Chapter 77
Poor Thing

Layla didn’t quite understand what she had just heard.

She had listened carefully, yet the words spun around in her head, refusing to form any clear meaning. As though she could read Layla’s confusion, Elise von Herhardt repeated the command.

“For the time being, you’ll assist Claudine. You’ll be compensated fairly.”

“But, my lady, I… I’ve never done such work…”

“Being her companion is nothing new to you, is it? You’ve done it since you were children. Beyond that, there will be nothing too taxing. Just lend a hand with the small tasks her maid cannot manage for now.”

Her brow furrowed, betraying her displeasure.

“I trust you won’t refuse. Remember the mercy shown to Bill Remmer, who ruined Claudine’s beloved greenhouse. If you cannot grant even this small favor in return, what does that say?”

She spoke Bill’s name with deliberate coldness, the anger in her voice unhidden. Ah. The gardener. Behind her words, other noble ladies murmured in hushed tones.

“Don’t feel too burdened, Layla.”

From a step back, Claudine added her own gentle words.

“I won’t trouble you much. Just a few simple things. The rest of the time, you can still tend to your own work in the household.”

Her eyes studied Layla’s pale, stricken face. At least the girl wasn’t cunning or brazen—that earned her a point of respect.

“I’ll ask you directly, Layla. Will you? Please?”

She cornered Layla smoothly, guiding her toward the only answer.

Claudine!

Across the table, Riette mouthed her name, his expression urging restraint. But Claudine didn’t yield.

This was precaution. A safeguard against the what if.

If Layla didn’t disappear on her own, then Claudine would have to live with her husband’s mistress. And in that case, order was necessary. If Layla would only know her place, keep within the bounds set for her, Claudine had no intention of openly opposing her.

“Child, Claudine is asking you herself.”

One of the noble ladies scolded sharply. Layla looked at Claudine with the helpless expression of a lost child, her eyes pleading silently for the command to be withdrawn.

Was it those tear-bright eyes that ensnared that merciless man’s heart?

Claudine regarded her with almost scholarly curiosity. But there was no need to hurry. The answer was already determined. And soon enough, Layla gave it, voice heavy with resignation.

“…Yes, my lady.”

She bowed her head, her hands clasped tightly together.

“Thank you.”

Claudine’s smile bloomed, bright and graceful.

“How sweet you are, Layla.”

In Latz, Matthias’s schedule left no space to breathe.

Most of the Herhardt enterprises were based in Karlsbar, but the capital held weight of its own. As the hub for imperial, political, and social ties, Latz was as vital as the family’s estates.

So the dukes of Herhardt had always divided their time—half the year in their domain, half in the capital, growing their power inside and out. Once Matthias married and produced an heir, he too would live that way.

Then perhaps Layla should be kept here, in Latz.

He leaned back in his office chair after seeing off a group of visitors, staring up at the ceiling.

The Herhardt residence in Latz had always been the household of the Duke—and also the residence of the Duke’s mistress. His father’s favored mistress had lived here too.

When Matthias visited the capital as a boy, he had seen her, naturally. His mother had accepted it as well. And his father, for his part, had kept a firm line—never letting his mistress’s affairs cross into Arvis. That, Matthias understood, was the Herhardt order.

Yes. That would do.

If he could not discard her, if his desire proved longer-lived than expected, then better to follow that order. Leaving Layla in Arvis after marriage was out of the question.

But that woman… would she accept it?

The memory of her stubborn eyes made his brow tighten.

Would Layla Llewellyn ever quietly accept the life of a mistress? Not likely. She treasured Bill Remmer above all else. For her, admitting to being the Duke’s mistress would be more unbearable than biting through her own tongue.

“Layla.”

He whispered her name like a draught of fine liquor, his hand sliding slowly over his face.

The obstinacy in her that had once intrigued him now pressed down on him, suffocating and infuriating. He had countless things to give his mistress, yet his beautiful mistress refused them all.

