Trapped in Their Manor, Twin Dukes Keep Me Captive

Chapter 14:Ball-3

Judged even by the standards set for a young noble maiden’s debut at her first society ball, Anne’s entrance that night could only be described as a resounding success.

If one were to draw a comparison, it was as though Artemis, goddess of the hunt, had suddenly stepped forth amid a gathering of naiads. She had no need to vie for radiance with Aphrodite, goddess of beauty, for the two embodied utterly different kinds of allure. Yet against the naiads surrounding her, she held an overwhelming advantage. Her air of quiet command and well-measured haughtiness, reminiscent of a true noble young lady, further accentuated that untamed, innate wild beauty no other female attendant could hope to possess—more than enough to ignite feverish pursuit and curiosity within any rake.

It was plain to see that Anne’s rivals, the Frigoules maids led by Erika, had been caught completely off guard. That afternoon, Anne had still seemed nothing more than a provincial girl from Colleck ignorant of all the subtle unwritten rules of high society. By nightfall, she moved as a poised yet unruly gentlewoman. She navigated every advance, whether ingratiating or malicious, with effortless grace. Like attendants of Spanish descent, she wielded her silk fan to convey nuanced emotions: disdain, interest, indifference, even quiet provocation. When male servants sought her hand for a dance or lavished praise upon her, every gesture and observance of etiquette matched, and even surpassed, any maid in the household.

Amid all the beauties clad in gowns fashioned after French or French-inspired styles, Anne stood out strikingly in her English sack-back gown. Far from unsettling her, this distinctiveness brought her genuine delight—as if she were the English bride who was meant to appear at the ball, yet absent for some undisclosed reason.

Anne’s strategy had worked flawlessly. She had effectively stepped into the place reserved for that unseen English bride, turning herself into an unconventional focal point of the ball and drawing the gaze of every gentleman almost involuntarily.

I held no assigned role within the ballroom this evening. After all, what identity could I claim if I were to show myself? Were I to pass as a footman, Old David could not guarantee I would not seize some noble guest at random and blurt out the truth of my origins. To pose as a guest would be nothing short of absurd.

Days earlier, Old David had given me but one instruction: remain somewhere within the chambers of the right wing reserved for Countess Elvis. Above all, avoid crossing paths with Eleanor or any visiting guests unless there was no other choice.

Thoughtful as Old David’s arrangements were, he had plainly overlooked one crucial truth. For a lifelong rake who had devoted more than twenty years to pleasure as life’s highest pursuit, no barrier could restrain his boundless curiosity once it took hold. To win the hearts of noble ladies and young misses demanded not only wit and a ready tongue, but also nimble limbs, suited for breaching private quarters defended as securely as fortresses.

What proved even more fortunate was that Colleck Manor, like every noble residence I had known at Ludwigsburg Palace, concealed forgotten passages tucked away in unremarkable corners: cleverly designed narrow staircases, chambers that revealed nothing unusual from the outside. Such spaces had been built for visitors who could not enter through formal halls or grand stairways. Thanks to these hidden routes, I was able to observe scenes unseen by the rest, including the silent, tense rivalry between Viscountess Lester and Beatrice, as well as Anne’s magnificent, masterfully executed debut.

Once I confirmed that Anne had achieved exactly the effect she had hoped for, I slipped back down the small staircase to the study on the right wing. I picked up an English volume detailing customs in the distant eastern colony of India and retreated into the small private lounge at the back, intended for the master’s rest. Though its owner had not set foot there for untold years, the deerskin sofa was draped with clean, warm blankets, perfectly suited for my purpose. I closed the door and sank onto the cushions. If Old David insisted I stay out of sight, surely there could be no fault in hiding quietly to read.

As luck would have it, the book contained more than just accounts of Indian customs. It described British rule over the East Indies and recounted a horrifying barbaric tradition practiced within the realm. Piecing together the text alongside engraved illustrations, I finally surmised what it depicted: the dreadful ritual of sati, where widows were burned alive upon their husbands’ pyres. Staring at the engraved faces of women writhing and screaming amid flames, I could not help but think of the shadow of death that hung perpetually over my own head. I sat frozen with the book in my hands before an involuntary shudder ran through me.

It felt like an ill omen.

All desire to read vanished, swept away straight to the East Indies. I tossed the book aside to serve as a makeshift pillow, wrapped half the blanket around my shoulders, blew out the candle, and settled down to sleep.

My rest was deeply troubled. In my dreams, I found myself once more within my lodgings at Ludwigsburg Palace. I heard Viscountess Edmund berating a laundress for failing to remove a wine stain from her silk undergarments; her voice sharpened when angered, rolling her vowels more heavily. Servants beat livery beneath the eaves, sending dull thuds echoing through the air. A coachman untied ribbons that had adorned a horse’s ears for three days, fastening fresh ones, and the fabric emitted that unique tearing sound of silk—What was that?

