Chapter 47
The Duke Laughed

A white homing pigeon flew in from across the river.

“…Phoebe?”

Layla whispered in disbelief.

“Phoebe!”

When the bird landed on the balcony rail, the name burst from her lips with certainty. A red thread was tied to its leg. It was Phoebe—her pigeon.

“What are you doing here?”

Layla, startled, hurried closer to where Phoebe perched.

When Kyle left, Phoebe’s role as messenger had ended. These days, she was simply the beloved pigeon Layla kept by her side. On days when the Duke went hunting, Phoebe stayed safely caged, but otherwise she roamed freely through the Arvis woods.

“You shouldn’t come here. This place is…”

Layla glanced nervously toward the Duke. Matthias, who had been gazing at the river where the children’s boats drifted, now turned his eyes to her.

“Phoebe.”

At the sound of him murmuring the name, Layla gasped.

“You… you know Phoebe, Your Grace?”

“Was that her name?”

“You know her?”

“Who can say?”

Matthias tilted his head.

“Why don’t you ask the pigeon yourself?”

“What?”

“You said you understand the hearts of birds.”

“That’s…”

Layla faltered, brows furrowed. She bit her lip hard instead of answering, which seemed to amuse Matthias.

As if afraid he might overhear, she turned her back fully to him and whispered quietly to her pigeon, just as if she really could speak with it. Whatever she said, it was surely nothing kind.

Phoebe soon flew off across the river. Only when the bird was gone did Layla return to her seat, her wary eyes fixed once more on Matthias.

“I apologize, Your Grace.”

The sudden words startled even herself.

“I’m sorry for Phoebe coming here uninvited. I’ll take responsibility.”

“You’ll apologize in place of your bird?”

“Yes.”

Even at his mocking tone, Layla answered earnestly.

“I’ll train her better so this doesn’t happen again. So please… please, Your Grace.”

Her voice began to tremble.

“Don’t shoot Phoebe.”

All confusion faded from her eyes, leaving only raw fear. Matthias’s crooked smile disappeared.

“Please.”

As silence stretched, her plea grew more desperate.

“Arvis may belong to you, Your Grace, but Phoebe is still…”

She swallowed her pride to beg—but just then, a servant approached. His Grace was wanted on the telephone by the family’s lawyer. Matthias rose and left the balcony.

Through the window, Layla watched him, unable to look away. In her mind she kept seeing the countless birds he had killed. Until he promised not to harm Phoebe, she could never be at ease.

He returned before long. Layla, who usually avoided his gaze, now held it, stubborn and unrelenting.

“Your Grace, about Phoebe…”

“Your bird is dull.”

His calm dismissal cut across her desperate entreaty. Layla froze.

“What do you mean?”

“A prey that doesn’t flee—tedious.”

“Then… then you won’t shoot her?”

Hope flickered. Her eyes brightened. Since coming to Arvis, she could not recall ever locking eyes with Matthias for this long.

“What do you think?”

He asked without looking away. In truth, he had no intention of hunting the pigeon, but he wasn’t about to give her the assurance she craved. It was the first time she had voluntarily begged him for something.

“I think… you won’t shoot her.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because you’re a gentleman, Your Grace.”

Only when pleading for scraps does she remember I’m a gentleman.

The cheeky, brazen answer made Matthias laugh under his breath. Layla, nervous at his reaction, quickly added:

“I don’t think you’d bother with something so trivial.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. You’re the finest marksman in Karlsbar. And a gentleman. I believe you would never stoop to such sport.”

She even nodded to affirm it.

Matthias burst into laughter.

The servants froze. Mark Evers, his closest aide, looked utterly stunned.

It wasn’t that the Duke never smiled. But his smiles were polite, perfunctory, at most a brief chuckle. If Mark’s memory was right, even as a boy Matthias had rarely laughed so openly, so genuinely.

Downstream, the children’s boats turned back toward the villa. Their bright laughter mingled with the Duke’s soft mirth.

Layla’s eyes begged silently for confirmation, but Matthias offered none. He merely watched, amused, as she bit her lip in impatience.

“Your Grace…”

Finally, she spoke again. Her voice wavered, but her cheeks glowed with a fragile hope. It suited her, he thought. Even her tentative smiles and timid gestures seemed heightened, focused entirely on him.

For a moment, Matthias considered granting her the reassurance. Instead, he reached for the bell.

