I swear by all the gods, goddesses, the guardian spirits of romance novels, and the unwritten contract between author and reader— Duke Tristan laughed.
And my heart went pyong-pyong because of it.
His laughter wasn't that polite noble smile that usually appeared as thin as a pencil line running out of lead.
It wasn't some ambiguous huff of breath that could be debated whether it was a laugh or just cold air entering my cute lungs.
No.
He laughed.
Clearly.
Vividly.
Resoundingly.
I stood frozen.
My eyes widened like someone who had just been blessed with a sudden revelation in the middle of a night market. My brain was empty, but my heart was full—so full it felt like a balloon blown up too enthusiastically, ready to pop at any second.
Duke Tristan's servants?
They were gaping.
Not just one person. Everyone. Including the red-haired servant.
Their mouths were hanging open, eyes bulging; their expressions were as uniform as ducks having trouble breathing.
