As she returned to her room, Grace rubbed her right wrist—the one that had swung the bottle.
*‘Maybe I should have wrapped a towel around my wrist before striking? Real combat really is different.’*
She swallowed her savage thoughts.
Grace, who had been walking down the dark corridor, suddenly stopped. When she turned her head, her reflection appeared in the pitch-black window.
Long, wavy blonde hair; delicate features in perfect harmony with her small, slender face; soft, light-green eyes. Though not particularly short, her slender frame made her seem more petite than she actually was.
The maids praised her beauty every day, but Grace had long been dissatisfied with her own appearance. She had tried heavy makeup to look stronger, yet she only ended up looking like a child pretending to be an adult.
When she grumbled about how wonderful it would be to make an opponent’s knees buckle with just a glare, the hunting instructor who had taught her smiled and spoke.
“In my opinion, My Lady already possesses a truly excellent weapon.”
“A weapon? My appearance?”
“When catching prey bigger than yourself, you must never appear threatening. That kind of prey usually dies first. You must completely relax your opponent, then strike from behind.”
From that day on, Grace made her appearance her weapon. Like an innocent, sheltered noble young lady, she put on a docile expression and behaved modestly, converting every malicious remark into the sound of a barking dog and letting it pass.
As a result, the Duke and Duchess of Taylor thought of Grace as a convenient pawn to exploit and discard, leaving all documents requiring the head of household’s confirmation and decision entirely to her. Amidst that complete negligence, Grace bided her time and gathered information.
Just as she was about to resume walking, a mocking voice came from the end of the corridor.
“Your husband-to-be, quite splendid, isn’t he?”
Rosette Taylor, who took after the Duchess of Taylor, approached.
“He’s Her Majesty the Queen’s nephew, no less. Lucky you, Grace.”
*All malicious words are just dogs barking.*
While Grace recited this like a habit, Rosette smiled brightly.
“From tomorrow, you’ll be the Queen’s nephew’s wife, won’t you?”
Grace wanted to smear ash on that smiling face, but she couldn’t ruin things now. She smiled faintly and tilted her head.
“Thank you, Rosette.”
Her elegant, gentle voice seemed to carry sincere gratitude, which instead made Rosette’s face twist violently.
Even to remarks that should have made her bristle and snap back, Grace always responded with that smile. It was precisely that which drove Rosette mad. The moments Rosette wanted to throw stones at that serene face must outnumber the grains of sand on a white beach. Rosette pressed in close to Grace and spoke viciously.
“Yes, smile like an idiot your whole life. He’s the perfect husband for you, so serve him and endure forever.”
Listening to Rosette’s venom, Grace thought: she had just returned from swinging a wine bottle at the man who was to be her husband.
“Don’t come back to Taylor even after you die, Grace. This isn’t your home.”
“….”
“It’s mine.”
Rosette whispered sweetly, as if imitating Grace, then spun around sharply. Grace stood motionless, staring at the spot where she had vanished.
Her habitual expression remained serene even in this moment. The laugh that escaped like a cough was closer to a smile than a sneer. But the one remark she simply could not endure pierced her chest as sharply as a blade.
“‘My home’?”
Grace bit her lip hard and began to walk.
How ridiculous. Everything of House Taylor. The people, the objects, even a single gulp of the river water flowing through the estate and a handful of wind….
“None of it is yours.”
A murmur barely more than the shape of her lips was buried in the sound of the wind beyond the window.
＊ ＊ ＊
Around that time, a stranger arrived at the Duchy of Taylor.
His jet-black hair was surprisingly neat for someone who seemed to have cut through the night, and his face was exceedingly beautiful; yet his features seemed fiercely sharp due to his piercing eyes. The gatekeeper, overwhelmed by the extraordinary air emanating from the man of towering stature, did not dare raise his eyes. He merely checked the man’s identification and opened the gate.
The one following at his side muttered under his breath.
“Why did you bother forging an identity? You received a wedding invitation, so you could just attend.”
At the grumbling of his aide, Joseph Rexston, Walter Richmond smirked and pulled a card from his breast pocket.
