How Can You Say Such a Thing?
“All done.”
By the time Anya had finished treating every last wound, music began to drift in from outside.
A lively cancan rhythm announcing the start of the ball spilled out with the brass band’s playing, followed by the sound of dancing feet, laughter, and chatter.
“Shall we go?”
“No. Not yet.”
The wounds were clearly healed, yet Anya kept running her hands over my body. That lingering touch stirred something in me, so I gently caught her wrist.
“Oh my.”
“How about you stop feeling me up. It’s starting to hurt.”
“You said it was nothing serious.”
“Still hurts, though.”
“Then I’ll be gentle.”
But Anya slipped lightly free of my grip and went right back to tracing my arm. She stubbornly caressed every inch of me with such deliberate softness that keeping my expression under control became nearly impossible.
“You have a fine body, husband.”
“A man’s body is usually like this.”
“Is that so?”
Is that so, my foot…
Anya, who had men lining up to court her, could hardly be ignorant of what a man’s body was like. If anything, she knew perfectly well.
I did my best to ignore her hands and sank into thought. Why had Yohan Radner moved on Anya so quickly? Was the count’s title truly his only goal?
So handsome…
Edward’s body was beautiful—beautiful enough to call to mind a magnificent statue. So when he shrugged off his jacket so she could treat his wounds, Anya took in the firm muscle beneath the shirt; when the shirt itself came off, she took in the clean lines of his erector spinae, the powerful rise of his shoulders. All of it she stored away carefully, so she would never forget: while Edward was not looking, she stood behind him and slowly, with glittering eyes, drank him in as if licking every contour.
Desire bloomed inside her.
I want him.
She wanted this man. His beautiful body, his blunt heart, his soft voice—she wanted every piece of him for herself. Even though she had resolved to hold back, even though she had sworn she would not give her heart until he begged for her love, her hands kept gliding slowly over him.
That body so utterly different from her own sent a shiver through every inch of her.
“Does it still hurt?”
Edward, who had first flinched away claiming pain, no longer refused her touch, as if he had grown used to it. A faint flush colored his cheeks, though whether it was excitement, the effort of enduring pain, or simply the lingering heat of battle, she could not tell. From that expressionless profile, the emotion called affection scarcely showed at all.
Yet that very blankness only fanned the fire in Anya’s chest—something Edward never even dreamed.
“It still hurts.”
“Then shall we rest a little longer?”
Dancing no longer mattered in the least, Anya thought. This brief stretch of time spent tending each other’s wounds felt as fragile and precious as a dream.
Did Edward’s heart race the way hers did? When he had wrapped the bandage around her ankle, had he felt even a fraction of what she felt? Even if he had not, if the still pool inside him had stirred even a little, Anya would have been content.
After all, she was a beauty. Any ordinary man would go mad with the desire to hold her, would gladly lay down his life to possess her. So Edward, too, would come to crave her in time.
Anya wanted nothing more than to pull him into her arms that very instant, yet she knew excess always invited ruin, and she knew all too well how wretched it felt to offer one’s heart first. So she contented herself with slowly caressing Edward’s body and nothing more.
By the time the pain had begun to fade, the music inside the mansion had changed. The brass band that had been playing lively cancan rhythms to lift the mood switched to a classical tempo.
“How about we head out now?”
Any excuse would do—I needed to escape those dense, lingering hands, and this was the perfect chance. A fast dance would have been impossible, but a slow one I could manage even with a sore ankle.
“Shall we?”
“It wouldn’t be polite to keep our faces hidden too long, would it?”
“That’s true…”
When I rose, Anya’s hand slipped reluctantly from my arm. I took that hand and helped her up; the moment we stepped outside, the waiting maid hurried over.
“Are you feeling any better, my lord?”
“Thanks to you. I’m grateful.”
“I only did my duty.”
The maid dipped her head lightly and led us toward the ballroom. The atmosphere there was already in full bloom. Countless couples moved slowly hand in hand, looking for all the world like wildflowers swaying in a breeze.
