The gaze that had been lingering on her lips slowly traveled upward. Curtis met that gaze steadily. Her hair was a vibrant, fiery red.
Though it was a short cut that barely reached her shoulders, its intensity was captivating. Her violet eyes, which complemented the red hair perfectly, shimmered mysteriously under the moonlight.
These were the same eyes that had stared straight at him, concerned for her own well-being, even while she was forced to her knees in the mud.
Roxana Dalton was a first love that had rotted before it could even ripen. He had lost too much and destroyed too much to fall in love with such purity.
"I wonder."
That was why he hated those exquisite violet eyes. The clearer Roxana’s eyes were, the dirtier and more horrific he looked reflected within them. He didn't want her to be happy. Even as he wanted to banish her from his sight, he wanted her to be miserable in front of him.
Rather than waiting to show her his ugly side, wouldn't it be faster to just break her? It was the moment his hand reached toward her soft cheek.
"Ah."
After a long silence, Roxana, who had been deep in thought, reached a conclusion.
"You must really love dancing, don't you?"
"……What?"
Curtis blinked. While he was left speechless by the absurdity, Roxana, interpreting his silence as affirmation, smiled brightly.
"I didn't know you loved dancing enough to do it with a woman you dislike."
"……."
"Thank you for kindly letting me know. Well then."
Roxana greeted the stunned Curtis and turned to walk away.
"Curtis."
Someone approached Curtis, who was left standing blankly in the empty backyard. It was Greg, who had been sparring with him, setting aside their master-servant relationship to briefly return to being old friends. Curtis, head bowed, covered his face with one hand while his shoulders shook.
"Are you alright?"
"Ha."
The next moment, Curtis’s shoulders heaved as he burst into laughter. *Ahahahaha!* Greg, taken aback, stared at him blankly. Curtis wiped the tears that had gathered at the corners of his eyes and muttered.
"Ah. I really do hate Roxana."
She stirred him endlessly. With the face of a saint, she captured his gaze like a witch and refused to let go. He loved the electric sensation that ran down his spine, yet it was so terrible he never wanted to feel it twice.
"Is it possessiveness?"
Greg, who had been watching Curtis quietly, blurted out.
"Surely you aren't planning to take a daughter of the House of Dalton as your wife."
"Greg."
The relaxed air tightened in an instant. Though the killing intent brushing against his neck made the hair on his arms stand up, Greg did not back down. His father had been a knight to the previous Marquess. When the House of Russell was destroyed, Curtis wasn't the only one who lost everything. He had, too.
"You haven't forgotten, have you? The servant who died in your place that day was my cousin."
"I know."
Curtis, who had snapped back coldly, smoothed back his disheveled hair. How could he forget? Whenever he regained his senses, the ghosts were always there, at any time. They surrounded his bed until the moment he fell asleep, refusing to let him go.
"Then promise me on your title. That this is just your usual whim and a fleeting amusement. And."
"And?"
"That Roxana Dalton will eventually be locked away in a convent for life or die by your hand."
Two pairs of eyes clashed fiercely in the air. After a brief silence, Curtis smiled and affirmed.
"I promise."
For some reason, a corner of his heart felt itchy. Curtis quietly crushed the strange sensation, as if stepping on an ant.
* * *
The bet was Frey’s victory. Her dancing was flawless, without a single flaw. At a glance, one wouldn't even know she was blind. It was the fruit of blood-sweating effort.
"Congratulations! Lady Russell!"
"Thank you."
Frey, brimming with triumph, savored her victory to the fullest.
"Now all that's left is to have your dress tailored. Aren't you excited?"
As soon as the dance instructor asked with a satisfied smile, Frey jumped up and searched for Roxana.
"That's right! I have to get my measurements taken right away. There isn't much time left, what should I do? Will the seamstresses be skilled enough? What do you think, Roxana?"
"I'm not sure. I, too, am..."
Roxana was opening her mouth with a troubled expression when the door opened without a sound.
"You don't need to worry about that, Frey."
"Brother?"
"I have the banquet dress made last year. It should only need a few adjustments."
It was a dress he had made last year, wondering if she might ever come out of the cave. Hearing Curtis’s sincerity, Frey stood on her tiptoes and hugged her brother. Robert, standing at a distance, felt his eyes grow moist at the sight of the siblings embracing for the first time in years. Frey pulled away from the hug and asked in an affectionate voice.
"Since I'm asking, can I ask for one more thing?"
