Chapter 172
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 172
After another round of drinks, the atmosphere between them softened considerably.
"This is your first time in my office, isn't it?"
"It is. I was actually wondering why you asked to meet here today."
"Meeting in the drawing room every time gets a bit tiresome, don't you think?"
Cedric stood and walked slowly toward the wall where Rowan’s portrait hung, speaking as he moved.
"To be honest, the drawing room is strictly for business. I only invite those I consider personal acquaintances to my office."
Harriet realized then that she had been moved into that inner circle. A small spark of joy bloomed within her, and with it, a flicker of courage. She set down her glass, stood quietly, and approached him.
"Is there a particular reason you chose to display only the Late Duke’s portrait here?"
"To keep myself sharp. If I imagine my father is watching, I find it impossible to be lazy."
Looking at his broad, sturdy back, a sudden wave of loneliness seemed to radiate from him.
When, and by whose side, could this man ever lay down his responsibilities and truly rest?
He always seemed so composed—a trait that used to annoy her—but what if that composure was actually a shield? A mask for someone who couldn't afford to falter for even a single moment?
Harriet felt a pang of pity, followed by a sense of apology. She wondered if she was being presumptuous, but then again, even an Emperor had aspects that could evoke compassion.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then placed a hand in the center of Cedric’s back. She hoped the small gesture would convey the sincerity of the comfort she offered.
"If the Late Duke were to see his son, who never allows himself a moment's rest, I think he would feel pity rather than pride. You are already doing so well."
Cedric merely tilted his head back to look at her. His gaze was enigmatic, its meaning impossible to discern.
Feeling a flush of embarrassment, Harriet lowered her hand and stepped forward to stand beside him. As they stood together before Rowan’s portrait, it truly felt as if the man were looking down at them.
"To be honest, I once thought I wanted to surpass you, Duke."
"Why the past tense?"
"Because I realized it was impossible. The more I learn, the more I see the insurmountable difference between us."
"That’s—"
"Don't misunderstand. I’m not belittling myself." Harriet turned her gaze back to him. "It just means you’re that amazing, Duke. Even if I hate to admit it."
"Is that so...?"
"Actually, it’s you who is prone to self-deprecation. Or do you just get so embarrassed when you hear the word 'hero' that your stomach clenches?"
At that, Cedric let out a low chuckle.
Watching him smile so naturally, Harriet felt her own tension melt away. She found herself hoping that, for this one moment, she could be a place of rest for him. It gave her the strength to speak of her own past with a playful lightness.
"Still, you’re lucky, Duke. You can keep your father’s portrait by your side and hold onto his mementos. I have nothing."
"What do you mean, 'nothing'?"
"All the portraits are locked away in the Listerwell family warehouse, and my uncle burned every last memento."
"What?"
The idea that not a single item of her parents' remained for their child was so absurd it startled even the usually unflappable Cedric.
A family’s history was carried through its bloodline; nobles valued ancestral mementos above almost all else. Leaving behind personal items for one's children was one of the most sacred rituals before death. Even if Harriet’s parents had died in an accident without the chance to prepare, John, who had inherited the title, had a moral obligation to preserve those items for their daughter. Instead, he had destroyed them.
"Why on earth would he go that far?"
"Tell me about it. He even burned them right in front of my eyes."
Even now, she couldn't forget that day. She could still hear her own voice begging him to leave her just one thing as her uncle, acting like a high executioner, tossed her parents' belongings into a pit of flames.
"My uncle claimed he’d heard that parents who die leaving young children behind can never truly rest in peace. He said all objects their souls might cling to had to be destroyed for their own sake."
"I have never heard of such a ridiculous superstition."
"I know now that it sounds like the ramblings of a pagan, but what power did a twelve-year-old child have back then?"
Harriet let out a short, mirthless laugh that sounded more like a sigh.
