Trapped in Their Manor, Twin Dukes Keep Me Captive

Chapter 12:Ball-1

For any noble lady who moves within society’s circles, a ballroom is the cruellest battlefield. Women gather there to compete in grace and beauty, vying for the burning gazes and admiration of every gentleman present. Life in high society is an unsparing, endless drama; everyone is trapped in its performance, gasping for reprieve, judging others while constantly being judged themselves. No written rules govern this play, yet its laws hide within every tiny gesture, even every fold of a lady’s gown. It takes relentless effort to stand out and triumph, while one single clumsy misstep or careless phrase is enough to turn you into a laughingstock for all.

Though Annie would not have to navigate the vicious hidden power struggles of formal high society, she still faced countless seemingly insurmountable hurdles if she hoped to dazzle everyone at Béatrice’s ball.

The first and most vital matter was her gown: it had to be exquisitely made, and never worn by anyone else before. Her accessories also needed to match the ball’s theme perfectly. To me, this was the biggest obstacle of all—how could a girl raised in such a remote manor possibly get hold of such rare gowns and delicate ornaments?

Yet Annie carried unshakable confidence over this seemingly impossible trouble. “These are my problems to solve, not yours. All you need to do is teach me how to carry myself better than every other woman there.”

I could not help admiring the bold courage and perseverance she summoned just to make a striking impression. To earn the chance to slip from one side of the manor to the other after dark, she’d even let herself catch a cold on purpose. She was sent off to a solitary small chamber afterward, free from the other ladies-in-waiting’s watchful stares. That was not all. Every pitch-black night, she had to sneak past patrolling footmen carrying oil lamps and cross winding, endless corridors to reach our secret meeting spot. Each evening, I hid trembling in the small back room off the dressing chamber, tugging the curtains tight to block every sliver of light, holding my breath to wait for the faint scratch of pebbles tapping against the cypress door.

There was so much Annie needed to learn: basic French, the poised etiquette for accepting a gentleman’s dance invitation, every subtle smile and glance while waltzing, even the precise tilt and movement of extending and folding her fan. Thankfully, her goal was not to surpass Béatrice—otherwise our mere two hours of nightly training would never have been enough.

As our daily lessons stretched on, Annie’s stares toward me grew stranger by the day. At last, worn thin by her searching, yearning gaze, I asked her bluntly, “What has gotten into you lately?”

Her eyes drifted fleetingly down my figure, and she spoke a line I thought I must have misheard. “Eleanor, honestly… you aren’t a man disguised as a woman, are you?”

“Do you plan to find out for yourself?” I rolled my eyes, speaking dryly.

“Hmm…”

She half-shielded her face behind her fan, staring at me unblinkingly, and then—then she actually reached out to check.

I froze completely, utterly stunned.

Merciful God, Holy Virgin Mary. I, Lady Eleanor, a noblewoman once sheltered by high society’s grace, trapped on this foreign continent, had just been boldly groped out of nowhere by another woman?

I swear upon every female ancestor of my house: never once in my life has anyone dared take such bold liberties with me—only I have ever watched others with quiet amusement!

To make the incident even more absurd, after her reckless touch, she furrowed her delicate brows and muttered under her breath.

“You really are a woman… yet when you demonstrate graceful poses, you’re far more captivating than Béatrice. More soft and alluring than any maid I’ve ever seen!”

I had no words to reply.

It was only natural. Growing up, I had spent every day surrounded by duchesses and noble young ladies of the Duchy of Württemberg. For women of aristocratic blood, beauty was our armour, gentle charm our sharpest weapon. Learning how to move in ways that felt naturally enchanting was as routine as eating or drinking. What was more, my mother had been hailed as the most breathtaking beauty in all Ludwigsburg in her youth; raised beneath her subtle influence, I’d long since learned every little trick to carry soft, irresistible feminine grace.

Annie belonged entirely to the Count now, and Helena’s miserable fate lingered fresh in my mind, so I dared not grow overly familiar with her. Still, as a small “payback” for her sudden boldness, I doubled the length of her poise and deportment drills without mercy.

“I will shock those arrogant Spanish and Italian ladies speechless!” Annie gritted her teeth and hissed as she repeated the same tedious posture corrections over and over.

I tactfully chose not to ask what petty conflict had sparked her anger with the other attendants—it was nothing more than trivial jealousy between women, in any case. From years of observing court ladies’ squabbles, I knew the smartest way to avoid getting tangled in their meaningless spats was to feign ignorance and pretend I’d heard nothing.

Annie did bring me valuable new information, however: other true nobles would attend the ball. Real landed nobility, at minimum knights who held their own estates, not the useless, sycophantic attendants who lingered around the Count.

I dared not draw near the Count myself, desperate for him to forget the reason he’d dragged me to Kolleck Manor at all, leaving me with no way to gather useful news. That made every scrap of intelligence Annie shared incredibly precious.

If other nobles would be present, there might open up a brand-new chance to beg for rescue, rather than clinging to Lord Elvis William Haiges as my only fragile hope. What if the elder twin was just as cruel and fond of inflicting pain as his younger brother? Steward David had sworn countless times that Lord Elvis would never stand by and permit Ian’s reckless cruelty, yet he was merely a lowly steward of a remote country manor, rarely granted audience with either lord. Faced with his own blood twin on one side, and a stranger noblewoman from a distant old continent on the other, who could guarantee Elvis would judge fairly, rather than simply erase me from existence entirely to avoid trouble?

Days slipped past one after another, and two evenings before the ball, I finally laid eyes on the gown Annie planned to wear.

To my surprise, it was an exquisitely designed English sack-back gown. Clearly rushed into production, its fabric was plain Indian cotton, yet its clever design cut costs by minimising expensive lace decorations. Flowing, soft lines perfectly highlighted the bright youthful vitality of a young girl, and the matching fitted riding jacket was a stroke of pure genius.

The light cotton gown paired with a cinched riding waistcoat accentuated Annie’s slender waist beautifully. Matched with a wide-brimmed hat woven with silk ribbons, the whole look carried a wild, free charm that would undoubtedly catch the Count’s eye amid the stiff, ornate French gowns worn by his other ladies-in-waiting. Simply swapping the riding jacket for a cashmere shawl or a short French coat would instantly shift the whole aesthetic from bold, untamed spirit to soft, refined French court elegance.

The design was masterful beyond words. My only lingering question: where in the tiny, remote Kolleck Manor could there be a tailor gifted enough to craft such an inspired outfit?

Annie glowed with pride at my curiosity.

“Now you understand why I said the dress was my responsibility to handle? I sketched the whole design myself, copying a ball gown seen in an old portrait locked away in the storage wing!”

So she had recreated the dress from a painting. I thought to myself, such a talented seamstress would be showered with lavish annual stipends from noble ladies back in Ludwigsburg, all fighting to secure exclusive custom gowns from her hands alone.

All in all, Annie was fully determined to make the most of her English heritage as her greatest advantage—and I could not fault her logic. As she herself had said, the Count was still a man at heart. He might hold prejudice against English gentlemen, yet he would surely be captivated by English ladies’ unique beauty.