"Anything."
"I want to take Roxana to the banquet, too."
"……What?"
The atmosphere in the room froze. Curtis, who barely managed to control his expression, took Frey’s hand gently.
"Frey, unfortunately, my escort is already decided."
"That's not what I mean. I want to take her as my friend."
"That is."
Curtis sighed inwardly, wearing a troubled look. Even if it had been two years ago, Roxana’s status was that of a traitor’s daughter. She was the daughter of the Marquess of Dalton, who had committed the great crime of embezzling national taxes and colluding with foreign powers.
"I will grant any other request."
"There isn't one. You said you'd grant anything. Hmm?"
Thanks to the courage and stubbornness that had surged impulsively, she had come this far, but Frey was still afraid to step into the high society that felt like an endless ocean all by herself. Her brother would escort her, but he wouldn't be there in the women's domain where men were not allowed.
"I want to go with Roxana."
At Frey’s firm insistence, Roxana kept repeating the word 'no' in her mind. There was no way he would allow it.
However, an unbelievable answer pierced her eardrums.
"Her hair is conspicuous, so she can wear a wig."
Shocked gazes turned toward Curtis. Meeting her trembling violet eyes, he shrugged nonchalantly.
Admittedly, it wasn't particularly beneficial to show Roxana off, but upon reflection, the risk was minimal. Over the past years, the Marquess of Dalton had not presented his daughter to high society. It was under the pretext that it was inappropriate for a young lady of marriageable age to be out and about when her fiancé was already chosen. Therefore, Roxana had never officially debuted, and because she had been a recluse for so long, very few people knew her face. Most nobles knew nothing about her other than the rumors that 'Roxana Dalton' was a lacking and ugly woman.
Above all, seeing that flustered face reminded him of what happened a while ago. Hadn't he been struck by her unexpected words? The feeling of paying her back wasn't half bad. Besides, Roxana was, from the start, a toy he had placed in Frey’s hands. What could go wrong?
If she showed an ugly side by being flustered at the banquet, he might even grow tired of her. Having reached his conclusion, Curtis called for Robert.
"We'll need to get the measurements again. Hire every skilled seamstress you can find."
"Understood. I will begin the search immediately."
"Ah."
Curtis, looking at the pale-faced Roxana with composure, added an extra instruction.
"It would be good to have a wig, too. I happen to prefer blondes."
It was a safety measure for any unforeseen situations.
* * *
Three days later, Baroness Philomena’s banquet began late in the evening. As the sun hid itself beyond the horizon, four-wheeled carriages bearing the crests of various noble houses arrived one after another inside the inner castle. The banquet of the wealthy widow, a socialite of the southern high society, was a monthly event that everyone enjoyed.
The spacious hall, decorated with all sorts of flowers and tapestries, was overflowing with people dressed to the nines. Amidst the chaotic crowd, Frey gripped Curtis’s arm as if it were her lifeline.
"The Marquess of Russell and his sister have arrived!"
The gatekeeper who verified their identities announced in a booming voice to the hall. At the rarely heard name, the bustling guests all turned their heads.
"Oh my! Marquess of Russell! You’ve finally come."
Baroness Philomena, wearing a white ermine shawl and a headpiece decorated with pheasant feathers, welcomed the siblings warmly.
"We were even placing bets on when you might show up. Goodness, and you have such a beautiful younger sister with you."
"Thank you for the invitation, Baroness Philomena. This is my sister, Frey Russell. Frey, this is Baroness Philomena, who invited us."
"It is a pleasure to meet you."
"Oh my, you truly are like a flower in bloom. Welcome, Lady Russell."
The Baroness, who had been chatting pleasantly, let her gaze greedily scan Curtis from head to toe.
He was the Marquess of Russell, the subject of many rumors. Young, handsome, and a wealthy landowner. But above all, the highlight was the tale of his heroism in waiting for a long time to avenge his parents. A boy who had lost everything when his house was destroyed, he had grown into the head of a massive mercenary organization, annihilated the repeated invasions of foreign tribes, and become a hero.
The epic, which had started with a famous bard, had even been widely discussed in neighboring countries. The only flaw was perhaps his lack of interest in social activities.
If only he would show his face more often, they could build a rapport, and if they were lucky, they might even be able to make the future Marchioness of Russell with their own hands.
The Baroness, who smacked her lips in disappointment, shifted her gaze to Roxana, who had followed them in.
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