Chapter 89
Yuls bit his lip, causing Adi’s own mouth to drift open in surprise. The pressure of his palm against her shoulder intensified. Though his grip was surprisingly forceful, the slight sting of pain was a sensation Yuls found oddly grounding.
His hand began a slow descent, tracing the curve of her spine from the small of her back. The moment his touch swept upward, a shiver ran through Adi, and she instinctively pushed him away to create distance.
A heavy silence fell between them.
“We will do this tomorrow,” Yuls finally said, his fingers finally letting go of her. “I’ll give you a dancing lesson then. Go inside for the night.”
“But… I am supposed to be your guard this evening,” she insisted. The deep crimson flushing her cheeks only made the situation feel more precarious.
Yuls shook his head, his patience clearly reaching its limit. “Go find Dimitri. Actually, get Billy. No—bring them both here.”
She still felt she should be the one protecting him, but Yuls was insistent. “Hurry along now.”
Driven by his urgency, Adi retreated quickly. In the corridor, she ran into Dimitri, whose brow furrowed as he read the flustered expression on her face.
“His Grace is asking for you,” she managed to say.
“I see,” Dimitri replied. “Is Billy still in the servants’ wing?”
“He is.”
“Then please, head back to your quarters.”
Dimitri’s confirmation was slow and deliberate. Adi didn’t wait; she practically bolted down the hall. Watching her go, Dimitri felt a bitter taste in his mouth, sensing the charged atmosphere she had just fled from. He took a stabilizing breath and stepped into the Duke’s private chambers.
“Your Grace?”
“Dimitri,” Yuls answered. The heat had clearly migrated to his ears, which were glowing a vivid red. “I’m sorry, but we might need to adjust the tailoring on my clothes again.”
Dimitri blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
Yuls didn’t elaborate, instead tracing the line of his jaw with his fingers. It was a rough, contemplative gesture. Dimitri noted the habit with a frown; it was a tick the Duke had developed ever since leaving Pallesa Palace. Gavin had once joked that the Duke was obsessed with his beard growth, claiming that stroking the chin was the only way to monitor his transition into manhood.
“It wasn’t my intention to provoke her,” Yuls murmured to himself.
Dimitri remained lost, unable to follow the Duke’s train of thought. Yuls then pressed his palm over his eyes, exhaling sharply.
“This is becoming dangerous,” the Duke whispered.
Despite the tension, their nightly rehearsals continued. Familiarity eventually numbed the initial shock of their proximity; pressing their bodies together in the rhythm of the dance began to feel natural. Because they were constantly in such close contact, a strange sort of comfort settled over them. It gave weight to the old saying that the dance floor was a breeding ground for intimacy—the sheer friction of movement with another person was bound to create a unique spark.
Adi had mastered the steps, yet a peculiar electricity still crackled whenever Yuls took her hand or guided her by the waist. She wasn’t a professional, but she was confident she wouldn’t embarrass him at the upcoming gala. For the rest of her transformation, she relied on others.
Specifically, she relied on Billy.
“Your complexion is so luminous and fair,” Billy observed, studying her face. “A little emphasis above the eyelids would be striking.”
He continued his assessment with professional intensity. “Since your eyes are a rich brown, a splash of red would be perfect. Perhaps a Trumpet flower pigment with a dusting of gold at the center?”
In truth, Billy usually found women’s fashion uninspired. The local noblewomen found his preference for clean, architectural lines to be lacking the gaudy flair they craved. To the high-born ladies of Ionad, Billy’s taste was considered pedestrian or overly bourgeois.
Yet Billy remained a staunch advocate for the elegance of restraint. He tried to instill that sophisticated simplicity into every project, often meeting with stubborn resistance. Adrina, however, was his perfect canvas. She either lacked an opinion on the matter or simply didn’t care, allowing him total creative freedom. In the absence of a proper lady’s maid to interfere, she was entirely under his direction.
“Is the gold dust not a bit much?” she asked.
“My dear guard, have you seen a ballroom lately?” Billy countered. “It is a theater of excess. This is remarkably subtle by comparison.”
Adi shifted uncomfortably. “Having things draped around my neck feels restrictive.”
“Going without jewels would be an insult to the Duke’s status,” Billy insisted.
“Fine… do what you think is best.”
“Personally, I adore black, but it feels far too somber for a summer event. This crimson silk is the superior choice; it creates a cohesive look. Perhaps we can aim for black during the winter season? Now, close your eyes. I need to finish your face.”
Adi wondered why he spoke with such certainty about her attending future events. Even if she returned as a knight, she would likely be standing at the door, not dancing inside.
“My instincts are never wrong,” Billy boasted. “Wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?”
Adi opened her eyes to find Yuls standing over her. She hadn’t even heard him enter. He was looking down at her with an unreadable expression.
“You are correct,” Yuls agreed softly.
