

He tilted his head slightly, his smile relaxed.

"What exactly do you mean by 'that kind of gaze'?"

"A gaze that doesn't judge carelessly, that doesn't cut me down."

"Surely there was a gaze that clearly desired you. That didn't seem to bother you."

"Perhaps because that gaze was like a mirror to me."

Blair responded curtly to his ambiguous jest. Then she lifted the champagne glass he had filled for her. Edmund also held out his glass, and the two glasses clinked lightly. 

The clear sound echoed, drawing a little more attention from those around them who had been glancing their way.

Blair silently took a sip of champagne. Swallowing the carbonation that tickled her tongue, tiny bubbles burst in her throat. It wasn't a strong drink, so it wasn't difficult to drink, but it was enough to make her heart, which wasn't used to alcohol, beat a half-beat faster. It was also more than enough to lend her the courage needed for tonight's stage.

"It's quite potent. More than enough to cloud the senses."

"What can I say? I'd prefer your senses to remain perfectly sharp."

Edmund smiled meaningfully, leaning closer to whisper softly into Blair's ear.

"Because I suddenly feel like kissing you right now."

“…But you said you wouldn’t fuel the scandal with such blatant methods?”

“It’s not about the scandal. It’s purely personal.”

Was this too part of his plan? It had to be. A man already large in stature and strikingly handsome, who commanded attention simply by standing still, was now showing clear interest in Blair. Who could look away?