"'It’s for your own peace of mind! How could our poor brother and sister-in-law rest if they see you like this? If you truly loved your parents, you wouldn't act so selfishly!'"
She mimicked her uncle’s lecturing tone. She remembered her aunt clicking her tongue in disapproval and her cousins staring at her as if she were a freak for grieving. On that day, when no one took her side, the shock of losing her parents hadn't even fully subsided. Who could truly know the sorrow of a girl who wasn't even allowed to keep a memory?
The time that felt like death had passed, and she had managed to live on, but the wounds carved into her then remained as jagged scars. Even now, they occasionally throbbed, announcing their presence.
"Some people might find it ridiculous to attach so much meaning to mere objects. But there are also those who lean on them just to endure. That’s why I wanted to have just one..."
Her parents' faces, which she once thought would never fade, had grown blurry with the passage of time. She couldn't remember if the fountain pen her father always used was navy or black, and the pattern on her mother’s favorite knitted shawl had vanished from her mind entirely. Only those who had experienced it knew the crushing guilt of forgetting the people they loved most.
As Harriet tried to mask her emotions with a smile, Cedric took a step closer.
He raised a hand, slowly cupping her cheek, and brushed his thumb beneath her eye. Only then did the tears she had been holding back finally stream down.
"I finally understand how rude it was of me to throw my father’s mementos into the fountain. I don't know how to apologize."
"It’s not your fault, Duke. You couldn't have known; I never told you."
"It was my arrogance and foolishness that prevented me from noticing."
If he had admitted his feelings for her a little earlier, he would never have been so careless.
"When you say things like that, Duke, it’s a bit strange. It doesn't suit you," Harriet said playfully, trying to hide her embarrassment over the tears.
But Cedric couldn't respond with a joke. He was captivated by the fact that she wasn't pulling away, and the soft warmth of her cheek in his hand was too beautiful to ignore. No man could dismiss such a moment with a jest.
"I know. I am acting strange right now."
His thumb traced the curves of her face, as if trying to memorize every line. Her flushed cheekbones and the slight upturn of her nose were lovely, but his gaze was drawn to her lips, which had parted slightly as her smile faded.
If a sweet red fruit were crushed, would the juice be such an inviting color?
Cedric swallowed hard and gently pressed his thumb against Harriet’s lower lip. He didn't even realize when his hand had moved there. As her lips parted further under his touch, the memory of a certain night rushed back—the night he had tried so hard to forget.
The hazy, ecstatic heat of the kiss they had shared under the lace shawl in the dark gazebo. The sweetness he had wanted to drown in.
"But do you know something? It’s you who makes me strange."
Harriet’s hazel eyes widened, shimmering with a mix of surprise and a lingering sadness. Then, her eyelids fluttered shut.
"How curious. Because it’s you, Duke, who makes me strange."
Cedric felt as if he had been struck by the very ambiguity he usually wielded himself. He completely forgot what they had been talking about.
Was this what it meant to be captivated in an instant?
Like someone who had suddenly let go of all restraint, he kissed her. And only when their lips met did he finally understand why.
I... this woman...
The passion that flared up didn't give him the luxury of finishing the thought. Facing the touch he had craved for so long—her scent, her warmth—how could he pay attention to anything else? Especially now, with Harriet nestled in his arms.
A wistful breath escaped between their locked lips, but neither pulled away. They kissed with a desperate intensity, as if they would never have the chance again—as if they both knew that a single moment could never truly become an eternity.
"Mmm..."
When a small moan escaped her, Cedric instinctively tightened his hold, fearing she would push him away. He refused to let the moment end.
But then.
"Stop...!"
Harriet turned her head, finally shattering the miraculous silence.
Cedric opened his eyes, realizing too late what he had done.
"Ah..."
The sound was foolish, a lapse in composure that almost never happened in his life. But before he could even begin to hide his embarrassment, Harriet spoke in a trembling whisper.
"Is this... also part of the plan?"