A servant appeared swiftly with a silver case of cigarettes and an ashtray.

“Your Grace?”

Layla’s voice cracked with need.

Phoebe was not just a pet. She was a living symbol of her past with Kyle—her companion since she was downy and small. That time could never return, but at least Phoebe must be preserved.

Matthias lit a cigarette. Smoke coiled languidly through the silence. He studied Layla, who fixed her gaze only on him, begging. To his surprise, he didn’t dislike it. The thought came—absurd, ridiculous—that this moment might last forever, and he wouldn’t mind.

But enough.

At last, he tipped his chin.

Joy flooded her face.

“So then… you won’t shoot Phoebe, truly?”

Persistent to the end.

Matthias dropped his gaze and tapped the ash. Layla, catching the motion, finally stopped pressing.

If the promise had been made in private, she could never trust it. But here, with the household staff as witnesses, she could believe it. Layla Llewellyn might not understand Matthias von Herhardt, but she knew this much: in front of others, he would not easily break his word.

Relief poured from her in a long sigh. She turned to the river, where autumn leaves painted their reflection across the water. A soft smile touched her lips.

Phoebe was safe. Her memories were safe.

The smile brightened.

Matthias’s eyes narrowed as he caught it. That a pigeon’s safety could bring her such joy? He could not fathom it. And yet… he couldn’t look away.

The cigarette burned down between his fingers, along with a strange blend of restlessness and unease. Hunger and fullness all at once. Clarity like autumn’s crisp air, and yet as elusive as a fading dream.

He ground out the cigarette, throat dry, then plucked another but left it unlit. Its paper tip fluttered faintly in the wind.

Layla felt his stare and turned. The sunlight warmed her smile.

Something brighter than fear, sharper than shame.

He was still searching for its name when she caught herself, hurriedly hiding it. She dropped her gaze, burying her face, leaving him with a sharp pang—humiliation. Yes, now he knew the word. She had taught him.

Well, well.

Matthias gave a quiet laugh.

So, now that you’ve won, you no longer care to please me?

That slyness from Layla Llewellyn. Astonishing. Almost endearing. Though the sudden return of her guarded face soured it.

He clenched the unlit cigarette and tossed it aside. The sunlight smile was gone, leaving only shadow. He found he did not like it.

The autumn outing ended with the safe return of the children to school and then to their homes.

Only then did Layla realize how hard she had been holding herself taut all day. Fatigue sank deep into her bones, but she was satisfied—the first school excursion had been a success. Ironically, the greatest variable, the Duke himself, had ensured it.

“For a while, I think I’ll envy Miss Brandt more than anyone.”

Walking beside her, Miss Greber sighed.

“To have both that beautiful man and his estate… sometimes the world is so unfair. When is their wedding again?”

“Next summer, I believe.”

“The whole empire will be buzzing. Ah, I’m so jealous.”

Layla responded with a polite laugh.

They parted ways at a busy crossroads. Layla turned toward the market, arms soon laden with food for Bill. Tonight, she would treat him to a grand dinner.

I’ll make all his favorite dishes.

The thought quickened her steps. She nearly jogged along the road to Arvis—until she froze.

From the opposite direction came a middle-aged woman. The same eyes as Kyle. Linda Etman.

Layla’s grip on her bundles whitened. What was best? To ignore her? To greet her? Either felt absurd.

After a moment’s torment, Layla bowed silently. Linda Etman, too, inclined her head—accepting this as their best.

But as they began to pass, Linda spoke.

“Layla.”

Layla halted, turning with a jolt.

“In the end, it’s come to this. But I have no regrets.”

Her voice was weary, her eyes brittle, like dry leaves crumbling.

“My reputation may be ruined. My bond with Kyle may be strained. But still—I stopped your marriage. That’s enough for me.”

If she had spat it out in fury, perhaps it would have been easier to bear.

Instead, each quiet word, so calm and so cruel, pierced like shards of glass.

Having said her piece, Linda Etman walked on. Her housekeeper hurried to catch up, glancing back at Layla with sympathy. Layla offered only a short bow before striding forward again—big, bold steps, firm and proud.

But then she faltered, like a toy winding down.

She looked at her feet, then her hands, flexing them slowly. Drew a deep breath. Am I even human anymore?

A ritual of self-assurance, to push away the despair.

At last, she opened her eyes again. And with quick steps, she hurried home, where Uncle Bill was waiting.