"I apologize for the commotion, Your Grace. Idre Smil, at your service."
The first to recover her composure, Idre dipped into a polished bow.
The Duke acknowledged her with a nearly imperceptible nod.
The Countess and Omanda scrambled to follow suit, clutching at their skirts as they curtsied.
"Soran Otek... greetings, Your Grace."
"Omanda Otek... good day."
The Duke stood in silence.
The Countess dared to raise her head, timidly at first. Beside her, Omanda's cheeks flushed pink as she stole furtive glances at the Duke's face.
A thought flickered through the Countess's mind: *Why would His Grace come to a place like this?*
But greed—filthy, opportunistic greed—drowned out any doubts.
Her eyes glittered. Like a sycophant seizing a golden chance, she addressed the Duke:
"Your Grace, I was just about to report this matter to you! This *Viscount's daughter*"—she gestured dismissively toward Marin—"has been *posing* as Your Grace's fiancée! Can you imagine? Such impudence! Surely you have something to say about this. Insulting the nobility should be *severely* punished."
Having delivered her speech, the Countess smiled with deep satisfaction.
*If I catch the Duke's eye today, my husband will never dare scold me for my spending again.*
*And what if His Grace takes a liking to Omanda's beauty? What if she becomes the real bride?*
She nudged her daughter with a sharp elbow.
Omanda straightened, flashed a confident smile, and took a deliberate step toward the Duke—
His tightly pressed lips finally parted.
"Marin."
"Yes."
Marin wanted to sink through the floor and disappear. *This* was why she had wanted those two gone before he arrived.
"Why is it always so noisy wherever you go?"
For a moment, the Countess did not understand.
*Why is His Grace speaking so familiarly to this insignificant petty noblewoman?*
She looked at her daughter. Omanda stood frozen, eyes wide as saucers.
Only then did the Countess grasp what was happening.
She barely suppressed a scream.
*They know each other?*
Marin's pale green eyes filled with pure, undisguised resentment. She had *known* he would say exactly that.
"This time, it wasn't my fault."
"You always say that."
"But this time it's *true.*" She gestured toward the mother and daughter. "These two were demanding I surrender my dress to them."
The Duke turned slowly to face the Countess and Omanda.
His presence—cold, unapproachable, immense—pressed down upon them like a physical weight. Neither could lift her head.
"Is that so?" His voice was soft. Almost gentle. Not threatening at all.
And yet the signature chill in his tone made both women tremble like leaves in a storm.
Crushed beneath his aura, the Countess let out a soft groan and pressed a palm to her forehead. She swayed dramatically, forcing Omanda to catch her.
"M-Mother..."
"Have you already chosen the engagement dress?"
The Duke's question was directed at Marin.
"Because of *these ladies,*" Marin said with undisguised irritation, "we didn't even have time to start."
The Duke clicked his tongue.
Omanda went white as chalk. Her gaze dropped to the floor; she looked ready to faint.
Quick-witted as always, Idre retrieved a coin purse and approached them briskly.
"Here—take the refund for the dress and please leave."
"N-no!" Omanda's voice came out strangled. "The payment isn't necessary. Please—just return it."
Her mind raced desperately.
She had seen the golden dress through the shop window—so beautiful it had taken her breath away. She had practically *forced* her friend to sell it to her, only to sabotage it deliberately. The scheme was supposed to work.
But everything had gone wrong. The dress she had coveted turned out to belong to the worst possible person.
Idre—the designer who had created the Duke's bride's gown—would now become *famous* at court. After today, this woman would probably never sell Omanda so much as a ribbon.
And to be queen of the salons without at least one creation from a celebrated designer? *Unthinkable.*
For the sake of her future, she *needed* to stay in Idre's good graces.
But—
"No." Idre's voice was ice. "I'll simply return your money."
Nothing was going according to plan. Omanda bit her lip in frustration—but before she could speak, the Countess snatched the purse from Idre's hand and seized her daughter's wrist.
"Omanda. We're leaving. *Now.*"
"Mother, but how will we ever shop here again—"
"*Quickly!*"
The Countess rarely raised her voice to Omanda. But now she had lost all composure. She dragged her daughter toward the exit without looking back.
The door chimed as it closed behind them.
Silence settled over the salon like dust after a storm.
---
"I apologize for the disturbance. Please—allow me to show you to the sitting room. I'll bring refreshments immediately."
Idre led them through the shop to a private parlor at the back. She and Juri withdrew with quiet efficiency.
Marin glanced at the sofa and whispered to the Duke:
"Straight ahead."
"Are we going to continue like this?"
"Continue what, exactly?"
"Head over heels in love."
"Ah..."
"Let's begin."
As soon as the words left his mouth, the Duke raised his hand. Marin hesitated—then awkwardly took his elbow.
"This way, you won't have to tell me where to go."
"Yes. That's right."
Walking slowly, as though guiding him, Marin studied his handsome profile.
*Wasn't he sensitive to touch?*
Strangely, the Duke didn't seem constrained at all.
"There's a sofa just ahead."
The Duke settled onto it with practiced ease. Marin sat down at a respectful distance.
"Marin." His voice was dry. "You have a talent for making me repeat myself."
"Y-yes."
She answered automatically, a little stung—then caught herself.
*Too far. I went too far again.*
She shifted closer and peered up at him from beneath her brows. The corner of his lips had lifted—just barely.
"Since when did you start looking back at me?"
"I've *always* looked back."
"I don't believe it."
There was genuine surprise in his voice.
Marin was mortally offended.
"It's true."
"Well. Let's assume so."
"It *is* true!"
He chuckled—a low, quiet sound—and turned his head toward her.
His eyes remained closed. And yet, for a fleeting instant, Marin could have sworn their gazes met.
"And now you don't seem shy at all."
*Hard to argue with that.*
Marin bit her lips and fell silent.
At that moment—
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
Idre returned, arms laden with catalogs. Behind her, Juri set a tray of refreshments on the table, her hands trembling slightly as she stole nervous glances at the Duke.
"So!" Idre's voice was bright with professional enthusiasm. "When is the engagement? Next autumn? Ho-ho—though that's still rather soon, isn't it?"
"There will be no engagement ceremony." Marin lifted a teacup and deliberately avoided Idre's eyes. "Only an engagement reception."
"Oh! I see." Idre nodded. "And when might that be?"
"..."
Marin couldn't bring herself to answer. She hid behind the teacup, pressing it to her lips.
The silence stretched. A flicker of concern crossed Idre's blue eyes.
"In a month."
The Duke answered for her, brief and final. He reached for his own cup.
Idre clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a mental scream.
She stared at Marin, demanding confirmation.
Marin met her gaze—and nodded guiltily.
"Then today you will choose a dress *at any cost.*" Idre's voice had turned fierce. "Even if we stay here all night. Otherwise, there won't be enough time."
"I'll trust you with everything."
Already exhausted, Marin wanted nothing more than to hand the entire ordeal over to Idre.
"Absolutely *not!*" Idre's cheeks flushed; her eyes went wide. "Lady Marin is the star of this reception! The design must make *her* happy!"
"I see."
The Duke leaned back against the sofa, utterly indifferent—as though watching a fire burning on some distant, foreign shore.
Idre turned to him with cautious respect.
"Will Your Grace remain with Lady Marin?"
*Choosing dresses is a tedious affair. But men in love sometimes wait patiently for their beloved.*
"I'll stay."
Idre's breath caught.
*He's in love.*