Chapter 53
Chapter 53
Translation: godsn
"My heart aches every time I see this, Matthias."
Liet clicked his tongue as he opened the liquor cabinet. Though Matthias didn't particularly enjoy drinking, the display cabinet in his room was always stocked with fine spirits.
"Leaving them neglected like this is an insult to the liquor."
With his usual easygoing manner, Liet hummed to himself as he retrieved a bottle and returned to the table. As always, Matthias wore an expression of utter indifference to whatever Liet was doing.
The music from the gramophone blended strangely harmoniously with the crackling of the fireplace logs. Liet filled the glasses brought by the attendant and handed one to Matthias. The way Matthias accepted the glass mirrored the flowing melody of the piano piece filling the room.
Liet lounged back into the sofa, studying Matthias as if examining a complete stranger. Matthias stared pensively at the rim of his glass, while the little canary—now as much a part of this bedroom as the furniture itself—flitted cheerfully around him.
'Your cousin was a gentlemanly devil.'
The rumors about Captain Herhardt from the social clubs surfaced in Liet's mind.
Matthias had never spoken about his time serving on the foreign front. Not out of modesty, but likely because he attached no particular meaning to it. Yet tales of Captain Herhardt's valor had spread through the lips of other noble officers who had fought alongside him.
Though Liet hadn't participated in that war, he could vividly picture the Matthias they described—neither drunk on bloodlust like other young soldiers nor merely going through the motions of duty with weary indifference. A man who systematically carried out his responsibilities without denying the satisfaction and even pleasure it brought, yet never assigning any special meaning to it either. In the end, those who spoke of Matthias always arrived at the same conclusion.
'So... I don't really know.'
That utterly hollow statement, Liet knew better than anyone, was in fact the most perfect description of Matthias von Herhardt.
'I really don't know.'
At those muttered words, people invariably sighed—just as Liet was doing now.
I don't really know.
Though he'd observed Matthias von Herhardt his entire life, Liet's ultimate conclusion about him was no different. Just as mixing all the beautiful colors together eventually produces plain white, so too was Matthias.
A noble aristocrat. An exemplary heir. A good cousin. An honorable soldier. Each of these facets was distinctly visible, yet when combined, they formed nothing at all.
Some praised Duke Herhardt for living a life of restraint and discipline in service to his duties, but Liet remained skeptical of such assessments. As far as he knew, there had never been anything in Matthias that needed restraining in the first place.
And now, Duke Herhardt and Leila Lewellin?
Liet let out a drunken chuckle. Only then did Matthias look at him. The canary had now settled quietly on his shoulder—something that should have been irritating, yet Matthias's expression remained utterly unbothered.
"How long do you plan to keep playing owner to that bird?"
"Until I no longer wish to."
Matthias answered without hesitation, finally taking a sip from the glass he'd been holding. The bird, which had fluttered up momentarily, returned to his shoulder and began pecking at his suspenders.
"And when might that be?"
"Who knows."
Setting down his glass, Matthias leaned back against the armrest. The onyx cufflinks decorating his sleeves caught and reflected the firelight.
"Don't you have any questions? Why I came to Arvis, what I plan to do here—things like that."
"No."
Matthias responded with an air of indifference, as if hearing something utterly foolish. Liet showing up unannounced at Arvis and staying for weeks at a time was nothing out of the ordinary.
"Anyway. You're really something else."
Liet burst into laughter and downed the remaining liquor in one gulp.
Was it desire?
He studied Matthias pensively.
That seemed the most plausible assumption. A man's desire to possess a beautiful woman. It would be close to instinct, after all. Just because he lacked emotions didn't mean his instincts had disappeared as well.
But why, of all people, that orphan? Why her, when Duke Herhardt had remained utterly indifferent to women far more beautiful and noble?
The more he thought about it, the more it felt like sinking into a labyrinth, so Liet decided to drop the matter. The bird that had been flitting chaotically across the table flew back to Matthias the moment he let out a short whistle.
Watching this, Liet attempted to call the bird with a longer, more elaborate whistle. The bird merely tilted its head, perched on Matthias's hand, showing no sign of approaching.
"What the hell. Even the bird recognizes its master?"
A hollow laugh escaped him. The image of that girl flashed through his mind—her wary eyes staring straight at him.
It shouldn't be too difficult, all things considered. If she was easy for the doctor's son and Duke Herhardt, she wouldn't suddenly become difficult for him. And if it was the Matthias von Herhardt he knew, he'd discard the girl rather than get entangled in a messy affair with his own cousin. Just as Claudine desired.
"Shall we go hunting this weekend?"
Refilling his glass, Liet asked. Matthias, who had been lost in thought for a moment, gave an unexpected reply.
"Go alone. I'll have everything prepared."
"What?"
Liet's eyes widened as he stared at Matthias. Unless his memory was failing him, Matthias had never once refused a hunting invitation.
"Are you serious?"
As Liet pressed in disbelief, a knock echoed through the room. It was the butler, Hessen.
