The Duke's expression, which had been teetering on the edge of something unreadable, broke into a perfect smile. Wearing the polite grin typical of nobles, he spoke.
"How amusing. Seems there's truth to the saying that you can read someone's thoughts."
He was just quick-witted from surviving a war. Back then, being clueless would've gotten you killed.
He offered his hand in escort.
"It's nearly time for the evening banquet anyway. Shall we go together? I imagine the Brigadier General will head straight to the dining hall. I've been hoping to have a conversation with the Princess."
There was clearly some ulterior motive—like how he had snatched the dress—but in a mansion this vast, trying to track down Masera would be nearly impossible. I figured I might as well eat.
"The Brigadier General tends to be rather aloof. Doesn't that bother you?"
The Duke's question was met with a swift shake of my head.
Even if my identity gets exposed, I need to stay close with Masera so that he'll think, 'I've grown too fond of her to kill her… I'll just pretend I didn't see anything.'
The Duke added,
"Being a war orphan, I imagine his values must differ greatly from those of us raised as nobles."
I went silent for a moment, looking at him.
Why is he telling me this? Thinking of the harsh road Masera must've walked left a faint ache in my chest.
I spoke calmly.
"When you acknowledge someone's differences, there's nothing to feel hurt about. After all, conflict always starts from differing opinions, doesn't it?"
Of course, I didn't say what I really meant—I just pretended to be mature and composed. That man clearly wanted me to pity Masera.
The Duke met my eyes.
"Acknowledgment… I'd like to hear more."
Honestly, I only knew this stuff from reading some relationship self-help books, but he was looking at me like some professor who had just discovered a gifted student.
"People have all walked different paths, so naturally we differ in personality, temperament, values, and priorities. Even our tastes, down to food, can be different. When you accept those differences and compromise to find common ground, that's what we call 'understanding.' Speaking of which, I can't help but mention my hometown. When I was stationed up north during the harsh winter, you see…"
I launched into a long-winded story like the one infamous chatty baseball player.
It was a tactic—keep rambling until we arrived at the banquet, so he wouldn't get a chance to ask trickier questions.
"…Understanding."
The Duke echoed the word, nodding with a thoughtful tone, then gave me a small smile.
"The Brigadier General has found himself a remarkable partner."
He seemed deeply preoccupied with Masera.
He kept bringing him up, and his expression subtly shifted each time.
Wait, don't tell me the real reason he stole the dress was…?
I suddenly imagined the Duke ripping up our wedding photo and pasting Masera's image next to his own.
A shudder ran down my spine.
Brain. Please. I'm begging you. Don't do this!
* * *
Before long, they arrived at the dining hall, where the Queensguard family was already seated, joined by a few elegant, cold-looking noblewomen with black hair.
A trio of green eyes, each a different hue, locked onto Cynthia.
'Whoa. Those three are seriously intimidating.'
Cynthia shrank back a little under their frosty gazes.
"Please, have a seat."
The Dowager Duchess gestured toward her.
The Duke pulled out a chair for Cynthia and added, "I personally escorted the Princess to the dining hall so we could have a chat."
"I see. Judging by the Princess's expression, it must've been an enjoyable conversation."
Though Cynthia always had a naturally bright expression, the Dowager Duchess took it as proof they'd cleared up the misunderstanding about the dress.
Which, incidentally, had been the Duke's exact intention.
Helene glanced briefly at Cynthia and the Duke, then gave the barest of nods.
'Was there really a need to explain things to a maid playing pretend?'
She could sense they hadn't been talking about the dress at all.
Just then, Masera returned, snowflakes clinging to the shoulders of his coat.
Cynthia leaned in and whispered to him as he sat down beside her.
"Where did you go? I was looking all over for you."
In truth, she hadn't looked for even a second, but Cynthia made it sound like she'd scoured the whole estate.
"Why do you need to know every little thing?"
He replied just as quietly.
"Is that so wrong?"
"Some privacy would be appreciated."
Masera replied offhandedly, peeling off his damp gloves.
The Duke's comment about a "secret lover" still hung in the air. Masera's curt answer might have stung or stirred suspicion—but not for Cynthia.
A typical heroine in a regret-fueled romance might've wilted from the implied rebuke, but Cynthia… wasn't thinking much of it.