Looking back, I must still have been half-asleep. Roused by the noise, I lingered in dazed confusion for a time before striking a light, pushing open the door to the small lounge, and stepping outside.

I had not yet realised that the rustling and tearing of silk were no dream hallucinations, but the sound of tangled clothing.

Naturally, the two figures locked in embrace in the outer room were thoroughly startled when I emerged. The thick, rolling cadence of whispered French fell abruptly silent. After several stunned heartbeats, the woman let out a shriek, snatched up her shawl, pushed the man off her, and fled.

The man she had pushed aside remained remarkably calm. He composed his clothing unhurriedly, straightening his displaced whalebone collar, then spoke to me in an amiable, reproachful tone in French. “When did you develop the habit of lurking to spy on others? I had only just won the lady’s favour, and you have ruined everything.”

Presumably, because I had emerged from the study’s inner lounge, this man—one of the house guests, Baron George Fred—assumed Eleanor had indulged her mischievous streak and hidden within to surprise them, hence his tone, half complaint and half boast. It took only a moment before he sensed something amiss. When the candlelight revealed that my hair was not Eleanor’s striking golden blonde, he let out a surprised exclamation and reached for another candle resting on the nearby candlestick.

As the Baron advanced toward me, I longed to slip past and escape while his hands were occupied with the flame. Yet he seemed to have anticipated this, positioning himself to block every path leading to the outer doorway.

“I thought Countess Eleanor was resting inside, yet I find an unfamiliar beauty… I ought to remember a woman with black hair such as yours, yet I do not recall seeing you this evening. Have you slipped away from the ball as well?”

A beauty?

I stood frozen. When I offered no reply, the Baron lifted the candle closer to my face. I shifted my head uncomfortably away and caught the thoughtful glint in his eyes beneath the flame.

“Do you not speak French? Have you come from England?”

He spoke the first sentence in French, the second in English.

When I still remained silent, he softened his tone further. “Do not be afraid. You must be the lady who arrived aboard the transoceanic liner. My great-grandmother was English, too. Black hair and brown eyes such as yours are lovely, a rare shade among Englishwomen.”

This time, every word was spoken in English.

In a flash of understanding, everything clicked into place. Baron Fred knew for whom tonight’s ball had originally been arranged. He knew the story of the mail-order bride.

The root of this confusion was undoubtedly my hair. I had not cut it since arriving on the Continent. At Ludwigsburg Palace, noble folk relied on professional barbers for regular styling. After witnessing the clumsy handiwork of footmen and even enslaved labourers here at Colleck, I would not allow anyone to touch my locks. While this preserved my hairstyle, my hair had continued to grow longer, and my naturally wavy ends only lent credence to his misconception.

Members of high society possessed an instinct for recognising their own kind sharper than hunting hounds. Just as I would never mistake Eleanor’s liveried male attendants—wealthily dressed as they were—as one of my own, the Baron could tell at once I was no servant or maid. He would have met every guest of station present that night. All evidence pointed toward one conclusion: the English bride who had reached the estate yet been kept hidden by the Countess.

As for the men’s attire I wore—one must remember Eleanor was known to invite her female attendants to accompany her in French-style masculine dress for amusement. The Baron was surely aware of this quirk, and thus overlooked that detail entirely.

The instant I grasped the situation, I resolved to let his misunderstanding persist. I lowered my head slightly, then offered him an English curtsey.

For any man, being caught mid-tryst by another man and being discovered by a woman were two vastly different matters. The former might trigger rage that could end in bloodshed; the latter amounted to little more than a pleasant diversion, and might even become the start of another romance.

Baron Fred visibly brightened when I bowed to him. He stretched out a hand toward me. “Where are your chambers? Permit me to escort you back. It is unbecoming of a gentleman to leave a lady to traverse dark corridors alone.”

His words sounded noble, yet the way his gaze lingered firmly on my face betrayed his intentions. I knew the mindset of such rakes all too well. To snatch a lamb from beneath a vigilant lion, to steal golden apples from a giant’s guarded orchard—such exploits were incomparably thrilling amid an otherwise tedious life.

I lowered my voice as much as I could, replying in English. “I must return now. I cannot afford to be discovered. If you wish to hear my story, come to the seventh chamber on the right of the third staircase on the west wing later tonight. I earnestly beg you to understand my predicament.”

There was no way I could let him walk with me.

Baron Fred wore an expression of solemn devotion, as though he would gladly descend straight into hell for this meeting. “Rest assured. No obstacle on earth will stop me from coming to you.”

I bowed once more, kept my head down as I passed before him, and stepped out. Once I was safely beyond his line of sight and certain I was not followed, I blew out the candle and fled down a concealed narrow staircase back to my own modest quarters.

As for the seventh room to the right of the third staircase on the west wing: there existed no such chamber there at all. The space held only a large chapel. May the Baron’s improper desires find forgiveness beneath the Lord’s light. Amen.