Even with her gripped firmly in his hand, she never quite felt like his. Always something he held, yet still longed for. What a ridiculous sensation.

His fingers brushed his jaw as he sank deeper into thought. No conclusion came—only a heavy sigh. And suddenly, he realized: he thought of her constantly. Out of habit, always, he found his mind circling back to her, no matter that it only left him frustrated.

“My lord, Colonel Farrell has arrived.”

Mark Evers, his aide, entered after a courteous knock, announcing the new guest. Matthias rose, smoothing his attire. His stride was steady, strong, elegant.

“Just now, we received a reply from the Natural History Museum regarding our inquiry.”

As they walked down the hall toward the drawing room, Mark reported. Matthias paused, so Mark paused with him.

“They identified the artisan who crafted the new crystal bird ornaments for the museum’s ceiling corridor last spring. A jeweler named Kroken, who supplies the Imperial Household. Shall I commission the same design?”

“Do so.”

Matthias gave a casual nod, then after two steps halted again.

“Ah. With yellow wings.”

“…Pardon?”

“Order the ornaments with yellow-winged birds.”

With that, Matthias continued down the corridor.

In his mind, he saw Layla again, her eyes alight as she had run down that corridor in the museum, marveling at the rows of glittering crystal birds. He saw her standing on tiptoe, reaching out, smiling so radiantly. He felt again what it was to catch her in his arms when he’d swept her up.

If I gave her that, would she smile like that again?

The thought had struck him as he passed the museum. On impulse, he had given the order. Uncharacteristic of him.

Come to think of it, she had been so happy that day. Weaving through displays of fossils and specimens, taking notes, gasping with delight.

If he could grant her the university here in Latz that she longed for… perhaps she would accept that much.

The thought flickered as he reached the drawing room door. Kyle Etman was there as well, yes—but what did that matter? Layla was already his woman.

Matthias opened the door with a lighter step, his expression reset into the flawless mask of the Duke of Herhardt.

“Do you remember, Layla? This was where we first met.”

Claudine spoke as though recalling a beautiful childhood memory.

Stiff as a statue, Layla lifted her trembling eyes to glance around. Yes. It was here, in this very drawing room, that she had been dragged and discarded as Claudine Brandt’s plaything one summer when she was twelve.

“Yes, my lady.”

Her reply was polite, her gaze lowered.

Claudine had not lied—it was not difficult work. A few errands aside, Layla’s role was simply to be her companion. Exactly as it had been in childhood.

“It feels like yesterday, yet so many years have already passed.”

Claudine sighed wistfully. At that moment, her maid entered, announcing it was time to dress for the afternoon tea.

Layla followed her into the guest chamber. Dresses and jewels had been laid out already. All she had to do was help Claudine into them. The maid had claimed even a blindfolded girl could manage—but for Layla, unfamiliar with such finery, it was a struggle.

“My goodness, Miss Llewellyn! Not like that!”

The maid clucked in dismay, rushing to fix the tangled adornments. Layla’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Don’t scold her, Marie. You’re flustering her.”

Claudine rebuked the maid gently, sending Layla an encouraging smile.

“Go on, Layla. It’s all right.”

Her face made it clear she had no intention of calling another maid. So Layla tried, desperate to finish without failure.

What a trained maid could have done in minutes took her ages. Still, Claudine waited patiently, never hurrying her. But in the end, it was a failure. No matter how hard she tried, Layla could not dress a noblewoman to perfection.

Standing before the mirror, Claudine sighed softly. She removed the hat Layla had placed on her, then the gloves, the shawl, the necklace—all in a calm, unhurried manner that only made it feel more severe.

Replacing them herself, Claudine transformed once more into elegance incarnate.

“Poor thing.”

She turned, her eyes steady and serene, gazing at Layla. That gaze stirred the same helplessness in her that it had all those years ago. Her body went rigid.

“You’re still just a girl who knows nothing.”

Her voice was careful, almost tender, as though she tried to mask disappointment and irritation.