'Bet he went off to secretly build a snowman. I should go stick some buttons to it later.'
She smiled to herself, picturing Masera crouched somewhere in a corner, building a tiny snowman.
And then, dinner began.
With both families gathered, everyone wore polite smiles, but the atmosphere carried a hint of tension.
"I've prepared a traditional dish from my homeland, just for tonight," the Dowager Duchess announced.
With her introduction, a strange pie was brought out—its crust protruding with the heads of sardines, their blank stares resembling someone poking out of a swamp, silently begging for help.
The Queensguard family's expressions briefly flickered with unease at the bizarre sight.
'Is this supposed to be some kind of insult?'
The Count hesitated but picked up his fork. It was only proper to at least taste the dish and offer a comment.
Just then, Cynthia—who hadn't hesitated for even a second—was the first to speak up.
"Oh, this is…"
'Please keep your mouth shut, don't make yourself look like an idiot!'
The Count shot her a warning look, but Cynthia simply beamed and continued anyway.
"It looks rustic and the ingredients don't seem like they'd go well together, but it's surprisingly balanced and delicious."
The Count, who had been keeping a wary eye on the Dowager Duchess, was caught off guard. Edford stepped in with a scolding tone.
"How dare you call something the Dowager Duchess prepared 'rustic'? That's a high-class dish eaten by the nobility of Medea!"
Cynthia gave him a sweet smile.
"But it's not a high-class dish. It's a commoner's dish."
"Why would a high noble eat a commoner's meal? Use your head for once."
Edford openly grumbled. He wouldn't have minded if Cynthia got kicked out by Masera for exposing her own ignorance.
"Cynthia, you shouldn't judge things just by appearance. Even a child's messy drawing can turn out to be a priceless work of art."
Helene, pretending to be dignified, lightly jabbed at her ignorance too.
Cynthia shook her head.
"Helene, this is 'stargazy pie'—a festive dish from coastal fishing villages. Back when snowstorms stopped everyone from fishing and folks were starving, there was this old fisherman who braved the storm to catch sardines for everyone. The village made this dish to honor him."
The moment she finished speaking, the black-haired noblewomen, including the Dowager Duchess, all widened their eyes.
"Princess… How do you know that? It's a dish we used to eat during festivals when we were little girls. Hardly anyone knows about it these days. Do you have a special interest in Medea?"
For the first time, the Dowager Duchess's previously icy voice warmed ever so slightly.
"I've always felt deep respect and admiration for Medea. The tea culture is lovely, and the country is rich with diverse cultural expressions. I also think the chivalry and kindness toward the vulnerable show the strength of its civic values. Come to think of it, the refinement and poise that you and the young ladies embody… it's like Medea itself."
Cynthia spoke smoothly, sharing what she knew without hesitation.
Of course, she conveniently left out the part about Medea's brutal colonial plundering.
In truth, she'd binge-read everything she could find after hearing Helene's mother-in-law was from Medea's royal bloodline. She had originally planned to win over Helene's in-laws too—but the more she read, the more she realized the country reminded her of one she'd known in a previous life, and that sparked a genuine curiosity. She even pestered someone to take her there on their honeymoon.
Naturally, cold-hearted Masera had completely ignored her.
'Eugene also has black hair and green eyes just like these Medean nobles.'
"…Goodness."
The Dowager Duchess's green eyes grew misty. She was clearly struggling to maintain her composure and dignity through the swell of emotion.
Cynthia noticed the slight furrow in her brow—the kind that forms when you're holding back tears—and thought to herself,
'She married abroad. She must miss her home.'
Even the fact that she'd gathered her sisters to stay at the Duke's estate said enough.
It's like a foreigner living abroad suddenly hearing someone rave about how great Korea is, praising kimchi and soybean paste—how could you not feel moved?
"I was planning to go to Medea for my honeymoon. As you probably know, there've been a lot of circumstances in the way… but I'm finally going to visit the place I've always dreamed of. I'm so happy."
Cynthia added a wistful smile to her words, and the ladies could no longer resist the wave of human empathy, sympathy, and maternal protectiveness.
"I have a villa in the northern region. The coastline and the natural scenery are absolutely breathtaking."
