Chapter 42
So that’s the face he wears when they’re alone together.
Perel watched his lord lean toward the duchess in a way he’d never witnessed, awkwardly squeezing his massive build into a delicate chair.
“Sir Perel!”
The duchess noticed him and greeted him with a cheerful wave.
At her call, Duke Loic turned his head gradually toward Perel, his face a blank mask that only Perel could decipher, murmuring softly:
“You’re back sooner than expected.”
That single remark told Perel everything.
His early return had unwittingly cut short the duke’s cherished alone time—and now his lord was truly irritated.
“You should leave now. Didn’t you mention a meeting?”
Loic paused briefly, clearly unwilling to depart, but eventually rose as if nudged toward the exit.
Perel rubbed the nape of his neck in awkward defeat, trailing after his master, who radiated contentment despite the stern side-eye.
Earlier, before meeting the knights, Perel had fretted over when the duke might dispatch the duchess back to the capital.
But now…
That concern was utterly unfounded.
To see his master display such blatant fondness…
Perhaps, at long last, spring had begun to bloom in his lord’s world.
Preparations for the tea party progressed without a hitch.
Ample time remained since invitations needed dispatching at least ten days in advance.
During that span, Ramondria had flawlessly completed the gown.
—“It’s precisely what I envisioned. I adore it!”
The garments blended opulence with daring simplicity, radiating sophisticated modernity.
Ramondria flushed at the compliment and dipped her head.
—“Your Grace’s impeccable judgment made it possible. I’ve gained invaluable insights.”
—“Now you’re underselling yourself.”
—“I speak from the heart.”
I rolled my eyes at her praise, and she clasped her hands tightly before adding:
—“You’ve shown me exactly what I lacked. If you grant me another opportunity, I’ll pour everything into it.”
Her resolve seemed intense for mere dressmaking, leaving me to offer an uneasy nod.
Every noblewoman I’d invited confirmed her attendance, naturally. Even Maisel, whom I’d added with reluctance, replied—albeit last.
As I perused her excessively courteous note, Leta approached with gentle caution.
“Your Grace.”
In essence, I’d appointed Leta as my personal attendant.
Initially, my aim was to shield her from Marzella.
It was clear that once her discipline concluded, the head maid would devise her own retribution. Ignoring it could lead to Leta suffering blows or confinement.
—“How about a week scrubbing dishes? I oversee the kitchen storeroom,” Whitley proposed, grasping my motive at once.
—“But it can’t last indefinitely,” he noted.
—“If you intend to keep her nearby, why not designate her your personal maid?”
Leta? My personal maid?
With a year ahead in residence, it was high time for my own staff.
Even with a lady-in-waiting, I’d require aid for everyday routines, dawn till dusk.
Yet Leta’s straightforward demeanor and speech gave me pause.
Wouldn’t a brighter personality suit better?
No—superficial warmth warranted suspicion.
Competence without duplicity sufficed.
Moreover, she posed far less risk than a servant loyal to Marzella, relaying my every move.
After deliberation, I inquired if she’d accept. To my surprise, she agreed instantly.
She even appeared delighted.
Witnessing her typical worry lines soften, coupled with her fervent vows of diligence, stirred regret for my skepticism.
Now, I was thoroughly pleased with the choice.
A reliable, capable maid transformed daily existence.
“Your Grace, the artwork nears completion. Shall I fetch it?”
Though she offered to retrieve it, she’d clearly readied for my personal visit.
Ah… this level of attentiveness is divine. Pure indulgence. Exhilarating.
“No, I’ll come view it myself.”
Slipping into cozy slippers, I made my way to a modest chamber in the East Wing.
It adjoined Perel’s office—the very space he’d mentioned as empty.
Nearing it, voices drifted through the ajar door.
“So this is your idea of painting? You’re quite talented!”
“See? These small hands pack a punch, don’t they?”
The tone was unmistakable, achingly familiar.
Leta swung the door wide, revealing Morina at work on her canvases.
Flanking her stood Perel and Leon, peering at the easel with keen interest.
“How’s progress?”
“Your Grace.”
The pair snapped to attention upon spotting me.
“I get Leon’s presence, but what’s our esteemed secretary doing idling about?”
I arched a brow in teasing challenge. Perel coughed, visibly embarrassed.
“My apologies, Your Grace. I happened by and curiosity drew me in…”
Morina, Leta’s little sister, had taken up temporary residence in the ducal manor.
She was crafting illustrations for the fare at Marie’s inn.
Madam Marie had eagerly embraced my notion of displaying pictured menus throughout the establishment.
She’d stubbornly refused my offer to fund it.
Truthfully, I simply yearned to test the concept’s appeal.
Morina had consented before I broached compensation.
Leta fretted over her sibling’s potential misstep, but the budding artist merely vowed tirelessly to excel, as if stunned by the commission.
Lacking a suitable studio, I’d granted her the office-adjacent room. Only three days had passed since I’d stocked it with pigments and supplies.
“With over forty menu items—have you illustrated them all?”
“Remarkable dexterity for one so youthful.”
Leon boasted with evident pride, like a showman.
He’s barely older himself…
Morina shot him a shy glance laced with the same fond incredulity I shared.
“What say you, Sir Leon? Does it capture the dish’s true allure?”
Much of her work stemmed from fancy, of course.
Still, she’d enlisted Leon’s periodic critiques to ensure fidelity. Per Leta, he’d assisted extensively.
“Absolutely, Your Grace. Feast your eyes.”
“W-wait, that’s incomplete…”
Morina lunged, but Leon already held the sketch from the desk.
“Oh, chicken?”
“Grilled drumsticks. A house favorite. The aroma alone wears me out.”
“Why so?”
“Childhood chore: basting them,” Leon explained, nose scrunching.
“Let me inspect.”
I bent closer for a peek.
“I-I’m still new to paints…” Morina murmured, eyes fixed on my face.
Perel, Leon, and Leta inched nearer, anticipation palpable.
Oh?
As anticipated, Morina possessed sharp instincts. Crisp lines and subtle tones lent the skin realistic crispness; the piece brimmed with appeal.
Her hues suited a paint novice admirably, though the palette felt somewhat muted.
A touch more nuance would elevate it splendidly.
“May I refine it slightly?”
“O-of course!”
I accepted the brush from the jittery Morina.
All eyes brimmed with intrigue, pondering the Grand Duchess’s next move.
Self-conscious to demonstrate, but…
I could craft something respectable.
Dipping into a deeper shade, I shadowed the drumstick’s contours for a seared effect.
Depth emerged vividly.
Decent work.
Emboldened, I highlighted a glossy sheen with white and accented the greens and tubers to evoke doneness.
Absorbed, I missed the hush descending.
Was that odd?
I faltered, setting the brush aside—
“Wow!”
Leon exhaled in quiet awe.
“It leaps off the page—like the meal’s steaming before us!”
“Flatterer, Sir Leon.”
His over-the-top acclaim eased me; I shot him a mock scowl.
“No jest—it’s mouthwatering already.”
“Display these, and patrons will flock,” Perel chimed.
Even if politeness flavored their words, the enhancement undeniably tantalized.
It tracked.
I grasped illustrators’ tricks for emphasizing essentials.
“Well? Can you replicate this on the others?”
Morina, gaping at my revisions, balled her fists and declared,
“I-I’ll try my utmost!”
Her fierce gaze promised triumph.
I envisioned the pieces adorning the inn’s hall.
Drawers pouring in, enchanted.
That rush of a scheme unfolding flawlessly—it had been ages.
This will succeed wildly.
Gazing at Leon’s radiant wonder, I savored a private grin of triumph.
