Chapter 30

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter Title: Chapter 30

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Impertinent question? Surely he wasn't about to point out her sparse wardrobe again. Iona tensed inwardly just as Leroy threw out an uneasy preamble.

"Before, I pretended not to notice, and I thought that was the right thing to do... but now I'm starting to question if it really was."

"......"

"Do you have a bad relationship with your family, by any chance?"

Iona flinched for a moment and covered her cheek.

She had forgotten that she was bare-faced, having come out to rest alone in the room.

It wasn't the first time she'd shown him her bruised cheek, but that made it all the more problematic.

The mark from Nils should have faded long ago, so it was only natural for him to find it suspicious.

"Do your family members often raise their voices at you? Or resort to violence?"

Iona hurriedly answered Leroy's follow-up questions.

"No, they don't."

"I heard the eldest son of the Modroff family is jealous of his adopted sister and sometimes even lays hands on her. So that rumor is false too?"

The man's face had grown icy as he pressed her.

He was undoubtedly angry on her behalf about what had happened.

'I knew he was that kind of man, but still...'

Iona fell silent, unsure how to explain the situation.

Even if she revealed it was Florence and not Nils, nothing good would come of it.

Telling him that she was treated like a trash bin for venting not just by family but others would only make her look pathetic.

Leroy watched the pensive Iona for a moment before blurting out,

"You say you've never lied to your lord in your entire life, yet you can't seem to be honest with me even once."

He spoke as if he knew exactly how to prod her into answering.

Unable to let the pointed remark slide, Iona finally spoke.

"I was just wondering how to explain it. It was an accident from friction during work. It wasn't Nils."

"Friction with whom?"

"......Lady Florence."

She was the woman betrothed to the Crown Prince, after all.

No further explanation was needed for Leroy to grasp it immediately, his expression shifting accordingly.

With a small scoff, he muttered just loud enough for her to hear.

"......They really do all sorts of things."

He wiped the expression from his face and turned to Marsha.

"Do you have any ointment good for bruises?"

"Ah, yes, right here."

Marsha, who had been standing a short distance away, hurried over at the summons.

She always carried ointment for her frequently injured mistress, though it wasn't used properly because Iona found applying it a hassle.

Leroy took the small metal tin from Marsha and sat Iona in the nearby chair.

Only then did Iona realize what he intended and tried to stop him belatedly.

"You can ask Marsha to do this kind of thing..."

"Oh dear, I com-plete-ly for-got a-bout the laun-dry?"

Marsha cut her off by raising her voice emphatically, syllable by syllable, and darted out of the room faster than anyone.

Iona stared blankly at the spot where she had vanished, utterly bewildered.

There was no reason for Marsha to worry about laundry that wasn't even her responsibility.

The Modroff count's household wasn't so disorganized that a lady's personal maid had to handle laundry too.

As Iona froze in confusion, unsure what to do, a sticky sensation suddenly touched her skin.

In that moment, the man had scooped ointment from the tin and was rubbing it onto her cheek with his fingertips.

Iona reflexively clenched the hand resting on the chair.

Every time his firm knuckles brushed her skin, an oddly peculiar feeling washed over her. There was no contact beyond the necessary area, which only heightened her awareness of that narrow point of touch.

This is weird, surely, she thought.

Iona, who had been staring at the floor to avoid him, soon lifted her gaze.

"......There's no need for you to handle something this troublesome yourself."

"I agree. But you don't strike me as someone who takes good care of herself."

He was pointing out that she had let others slap her face not once, but twice.

Even from those fragmented incidents, it said a great deal about her as a person.

In truth, Iona simply waited for wounds to heal on their own without properly tending to them.

At a loss for a rebuttal, Iona quietly accepted Leroy's care.

In the grand scheme, it was just his knuckles touching her—nothing worth making a fuss over.

She and he had even kissed once in the past. Even if it was only because he had listened to her dying words.

That was how he had always been. He never refused when she sincerely asked something of him. That was why he had accepted her previous proposal.

Iona had begged for this marriage.

"Oh my, Your Grace. You've finally graced us with your presence. This way, please. Our head chef has poured his heart into preparing this feast over the past few days—you can look forward to it."

On a certain day in a past that no longer existed, Leroy had visited the count's mansion just as he did now.

Unable to refuse Count Modroff's persistent invitations, he had accepted the dinner invitation.

The atmosphere wasn't bad at all while they all gathered for the meal.

The trouble became apparent only after the feast ended, as they began chatting idly.

Ivonne, dragging everyone to the music room to play piano for the duke, made mistake after mistake—unlike her usual self, for some reason.

Perhaps even she realized the sounds were unbearable, as she blamed it on the alcohol and stood, asking Iona to help her to the bathroom.

Of course, it was all an act. The moment they reached the bathroom, Ivonne shoved Iona away in disgust.

"You know you've gotten a chance that doesn't suit the likes of you, right?"

Ivonne continued, arms crossed.

"If you have any conscience, go tell the duke right now. Say you're far, far, far too lacking to marry him. How about he marries your younger, prettier sister instead?"

This was beyond Iona's control.

At the time, Richardt's orders were as good as truth to her. Changing the bride on her own without his permission was unthinkable.

When Iona explained this, Ivonne scowled as if she had expected as much.

She warned her in a deliberate, clipped tone.

"If you don't say it, I will."

"Say what?"

"What else? That you're a filthy bastard!"

As Iona's expression hardened, Ivonne finally smirked in satisfaction.

Poking Iona's chest with her index finger, Ivonne said,

"Does the duke really have to share a bed with a wench of unknown origins like you? Who even knows what kind of woman your mother was... Ah, no. A whore, probably. That's why she had no shame giving birth to you. Must've seemed like a chance to get her hands on some money for once."

"......Calm down, Ivonne. I told you, this is out of my hands."

"Cut the lame excuses! Why can't the bride be changed? Why you and not me? It makes no sense!"

Unable to contain her rage, Ivonne ended up screaming furiously.

"You think I don't know why you're saying no? All you want is to seduce men with that pretty face and climb up, right? Dirty, shameless wench. How are you any different from your mother? If you're not a whore, then what are you?!"

Unsure how to calm Ivonne, Iona glanced toward the door.

Should she go to Count Modroff first and ask him to intervene? Would he even take her side...? She was lost in such thoughts.