18.

From the beginning, it wasn’t Marquis Bensley—Yingyun, Logan or Morgan?—who had rejected her.

On the contrary, he had initially been overjoyed. He even sent three entire baskets of expensive flowers through his servants. But then, suddenly, he stopped contacting her, and abruptly sent a rejection letter. He claimed he had fallen into a fated love with a woman he’d coincidentally met?

The second was the grandson of a count whose name she couldn’t even recall. She had liked his seemingly innocent face… but he claimed he’d fallen off his horse on the way up to the capital and injured his leg. Though there would be no lasting aftereffects, he insisted he needed at least thirty-one days of rest, and thus regretfully couldn’t attend. He sent a long, detailed letter explaining his absence.

The third man who had accepted her invitation met with a carriage accident. He wasn’t in danger of his life, but, coincidentally, his knee had been badly injured, making dancing impossible.

After that, it had been the same pattern over and over. Men would joyfully accept being her partner, only to later back out due to unavoidable circumstances… Eventually, rumors began spreading, and more often than not, rejection letters arrived even before she could extend an invitation.

Day after day, she was cornered like this—now, with the ball only two days away, she had no one to attend with. At this point, even Rosetta, normally calm and composed, felt as though fire had reached her feet.

According to Lady Valmont, for a noble lady to attend a ball without a partner was tantamount to declaring herself a wallflower—and that, she said, was a tremendous disgrace. Especially since this ball was the first social event she would attend after ‘Leah’ had been publicly broken off from the crown prince.

If she failed to secure a proper partner here, her future… Rosetta shuddered violently, as if just imagining it made her flesh crawl.

She would probably be led by the Duke into some monastery. And noble ladies’ convents were usually places from which one could hardly escape once entered. It wasn’t called, alongside marriage, a woman’s grave for nothing.

Therefore, she absolutely had to secure a partner at this ball.

If necessary, by any means possible!

* * *

“So, exactly why can’t you go?”

Hugo shrank back under the lady’s harsh scolding. Her tone, though technically polite, was no different from that of a back-alley thug. In fact, it wasn’t even polite in the slightest.

Hugo pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat trickling down his face.

“I, that is….”

Stammering, he glanced at the lady seated across from him. She sat with one leg crossed, tossing a jam knife into the air like a weapon and catching it again—her demeanor was chillingly unsettling.

Honestly, why on earth was she so good at that…? If he hadn’t pinched his thigh several times to confirm this was real, he would’ve believed the entire scene before him was a dream.

Moreover, why was she so insistent on attending the ball together…? Hugo, who clung to the outdated belief that women should never be so forward in such matters, found the lady’s personality overwhelmingly energetic—too much to handle.

Of course, it was true that he was the second son of a baronial house, while Lady Valdemore was the sole daughter of the prestigious Valdemore family, so their ranks were inherently different and he had never dared to dream too high….

Still, when the lady had personally asked him to escort her, he had been the most surprised of all. She had asked him, with a gentle, angelic face, which noble house he belonged to. He could’ve bet his wrist that she had never even heard his family name until that moment.

Precisely because his house was so insignificant, with no connections in the capital’s social circles, the prestige of Valdemore was something he would crawl on all fours to obtain.

In other words, the opportunity was simply too good—far too good—to refuse.

But no matter how wealthy and distinguished a woman she might be, she wasn’t worth more than his life.

Hugo recalled the terrifying encounter he’d had in an alley just days ago. That elegant, haughtily beautiful face asking if he was Hugo Bedford… The man was at least thirty centimeters taller than him.

When Hugo, frozen in fear, barely managed to nod, the man had looked him up and down as if wondering where such an insignificant creature had come from. Hugo would likely never forget that face, even on his deathbed. The man didn’t even seem to remember they had been classmates at the naval academy. Then again, Hugo was utterly average in every way, while the other… was none other than ‘him’.

“So, your answer?”

The lady snapped impatiently. Only then did Hugo realize he had been lost in thought far too long in front of her. He reflexively lifted his head and met her cold, observing gaze. Timid Hugo shrank his shoulders again.

“I, I have an unavoidable circumstance.”

“Didn’t I ask, when I invited you, whether any of your relatives were ill, whether your legs were sturdy, whether you had any plans to ride a carriage or horse recently, or whether you were prone to falling in love too easily? You answered no to all of them, if I recall.”

It was a stern interrogation fit for a naval academy instructor.

“Y-yes, that’s right….”

“Well then, go on, make your excuses.”

“I truly have a major issue….”

“What exactly is this ‘major issue’?”

Normally, in high society, one didn’t pry so closely into why someone broke a promise. But that was a rule that applied to the countryside circles he came from—was the capital’s society different?

Hugo held back tears. ‘He’ was terrifying, but this woman before him was equally frightening. Stammering, he opened his mouth.

“The thing is, S-Small Duke Montrosa….”

“Montrosa?”

At the name leaving Hugo’s lips, Rosetta frowned, tilting her head in confusion. Why on earth had this name suddenly appeared…? Her faltering thoughts eventually reached one conclusion. Rosetta clenched her teeth so hard they nearly shattered.

Damn Montrosa! That Montrosa who should be torn apart and soaked in brine!

Now, this was definitely no longer just in her head.

* * *

After sending Hugo away, Rosetta rushed to the Montrosa mansion, dragging Anna and the butler along with her.

Located precisely on a hill at both ends of the Valencia Road, it took Rosetta three hours to reach the Montrosa gates after departure—due to the crowds flooding the streets as the ball drew near in just two days.

By the time Rosetta was led into the Montrosa reception hall, she was so furious she was on the verge of boiling over. Even Anna, who would normally crack a silly joke, stayed silent, cautiously watching her mistress.

Not long after, the door to the reception hall opened.

“Lady Valdemore.”

Cardier Montrosa walked in with grace, glanced briefly at a pocket watch in his hand, and continued.

“You’re late.”

…As if she had been late for an appointment they had scheduled in advance—such a brazen remark. As if he had known all along she would come.

The moment she saw that smug face, something in her ears seemed to pop. Rosetta clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Don’t play dumb—you know exactly why I’m here.”

A sharp pain spread as her nails dug into her palms. Her vision turned red with rage. She snapped back.

“I came here knowing full well you’re the one sabotaging my future.”

“I merely offered advice and suggestions that you should seek a partner more suited to your level.”

“…All of them? Every single one?”

“Yes. They’re simply not suitable for you.”

“What right do you have to decide who I can or cannot go with?”

At that moment, Rosetta felt countless eyes on her and reflexively glanced sideways.

Servants scattered throughout the reception hall had frozen like statues, silently staring at them. Only then did her mind clear, as if doused with cold water.

Damn it. Right—she was in the heart of Madcel, where even the breakfast menu of the neighbor’s house became gossip. Drawing attention like this was unwise.

She took several deep breaths. Then, with a sour expression, she added,

“…Sir.”

…Though honestly, adding “sir” hardly fixed things after the barrage of rudeness and insults that had already flown.

Yet Cardier, for his part, didn’t seem to care in the slightest whether she spoke disrespectfully or cursed at him. He studied her with narrowed eyes, as if measuring her, then suddenly remembered something and said,

“Wait, your hand.”

“Hand?” Reflexively, she held out her palm—then something was abruptly thrust into it. Rosetta instinctively flinched, pulling her right shoulder back.