Chapter 83
So He’ll Never Know It’s Love

“I’m sorry, Marie.”

Claudine spoke calmly to her maid, whose eyes met hers in the mirror. The maid started, nearly dropping the comb in her hand.

“Please, don’t say that, my lady. It was only my fault for not conducting myself properly.”

“No. I was the foolish one. I never should have dragged you into such trouble.”

Claudine sighed, rising from her vanity. Dressed for the arrival of the Crown Prince and Princess, she was elegant and dazzling—already every bit the mistress of Arvis.

“I’ll never forget the debt I owe you. I truly am sorry. And thank you, Marie. I mean it.”

She clasped the maid’s hand tightly. The maid’s eyes welled with tears.

In all the years she had served the Count’s daughter, she had never heard such words. To the maid, who had always loved the proud, imperious young lady she served, this gentleness cut deeply.

“This is all because of Layla…”

“Don’t say that. The fault was mine.”

Claudine stopped her with a shake of her head before leaving the room. The Crown Prince’s carriage would not arrive for some time yet, but she did not want to sit in her chamber with her gloomy thoughts.

She wandered once around the ruined greenhouse before heading to the solarium, where the surviving plants and birds had been moved. As her irritation with the foolish gardener began to rise, a familiar voice came from behind.

“Have you recovered, my lady, from the wound dealt by your own schemes?”

She turned. As expected, it was Riette. She shot him a glare but soon gave a weary laugh and sat at a nearby table. The sweet fragrance of flowers and birdsong soothed her.

“Thank you for your comfort, cousin.”

“Think nothing of it.”

He smiled easily, taking the seat opposite her.

“At first, I thought if this ever became a problem, it would all be because of Layla. What a stupid assumption that was.”

Claudine shifted the conversation without warning.

“Don’t worry too much. Men, Claudine—they can lose their heads over a woman. For a while, they’ll do anything. But soon enough, they tire of her.”

“That might be true of ordinary men. But we’re talking about Matthias von Herhardt.”

Claudine’s sigh silenced Riette. Matthias’s behavior that day had been entirely unexpected. To outsiders, it would have looked like the devotion of a fiancé defending his bride from a deceitful maid.

“Have you ever seen him show real attachment to anyone?”

Claudine’s tired eyes met Riette’s across the sunlit glass ceiling.

“I haven’t. Not once. Not even toward his own mother, I imagine.”

He wanted to say she was exaggerating, but he couldn’t.

“And yet he fixates on a maid?”

“Strictly speaking, Layla Llewellyn isn’t a maid.”

“There’s no difference.”

Her voice was calm, but the coldness in it was unmistakable.

“I should have realized it that day. The day he lied.”

Claudine’s gaze grew distant.

It had been that summer morning when news spread that the gardener’s cottage had been robbed. She’d seen Matthias then, walking alone—likely toward the riverside cottage.

Claudine had been in the garden, cutting roses for an arrangement. On impulse, she had followed. Matthias rarely allowed anyone into the cottage; that was precisely why she wanted permission to enter it herself. A basket of roses gave her the perfect excuse.

His stride had been longer than usual, forcing her to hurry after him. Then, unexpectedly, he stopped. She soon saw why: a middle-aged man stood before him, as if approaching from the opposite path.

Claudine ducked behind a tree, instinctively hiding, though she hadn’t known why. Looking back, she realized it must have been some kind of instinct.

The scene itself had been unremarkable—Matthias staring at the intruder in silence, the man babbling nervously. Soon Matthias passed him without a word, and the stranger hurried off.

Claudine had hesitated, then turned back to the mansion. Shortly after, the household had erupted in news that Layla’s tuition money had been stolen.

She had thought little of it, until a few days later, when constables arrived at the mansion. Asked if he had seen anyone suspicious, Matthias had lied.

‘No.’

Though she had seen him meet that man herself, he lied without hesitation.

Why?