"Don't be ridiculous, she has to go to the capital. I'll arrange for her to stay at a royal family's luxury hotel."
"No, no! We're family through marriage now! She should stay as an honored guest in the royal palace. I'll send a message to the palace myself…"
The noblewomen eagerly began fighting over who would host Cynthia on her honeymoon.
'…I told you we're not going on a honeymoon.'
Masera quietly sliced his sardine pie, swallowing his dismay along with the sardines.
'Why does this keep happening?'
Masera was lost in thought.
He couldn't let his guard down for even a second, or else he would be blindly led by Cynthia's intentions, with everything going exactly the way she wanted.
Just like how he was now getting dragged to an impromptu honeymoon in Medea.
["The youngest is much more useful than her sister. She's sociable, and her attitude and expressions are so charming."]
["Her sister only knows how to put on airs. She's so stiff and uptight, it's unbearable. How is someone like that supposed to mingle in high society?"]
Though Cynthia fully understood the Medeian conversation between Madam Hills and Madam Verace—both sisters of the Dowager Duchess—she pretended not to.
Realizing from context that the women were comparing Cynthia and herself, Helene smiled and chimed in.
"I'd love to visit Medea someday. They call it the land of gentlemen, after all."
With her lengthy experience in high society, Madam Verace could tell it was just a nicety and asked casually.
"Do you know why it's called the land of gentlemen?"
"Because they value refinement, elegance, and etiquette," Helene answered confidently.
'Wrong. That's a misinterpretation.'
Cynthia pressed her lips together, recalling something she had read.
The term was a euphemism that emerged when the gentry class—those between commoners and nobility—accumulated wealth and began leading global trends. In Medea, gentry men in black hats, suits, and carrying canes were especially prevalent.
The traditional aristocracy didn't appreciate the label.
["Pretending to know when she knows nothing."]
Madam Hills sneered in Medeian, feigning admiration.
Cynthia raised her glass with a smile.
"That's right, Sister. The Kingdom of Medea didn't abide nations that failed to show them proper respect. They used to send fleets just to teach etiquette."
The off-color joke made Madam Hills and Madam Verace burst into hearty laughter.
Count Queensguard and his two sons, not fully grasping the joke but sensing the mood, laughed along anyway.
Masera didn't laugh. He was too busy debating whether he should eat the sardine head sticking out of his pie.
"You really are an amusing princess."
"Oh, I do like cheerful people. Her Majesty also enjoys comedy and often invites jesters to her parties."
Helene couldn't understand how Cynthia was the one getting all the attention.
How could a maid, who hadn't even received a proper education, know things like that?
Even jokes require a certain level of knowledge to land. If you're not careful, they can come off as rude.
Trying to blend into the cheerful atmosphere, Helene spoke up.
"Cynthia, you seem to have taken an interest in Medea and studied it. Then you must be curious about jellied eels too, right? I think you'd like it—would you like to try some?"
Having already sampled jellied eels herself, Helene expected Cynthia to recoil.
Jellied eels were made by chopping eel into pieces and turning it into jelly. Its appearance was grotesque, the texture unpleasant, and the fishy smell overwhelmingly strong.
"Oh, I've only heard rumors about it. Have you tried it yourself, Sister?"
"Yes. Why don't you give it a try too?"
Cynthia stared straight at Helene.
Assuming Cynthia felt cornered, Helene smirked inwardly.
'Let's see her choke it down while pretending she's fine. She'll be lucky not to gag as soon as it hits her tongue.'
"I'll pass. I'd rather have more of the stargazy pie. It's really delicious."
Contrary to her expectations, Cynthia declined firmly.
Helene's expression faltered—she had assumed Cynthia would accept just to impress the ladies.
"Why? I thought you loved Medea so much…"
"Tastes differ. You don't eat our homeland's broccoli rice either. Does that mean you hate the where you were born?"
At Cynthia's reply, Helene couldn't find a retort and clenched her skirt tightly.
Imagining the fishy taste made Cynthia shiver slightly. In her previous life, she had eaten more than enough cheap canned fish. There was no need to become a bizarre-food enthusiast when there were tasty things right in front of her.
The Dowager Duchess, watching the exchange, waved her hand dismissively.