*[To the esteemed Duke Walter Richmond.
—From Grace Taylor.]*
The elegant handwriting suited its owner’s name exquisitely.
“Well. I was wondering if this was truly a wedding invitation.”
“It’s asking you to attend a wedding, so it’s an invitation.”
Walter shrugged and slipped the card back into his breast pocket. Then he looked up at the Duke of Taylor’s castle, steeped in darkness, and muttered.
“Where have you ever heard of a bride sending the invitation herself,”
“….”
“and saying that if I come to her wedding….”
Walter slowly blinked.
“I will obtain the sharpest blade to guard my secret. Is this still an invitation?”
Joseph scratched the back of his head as if he couldn’t understand at all, while Walter stroked his chin with his fingertips, lost in thought.
The sharpest blade to protect his “secret.” What in the world could that be?
What did this woman know about him?
＊ ＊ ＊
Early the next morning, the massive doors of the chapel within the Duke of Taylor’s castle swung wide open.
Silver-white banners symbolizing sanctity densely covered the chapel walls, and bundles of lilies symbolizing purity and love were placed throughout. Servants bustled about, immersed in the final preparations for a perfect wedding, and the priests dispatched from the temple were preoccupied with offering prayers for the imminent ceremony.
The invited nobles were also busy dressing up. A wedding at the historic Castle of the Duke of Taylor! Moreover, as the groom was to be the young count of the House of Sachsen—a powerful family from Her Majesty the Queen’s maiden house—many people swelled with anticipation for the impending nuptials.
But around that time.
“How dare you attend your master like this!!”
Along with the Countess of Sachsen’s sharp shriek, the butler’s cheek snapped to one side. Still unsatisfied, the Countess struck him once more.
“I apologize.”
Huffing, the Countess turned toward her son. Her rage-filled expression flipped like a hand, and she let out a deeply distressed sigh.
A bruise on this handsome face! And today of all days!!
The young count had dark bruises around one eye and on his forehead. A physician had hurriedly brought an ointment to reduce the swelling, but the greasy salve only made the bruises stand out more. Moreover, as if a hangover had come from nowhere, the pounding headache made Jack Sachsen feel like he was dying.
“How… how in the world did this happen?”
The Countess asked with a tearful face.
Jack was just as frustrated. As is typical the day after drinking, he had no memory at all. He snapped irritably, as if his mother’s concern annoyed him.
“Don’t worry about it.”
The Countess studied her son’s bruises and murmured.
“The bruise looks exactly like… a bottle mark.”
“Argh, I said don’t worry about it!”
Then the Count of Sachsen, who had been sitting on the arm of the sofa, exploded in anger.
“You’re going to enter the chapel in that state—how can anyone not worry! You must have fallen over while drinking! Probably tripped over a wine bottle, you foolish brat!”
He glared at his son’s face and sprang up from his seat.
“It’s too late to hide that mess now! It’s time, so stop applying that damned ointment and get ready! You too, stop fussing and come out!”
Jack Sachsen furrowed his brow at his father’s curt words and exuded a savage air, while the Countess bit her lip in anger.
“They call themselves a Ducal house, yet they can’t even manage the castle properly! How could they let a distinguished guest’s face be injured like this! And what about the bride! What kind of house is Sachsen! To not even show her face when her in-laws have arrived!!”
She fanned her flushed face to cool it and followed her husband out of the room.
“Once we return to the county estate, I’ll teach that brazen girl the customs of Sachsen!”
The Countess repeated to herself, *“Sachsen is a great house that produced Her Majesty the Queen,”* several times as she headed for the chapel. So overbearing was her momentum that even the noblewomen heading to the chapel shrank from her path.
Then, when she arrived before the long corridor at the chapel entrance, her unstoppable stride momentarily halted. The nobles gathered in small groups chattering about the imminent wedding, and even the Duke and Duchess of Taylor, Lady Rosette, and Young Duke William—all their gazes turned in unison to one spot.
The corridor connected in a straight line to the chapel’s main doors. Crossing that place which embodied the long history of the House of Taylor, the protagonist of this wedding was approaching.