“Young Master Edward.”
Just as we were about to descend the stairs into the ballroom, the maid called us back.
“Is something the matter?”
“Countess Orland wishes to meet Young Master Edward and Lady Bronte privately. If you have a moment, would you go to her first?”
“Very well.”
Of course she would be curious. We had merely come to attend a ball, yet we had arrived looking like wrecks. Still, something felt off. Why the Countess rather than Count Orland himself?
A woman of her station could certainly move in society, yet the master of House Orland was the Count. When nobles requested a private audience, important matters were usually discussed—society gossip, business, that sort of thing. But as far as I knew, Countess Orland was no businesswoman of the caliber to sit down with a count’s eldest daughter or a duke’s only child. She simply did not hold that kind of standing. If she only meant to inquire after our health, it would have been far easier to approach us quietly on the ballroom floor.
Carrying a faint suspicion, I followed the maid into the central room on the second floor. Countess Orland’s eyes lit up the moment she saw us.
“Oh! Lord Edward, and Lady Bronte!”
“I was told you wished to see us.”
“Yes, of course. The state the two of you were in when you arrived… I was so worried something dreadful had happened.”
“As you can see, nothing of consequence.”
When I cut the conversation short, the Countess’s expression stiffened ever so slightly. She did not let it show openly, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.
“What a relief, then.”
“Did you summon us simply to ask after our health?”
“Yes… I requested a private meeting in case Young Master preferred the matter not become public knowledge.”
At that, Anya abruptly cut in, seized my hand, and rose from her seat.
“I see. If the conversation is finished, we’ll be going.”
She strode straight out of the room. I followed in confusion.
“My lady, what on earth—”
“I have nothing more to say.”
“Even so, this is hardly proper behavior.”
“I don’t care. She isn’t someone who deserves courtesy.”
“My lady!”
I raised my voice, and Anya flinched hard. She looked up at me with wide, startled rabbit eyes, then—rare for her—furrowed her brow and snapped back.
“It’s that woman’s doing.”
“What?”
Anya composed her face, yet the tip of her jaw still twitched as if she were clenching her teeth. After a few rough breaths she steadied her voice and whispered,
“The one who ambushed us… was her. Countess Orland.”
“But we heard it clearly, didn’t we? The man they call the drug lord of the back alleys was the culprit.”
“No. That man was lying.”
“On what grounds?”
“That woman hates me. She’s terrified I’ll steal her husband.”
“That’s your reason?”
I could not understand. However suspicious the Countess’s private summons might be, it was hardly evidence. To my eyes it looked like nothing more than Anya’s stubbornness.
“My lady. Even coming from you, I think this is something of a leap.”
“A leap?”
Anya bit her lower lip.
“Didn’t you see the way she looked at me?”
“Suspecting an innocent person is—”
“Edward!”
Anya clenched her fists until they trembled, the picture of wounded injustice.
“How can you say such a thing?”
“But… my lady.”
“Enough.”
She shook my hand free. Pearl-like tears spilled one after another from both eyes.
“I want to go home.”
“Anya!”
I called after her as she spun on her heel and strode away, then hurried to catch up. I caught her wrist; she flung it off. Left with no choice, I seized both her wrists and pulled her into my arms as if to hold her close.
“I’ll believe you. I will, so—”
“I said enough.”
“I’m sorry.”
“……”
“I’ll find the truth somehow… and make them answer for it.”
Only then did the tension drain from Anya’s arms; they went limp against me.
“You mean it?”
“I mean it. Truly. I swear.”
“You don’t have to swear.”
Anya, eyes still red, let the corners of her mouth lift ever so slightly. As if the anger had never existed, she trotted lightly toward the stairs.
“Hurry up, husband.”
The sight of her drew a helpless sigh from me. How was it that a woman this willful, this needlessly stubborn, this arrogantly confident in her own beauty, could be forgiven the moment she smiled?
I bit my lower lip lightly, as if scolding my own foolishness, and watched Anya’s back as she descended lightly toward the ballroom.