"Today's mail, my lord."
Hessen approached Matthias, carrying a tray with a parcel and a letter.
At this hour, for such a trivial matter, the butler himself had come.
Liet watched them with a bored gaze. From the butler's tightly pressed lips, Liet read the unspoken signal for a third party to leave.
"Then I'll see you tomorrow, Your Grace."
With a casual wave of his hand, Liet picked up his glass and left Matthias's bedroom. Hessen only opened his mouth after Liet's footsteps had faded into the distance.
"The parcel has been returned."
"Parcel?"
Matthias took the small box Hessen handed him with slight awkwardness. It had been sent from an unfamiliar place, under an unfamiliar name.
"Who is this?"
"My relative. I used this name and address when carrying out your orders, my lord."
"Orders? Ah."
Matthias recalled the command he had given Hessen last week—to send Leila Lewellin a good-quality pen. Realization dawned on him, and suddenly everything made sense.
"My lord—"
"I understand."
Matthias cut Hessen off in his usual indifferent tone.
"You may leave."
Hessen, who had been staring at Matthias's fingers tapping the box, obeyed without further explanation or question.
Once the door closed, Matthias stood up, still gripping the box. The torn wrapping paper fluttered down into the fireplace flames.
Inside the now-revealed box lay a neatly placed note and the pen. Matthias slowly read the note pinched between his fingers.
Upon reflection, losing the pen was my fault.
Falling, failing to properly gather my dropped belongings, not retrieving them in time—all of it was my own carelessness. There is no reason for Your Grace to take responsibility.
As I have no right to accept this, I am returning it.
That was all—Leila's note contained nothing but that insolent declaration. Not even her full name was signed. Matthias's eyebrows rose as he reread the note several times. The corners of his lips twisted, and a dry laugh escaped him.
The flickering flames devoured the crumpled note. The box thrown in after it, along with the pen that still retained its pristine luster, followed suit.
As he watched the scene unfold, Matthias's face cycled through self-deprecation, anger, humiliation, and incredulous laughter in quick succession. The moment those vivid emotions tangled into one, his expression vanished entirely. All that remained was a face that appeared, at a glance, eerily calm and composed—shadowed only by the undulating dance of firelight.
Though classes had ended early, Leila found herself busier than ever.
Today was the day of the school's board meeting. The building was small and dilapidated enough to require an extension, and the matter was to be discussed today.
Leila had been tasked with preparing the meeting room. She arranged chairs and tables according to the expected attendees and laid out simple writing utensils and notepads.
"Teacher Lewellin, are you finished?"
Teacher Greber approached with quick steps, her voice bright. After one last glance around the room, Leila nodded with a smile.
"Yes, everything's ready now."
"Then let's hurry outside. The sponsors are arriving."
"Already?"
Leila hastily smoothed her appearance before following Teacher Greber. A procession of ornate carriages and automobiles, carrying the sponsors, was already filing through the school gates.
Shaking her head slightly as if to dismiss a sudden, ominous premonition, Leila reminded herself that the Herhardt family was not on the list of attendees she had reviewed multiple times. Yet her heart pounded uneasily in her chest—no doubt because of that incident.
Several days had passed since she returned the gift. The Duke had made no mention of it. Nor had he sought her out to interrogate or harass her as before. Leila, who had been bracing herself for another such encounter, had finally begun to relax. Perhaps she had wounded his pride—but it was an inevitable confrontation, sooner or later.
As sheltered as she was from matters between men and women, Leila had still harbored a vague intuition. She was old enough to recognize the Duke's desire and the harm it could bring her.
And she loathed all of it.
The Duke, his desire, the repercussions it would bring—Leila despised every last bit. She wanted no further entanglement in the affairs of a world that had nothing to do with her. She refused to be hurt. By returning the gift, she had made her stance clear. Surely the Duke had understood by now. That haughty man's silence could only mean acquiescence.
Taking a slow, steadying breath, Leila took her place at the very end of the line formed to greet the sponsors. The autumn rain had left the air bitingly cold. She had worried the weather might deter attendance, but fortunately, all the promised sponsors had arrived.
With a practiced, polite smile, Leila fulfilled her duties flawlessly—offering greetings, serving tea once the meeting began, and waiting quietly to see the sponsors off afterward. If all went well, her first board meeting would conclude without a hitch.
Just as the last noblewoman stepped inside and the Principal turned to follow, another car pulled to a stop in the rain. The other teachers had already begun to retreat when the Principal spun back, his face breaking into an overwhelmed grin.
"Good heavens! Your Grace!"
Leila's lips trembled as she mechanically prepared to offer another curtsy.
No.
Her eyes darted up in denial, wide and unsteady with panic. And there, unmistakably, stood him—the Duke von Herhardt. Beneath the umbrella held by his attendant, he stood with his characteristic impeccable posture.
His gaze swept slowly over the assembled teachers before halting on Leila's pallid face.
When their eyes met, the Duke smiled. A smile that, at a glance, seemed almost gentle.