There was a look in his eyes that Adi found both hauntingly familiar and entirely new. It was a warm, soft gaze that pulled a small smile from her lips. Yuls, in turn, allowed a faint grin to touch his own face.
“Well? How does she look to your dear cousin?” Yuls asked.
“Your Grace!” Dimitri barked, immediately covering his mouth as if he’d let a secret slip. The rest of the room looked on in confusion. A cousin? Billy glanced at Dimitri, his lips moving in a silent question, but Dimitri simply shook his head to dismiss the topic.
The gala held during the Council was less formal than a state banquet, meaning the grand introductions were skipped. Yuls timed his arrival perfectly, neither early enough to be desperate nor late enough to be rude.
While the crowd watched Yuls and his mysterious companion with intense curiosity, no one dared to approach them immediately. She was a total stranger to the court. Whispers began to ripple through the hall as guests speculated on her identity.
Red hair wasn’t entirely unheard of among the nobility, but this woman was a complete enigma. However, the fact that she had gained entry to the Inner Palace suggested her pedigree was beyond reproach. The socialites leaned in, eager for a new player to emerge this season. Marchioness Connolly, aware of the rumors surrounding Yuls, made her way toward the Duke, who stood tall above the crowd.
“Little cat,” the Marchioness greeted.
Lea Lintu was at her side, draped in a sky-blue silk gown decorated with fresh blooms. The fabric clung to her curves before flaring out, a design clearly orchestrated by the Connolly family. The Marchioness looked pleased with her ward, believing Lea was finally a match for the Duke of Woodpecker.
“This is my first time attending this specific event,” the Marchioness began. “Winter balls have their charm, but there is something so unique about the summer…”
Her voice trailed off as she got closer. Her smile faltered. Standing before her was a woman with hair like wildfire, wearing a dress of the exact same vibrant hue. She was tall, with light-colored lashes that suggested Northern blood, and her skin lacked the sickly pallor of the Ionad elite. She looked radiant, as if she had spent her life basking in the southern sun.
“It has been quite a while, Aunt,” Yuls said. Then, with a tilt of his head, he added, “Or should I address you as Marchioness Connolly?”
The Marchioness gave a strained laugh, hiding her face behind a delicate summer fan. The sheer material did little to mask the way her lips trembled. She had known Yuls had turned down her suggestion for a partner, but she hadn’t expected him to flaunt a replacement. She felt a surge of panic regarding Lea Lintu’s future.
“You certainly have a gift for finding beautiful companions,” the Marchioness remarked, stepping back to let Lea offer her own greeting.
“Duke!”
Before Lea could speak, the Crown Prince’s voice boomed across the room. Claude was approaching, and by his side was a figure that made the air turn cold.
It was Adi’s mark: Spencer Grimaldi.
The Count had arrived at the palace long before the Prince. He was a solitary figure, never bringing his family into the capital. While other men brought mistresses to avoid the stigma of being alone, Grimaldi walked with a terrifying self-assurance. He acted as though he had no secrets to protect. In truth, the Count was never the subject of romantic scandals; his reputation was built on the number of people he had sent to the grave.
Though he noticed the Duke’s arrival, Spencer didn’t move toward him. Woodpecker was irrelevant to his interests. His focus remained on Claude, the future monarch he felt compelled to mold. Any flaws in the Prince could be corrected in time.
Spencer stood by Claude, vetting those who approached and whispering warnings about who to avoid. He hadn’t counted on Yuls Woodpecker appearing with a guest. Not that he could have stopped him. Spencer knew the Duke had no designs on the crown, but the man’s sheer power made him a variable.
As Claude moved toward the Duke, Spencer followed. His eyes fell upon the woman at the Duke’s side. She was taller than the average high-born lady of Ionad. Suspecting she was a Northerner, he sifted through his memory for any families associated with Woodpecker.
The red of her gown made him think of the Roychi clan, famous for their vibrant dyes. Even her makeup carried that crimson theme. But as he looked at her golden lashes and the structure of her face, his heart stopped.
“…Wife,” Spencer whispered under his breath.
Aside from the hair color, the woman standing before him was the living image of his late spouse.
The Count shifted his gaze to Yuls, who met his stare with a knowing, almost expectant smile.
“Adrina, please introduce yourself,” Yuls prompted.
Adi met the man’s eyes. “A pleasure to meet you, Your Excellency, Count Grimaldi.”
She kept her voice steady. “My name is Adrina Dean.”
Spencer’s fist clenched so hard his knuckles turned white before he forced his fingers to relax. He smoothed his expression into a smile and offered his hand.
“Adrina Dean,” he repeated.
Adi reached out and took her father’s hand.
“It is an honor,” she said.
Around them, the few guests who understood the underlying tension—Claude included—could only marvel at the sheer, poisonous audacity of the Grimaldi bloodline.