"Helene, don't push her. I can't eat that either. Even locals tend to avoid it."
'So she gave it to me just to mess with me?'
Helene clenched her fists, forcing a smile.
Later, Edford bravely tried the jellied eels, only to turn pale and run out of the room.
Cynthia teasingly offered some to Masera as well. He silently ate all of it and then said just one thing.
"I've never tasted anything quite like this before."
* * *
"Father, what exactly did you instruct Cynthia to do?"
After the meal, Helene stormed into the Count's room to confront him.
She was certain he had ordered Cynthia to study up on Medea and curry favor with the Ducal House.
"What do you mean?"
"Those snooty people seem to be completely taken with her."
"And that's a bad thing?"
Count Queensguard shrugged, looking genuinely puzzled.
Even if it was all just a pretense, Cynthia was his daughter for the time being. If the Ducal House looked favorably upon her, it was a gain, not a loss.
"Helene, it seems you haven't been getting along with your in-laws. Not even with the Duke."
"They look down on me by default. How am I supposed to get along with people like that? They're stiff, blunt, and you can't even tell whether they're joking or mocking you."
She hadn't realized any of this until she came to the capital.
The Count had always said people were desperate to marry into royal blood, that it was incredibly valuable.
But it turned out that value only applied when someone was treated as property—it didn't guarantee any kind of special treatment.
"They're royals from a powerful and proud nation. You should've tried to be more charming. Cynthia, having spent years as a maid, knows exactly how to read the room and win people over. That's something worth learning."
"You're telling me to take lessons from some lowborn maid?"
"Servants often have the best survival instincts."
To Helene, who had never bowed her head to anyone and had been doted on all her life, it was an unbearable blow to her pride.
The Count stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"Still… was that girl always so brazen? She seemed completely shameless."
"How would I know? Why would I care enough to know a maid's personality?"
Their worlds were so different, she'd never paid attention to Cynthia to begin with—there was no way she'd know what the girl had originally been like.
"Teaching her about Medea was probably Brigadier General Vicente's idea. He rose from the very bottom as a war orphan, so he knows how to play society well."
The Count gave a faint, amused smile as he looked at Helene.
"All we need to do is make good use of the favor those beneath us earn through their hard work—just like we always have. Keep in mind what I've always told you: petty inferiority and jealousy only end up destroying the person who holds them."
* * *
Meanwhile, Carlos sat nursing a glass of whiskey, deep in thought.
'A custom-made dress worth the price of a house?'
It might have been done for show, but his instincts as a man told him otherwise.
'There's a real chance something is developing between them.'
If they ended up falling in love, she'd never come back.
"Of course, once I get what I want, I'll return her to you. By then, you'll be leading a massive railway enterprise."
That had been one of the Count's conditions.
But there was one thing Carlos hadn't told his father.
'No matter how I look at it… it's too perfect to be coincidence. Even the engagement ceremony was like that.'
Back then, he had taken Cynthia to a casino and won big.
The next day, he'd gone alone and lost everything. But when he took her with him again, he miraculously recouped his losses. Still, it seemed like there was a cap—he couldn't win beyond a certain amount.
Cynthia had once told him something cryptic: "If you spend your luck on gambling, you'll lose something far more precious."
'I'm getting her back. Especially if she's truly a lucky woman.'
* * *
Night eventually fell. It was finally time for bed—and that meant sharing a bed with Masera.
If either of us suddenly ran off now, the carefully built image of a "happy engaged couple" would come crashing down.
Masera seemed to be thinking the same thing.
"I can't come across as a thoughtless fiancé who leaves his betrothed alone in a strange place."
"Right, I won't run off either. Let's both try to look like people who think things through."
To be honest, I was a little scared to be alone.
I followed Masera into the room and stared at the bed—it was practically the size of an Olympic field.
"Look how big the bed is. If we sleep on opposite ends, it'll be like sleeping in separate rooms, right?"
"I'll take the sofa."
I'd tried to reassure him, but he still seemed on edge.
As he took off his uniform jacket, his tone turned firm.
"Don't even think about laying a hand on me."
"You don't trust me?"
"No."
…Pretty sure that's supposed to be my line.
Will we make it to morning in one piece?