Claudine had not understood, but she chose to be his accomplice. Perhaps, deep down, she already knew. That his lie was for Layla. And the truth soon followed: the thief was the very man she had seen, and the one who had ordered the theft was none other than Mrs. Etman, desperate to stop her son’s marriage.

So my fiancé desires that girl.

Claudine had laughed bitterly then. To think the lofty Duke of Herhardt would lie, would conspire, just to possess Layla. And worse—his method was to destroy the only future the girl could have hoped for.

It was pathetic. He was no different from other men, driven by base desire. Yet she told herself it didn’t matter. He was Matthias von Herhardt, and Layla was nothing. Surely she wouldn’t suffer the humiliation of being rivaled by someone like her.

“Don’t fret, Claudine. Even if his feelings are real, he’ll never put her in the Duchess’s place.”

Riette’s reassurance did not soothe her.

“Won’t he?”

She whispered, her unease spilling out despite herself.

“Won’t he?” she repeated, almost desperately.

Riette exhaled slowly.

“If you’re that afraid, then leave it be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let him lose her without ever knowing what she means to him. Let him never realize it’s love.”

“You think Matthias doesn’t know his own feelings?”

“If it truly is love, then he won’t.”

Her eyes narrowed, unconvinced. But Riette remained firm.

“He’s lived his whole life without knowing such things. He couldn’t recognize it if he tried.”

“That’s absurd.”

“No. It’s advice—from the heart. Don’t provoke him, Claudine.”

Advice born of love, wishing his beloved could safely become another man’s wife.

It was laughable, humiliating even. Yet Riette wished for Claudine’s happiness still. If it lay in the title Duchess of Herhardt, he would hand it to her himself.

“Don’t touch Layla Llewellyn. Don’t make Matthias realize what he feels. Human hearts are strange. Once you know it’s love, there’s no stopping it.”

Like mine for you.

Instead of saying the words, Riette only smiled faintly. Footsteps approached from the hall, cutting the conversation short.

A moment later, their source appeared: the Duke of Herhardt in full dress uniform. He passed Riette and stopped before Claudine, offering his gloved hand.

“The Crown Prince is arriving. Shall we, my lady?”

There was no trace of the coldness he had shown her before. For a heartbeat, her eyes wavered—but she soon matched his natural smile with one of her own.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Her voice was bright and cheerful, enough to make Riette smirk.

A perfect pair, in their way.

He shook his head and rose as well.

The three of them joined the others gathered in the grand hall to welcome the Crown Prince and Princess. There, Riette saw her—the Duke’s mistress. Layla stood quietly at the back of the servants, eyes lowered.

When the carriage arrived, photographers rushed to capture the moment. Though Matthias was a friend of the Crown Prince, this was an official state visit, complete with full ceremony. Even Layla, long accustomed to the comings and goings of nobles, was awed by the spectacle.

She stood at the far end of the line of servants, her eyes wide with tension and anticipation. The Duke appeared with his fiancée at his side. Arm in arm, they looked utterly composed, smiling as flashes burst around them.

Layla stared, dazed. This was a different man—so disciplined, so dignified. There was no sign of the madman she knew in the shadows of night.

So this is what he looks like—as a noblewoman’s man.

Her eyes blinked slowly, catching the cold light of winter. Matthias and Claudine descended the red-carpeted steps, all grace, to greet the royal couple. Even from afar, Layla could sense how familiar they were with one another, how natural.

Her gaze dropped to the Duke’s ceremonial regalia, the shining insignia on his chest. Instinctively, she clasped her hands behind her back. Her fingertips stung with phantom sensation. These were the hands that had stroked the wings of a crystal bird, the hands that had accepted Claudine’s coins with forced humility.

She kept her head bowed, staring only at her toes, as the royals ascended the steps. It was over. A bitter relief loosened her chest—until she looked up, and regret struck her like a blow.

Claudine was looking back.

Her eyes met Layla’s, and she smiled. A smile bright and sharp as the clinking of coins. Layla clenched her hidden hands tighter.

The pale afternoon stretched its shadows long.