I turned my eyes to Nina with a glare of betrayal.
But she, of course, was watching us with a romantic blush, as if
she
were the one falling in love.
“What are you doing? Come down,”
Eric said with that same gentle smile as he extended his hand toward me.
His voice was soft—too soft.
But I couldn’t move.
My legs wouldn’t obey. My spiritual meridians must’ve been blocked by sheer embarrassment!
I said urgently,
“I… think I forgot how to walk down stairs. What should I do?”
“…What did you just say?”
Eric’s smile dropped instantly. He stared at me, dumbfounded.
Then, as if deciding it couldn’t be helped, he began walking up the stairs.
He took my hand.
The rings on our fingers—those symbols of our false union—clinked gently as they met.
"Why can’t you walk properly? Are you unwell?"
“…It’s my heart.”
Eric narrowed his eyes.
“…Don’t tell me you're going to say your heart aches because I’m too beautiful.”
“Tch. As if you don’t know you’re heavenly already.”
I muttered under my breath, and Eric’s ears turned bright red. Gritting his teeth, he said,
“…Alright. Left foot first.”
Eric gently took my hand and placed it upon his arm, then gave me marching orders like a sect drillmaster.
“Left foot.”
“…”
“Left foot.”
“…”
“That was your right foot.”
“I told you, my legs aren't syncing up properly.”
Grumbling, I gripped the hem of my ceremonial robes tightly. Then I glanced up and down at Eric and said,
“I think you might actually be prettier than me.”
“Not a chance. You’re the more radiant one.”
He said it so calmly, and once we finished descending the steps, he held my hand again.
That word—
pretty
—kept echoing in my ears. Embarrassed, I looked away and mumbled,
“S-So… this robe really does look expensive, right?”
Eric furrowed his brow.
“…Not sure.”
Not sure?!
What do you mean,
not sure
?
Do you even realize how much gold you poured into this ensemble?!
As I boarded the carriage with Eric’s help, I questioned him again.
“So… you don’t like this robe? This is an extremely rare masterwork robe, you know?”
“Honestly, all robes look the same to me.”
For a moment, I almost burst out swearing. But it was good I held back—otherwise I might’ve missed what he said next.
“When I said you were beautiful, I meant
you
. Not the robe.”
“…Nina told me young lord cultivators like you are bad at expressing yourselves.”
I muttered that without thinking, and Eric responded,
“Does it take poetic skill to simply say what I see?”
I gaped at him.
That!
That
is exactly what women call good at expressing themselves!
So this “naïve young master” act… turns out he’s just a shameless rogue in disguise!
✵
✵
✵
The carriage soon arrived at the Art Salon.
I had attended many social gatherings in the capital before—thanks to Mother dragging me around—but this was my first time at an Art Salon.
It was something like a cultivators' appreciation hall—an elegant forum where scholars, artists, and nobles mingled over refined discourse.
The Art Salon itself resembled a spiritual tea house, only with the tables pushed to the center and most chairs removed. People stood, gazing at the scroll paintings and art mounted across the walls.
Some cultivators stood solemnly, meditating on the artistic intent behind each piece. Others, mainly noble ladies, clustered at tables sipping spirit-infused teas, idly chatting or fanning themselves.
Of course, a few debauched ones had already summoned wine and begun a merry drinking circle.
“The Art Salon is a sacred place of cultural exchange,”
the steward had warned.
“Only those with a cultivated mind can join the discussions freely!”
Even with that warning, the atmosphere was more daunting than I’d imagined.
Regular gatherings I’d attended usually followed a formula: light chatter, a drawn-out feast, then drinking and gossip. But this place… had no set pattern.
No rules meant freedom—but for a fledgling like me, it also meant isolation. If I didn’t navigate carefully, I wouldn’t be able to wedge myself into any group. No one was obligated to include newcomers.
“Greetings, Young Lord Eric. Greetings, Lady Imelline.”
Everyone greeted us with warmth and poise… but the conversations never lasted long.
"…So, you're saying you're not particularly interested in Belle Nouveau-style architecture?"
Belle Nouveau…
Ugh… that wretched steward only taught me about art movements, not architectural styles! Why are they suddenly bringing up buildings?!
"Architecture? Uh… you mean like, building houses, right? Yeah, I like houses too. Like a little white cottage on a hill…"
While I was busy spouting nonsense, Eric swiftly stepped in to cover for me.
"We’re planning to build another country manor soon. She means to say we’re considering Belle Nouveau style for it."
"Ah, I see."
Eric had done a fine job saving me, but the other person was already giving me a look as if they had completely seen through my shallowness. With a faintly scornful tone, they exchanged a few more polite words with Eric before disappearing into the crowd.
"…Tch."
I muttered, lifting a champagne glass to my lips—only for Eric to snatch it away.
"Trying to drink again?"
"It’s not like I got drunk
that
day, okay? I can hold my liquor just fine."
"Regardless. Don’t drink. Publicly, you're supposed to be with child, remember?"
Ah, right…
Rose…
I rubbed my belly and clicked my tongue.
"But what am I supposed to do when I’m dying for a drink? Besides, thanks to me, you can’t even strike up a proper conversation with anyone here."
I glanced around with a sour expression. Everyone else seemed engaged in some sort of cultured or strategic exchange. Meanwhile, Eric and I were completely adrift, floating outside any meaningful social current.
Eric shook his head.
"I was never one for idle chatter anyway. Why are you suddenly so obsessed with these social gatherings? Sure, we need to manage our public image, but forcing it won't help."
"Probably since I found out your and the princess's grand strategy almost fell apart… because of our reputation."
Eric's expression hardened.
Ever since rumors began spreading about me being
Ella’s lover
, I’d noticed a shift. The tabloids, the servants in the ducal estate—even the aides at the palace—were whispering that the princess might lose her place in the imperial succession over this.
The ripple effect of this
contract marriage
was far larger than I’d anticipated.
…Sure, rumors always come with exaggeration, but still…
"Which means… dissolving the contract marriage won’t be so easy now, right?"
"You sound pretty eager to end it."
Eric looked at me with quiet intensity.
Suddenly, I caught something in his expression—something… vaguely unpleasant.
Why…?
Why did it feel like he was dissatisfied… or even disappointed?
Chapter 70