Deceived, Yet Drawn to You - Chapter 6

Benjamin looked baffled, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“What?”

“I said my cock doesn’t get hard.”

Edmund, offering a translation of his own words, flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette. Then he brought the filter back to his lips, smoking with an air of absolute composure. Through the haze of smoke rising between them, Benjamin stared at him and let out a hollow laugh.

“I didn’t ask because I didn’t know, Edmund. Those photos weren’t shown to you to stimulate your nerves.”

Benjamin’s face grew more serious as he sat across from him.

“Are you planning to claim you’re infertile, like Rufus?”

“Let’s be clear. Unlike my pitiful half-brother who’s been declared impotent, I just don’t get aroused. You, as my personal physician, should know my health better than anyone.”

“Then what’s your reason for refusing the marriage talks? The Duke of Libert still hasn’t named you as his successor. I mean no disrespect, but while he’s still alive….”

“I’m well aware I need to secure my position by taking an appropriate woman as my wife.”

Noble houses preserve their power through bloodlines. For an heir to solidify his legitimacy, he must have offspring, and to do that, he must first have a wife. In other words, marriage was the foremost condition for inheriting the dukedom.

Feeling weary, Edmund leaned his head against the sofa’s backrest. Despite being impeccably dressed, his words and demeanor were no better than that of a scoundrel.

“But I have no intention of marrying a woman who doesn’t even make me hard.”

“Save your excuses and at least try to hide that filthy mouth. If the ladies who approach you with high hopes ever heard how you talk, they’d all run for their lives.”

“I’m already living up to society’s expectations of the ‘baseborn bastard,’ aren’t I?”

Benjamin stared, speechless, at Edmund’s half-dazed eyes, looking as if he were drunk. Then, realizing there was no breaking the stubbornness he’d known since before puberty, he sighed and snapped his bag shut before standing up.

“This is your chance, Edmund. If you agree to an engagement now, even the Duchess won’t be able to interfere.”

Edmund chuckled. The noble Duchess—his stepmother, with whom he shared not a drop of blood. She had done everything in her power to restore her son’s reproductive function.

How unfortunate for her. With her birthday only days away, the only news she’d be hearing wasn’t the death of the bastard she despised so much, but his glittering future.

Now, how would she respond?

“I’ll leave the ladies’ photos here. Their basic information is written on the back, so use it as a reference.”

Benjamin, still sweating from his battle at the front gate, walked out without even cooling down. Click—the door shut, and the only sound left in the study was the ticking of the clock’s second hand. Alone at last, a deep disgust flickered in Edmund’s eyes.

There were plenty of reasons why his only friend was so invested in this marriage talk as if it were his own affair. Though untitled, Benjamin came from a long line of physicians, and at a young age had become the Libert family’s personal doctor. In plain terms, he’d hitched himself to Edmund’s rise. Thus, it was in his best interest that Edmund, the illegitimate son, inherit the dukedom instead of Rufus, the legitimate heir. And of course, it was to Edmund’s benefit as well.

The Duke himself was gradually leaning toward Edmund, who had brought the family business to its peak, rather than the legitimate son who had failed to produce an heir. Half-blood or not, a Libert was still a Libert. The path to the dukedom was smooth and certain.

So yes, the right thing to do was to take a wife as soon as possible and produce an heir, yet the revulsion welling up from deep within was impossible to suppress.

“Hm.”

Having been born with even half-noble blood, a political marriage was inevitable, especially for someone in his position, who needed to solidify authority. He knew his options were limited, yet how long would he keep using disgust as an excuse to delay marriage?

Acting so inefficiently was unlike him. To give advice to a woman he’d met only once, projecting his own desires onto her words, wasn’t that hypocritical?

A memory from a few days ago surfaced suddenly. Yes, that woman he had encountered on the balcony. The image of that nameless woman, who had forced her way into his mind, made Edmund pause with the cigarette halfway to his lips.

That night had carried no particular meaning. As always, Edmund had simply grown weary of the crowds swarming around him and had needed a moment alone. Perhaps one of his boarding school friends had given in to lust and brought his mistress along, for in that very parlor connected to the balcony, the pair had been coupling like animals, forcing him to endure those vulgar noises as background music.

It wasn’t surprising. The only difference was the time and place; such things had happened before. Since it was an important banquet, he’d only intended to smoke a cigarette for a while before returning to the hall, even if those two were still in the middle of their act.

It was then that the flustered woman had rushed out onto the balcony.

When he’d asked her to move aside because she was blocking the door, she’d claimed she came out to smoke as well. One glance was enough to know she’d never held a cigarette in her life, so what nonsense was that about smoking?

He had realized the truth easily enough, yet Edmund had agreed to her request anyway. He told himself it was chivalry, the kind that demanded a gentleman never trouble a lady.

‘She said she was facing an unwanted engagement.’

He recalled the woman who had spoken so calmly, as though it were nothing. The soft, neatly twisted strands of her golden-brown hair and the slender nape of her neck beneath them. The low, mature tone of her voice, and the fine downy hair that had glowed faintly on her cheeks. Her lashes, rising and falling slowly like a habit, her hazel eyes bright as her hair. And lips that had moved with quiet animation.

Edmund bit down lightly on the filter of the cigarette he hadn’t even smoked once, his gaze shifting toward the envelope of photographs lying on the table.

There wasn’t a single familiar face among them. Of course, during the countless banquets he’d attended, it was possible he’d exchanged greetings with one or two of them, but none had left any impression.

So there was no reason to dig through that envelope. She certainly wasn’t among them.

Before long, Edmund picked up the envelope and tossed it into the trash bin. The feeling of distaste still clung to him, refusing to wash away.

***

The Twyford family’s townhouse in the capital, Borsa, was a four-story mansion, including the basement. Though not located in an affluent district like Chails, the elegant home boasted a garden with a small fountain, a rose-filled rear courtyard, and eight guest rooms. Among all its splendor, Blair’s favorite place was the back garden.

She loved the sight of the blooming roses, but more than that, the garden was one of the few places where her peace was rarely disturbed. Aside from the gardener, who finished work early in the morning, few servants ever passed through.

As usual, after lunch, Blair brought a book and headed to the garden. Though no one was watching, she glanced around before quietly slipping a folded piece of paper from between the pages.

Her ears turned slightly pink as she looked at the unfinished drawing on the page, a sketch of the man she’d met days ago on the balcony at the banquet.

“His eyes seemed a bit sharper than this….”

Picking up her pencil, Blair continued sketching the unfinished face of Edmund. That night had remained vivid in her mind, strangely so, but as time passed, his features had begun to blur like an afterimage.

It had already been a week since she’d picked up her pencil, trying to capture what was fading. Pretending to read, she came to the garden every day as though hiding a great secret. Her heart pounded as if she were committing some scandalous act. Even so, from that night onward, her curiosity toward the man had burned like an unquenchable flame.

That night, after returning to the banquet hall, Blair couldn’t focus on anything. Not on her father’s “new friends,” their faces red and sweaty from intoxication, not on their vulgar words or their coarse laughter. Her eyes wandered restlessly, searching for the man. But no matter how long she looked, she never found him.

‘If only we’d been able to talk a little longer on the balcony.’

As was her habit, Blair, lost in her recollection of that night, returned to reality and looked down at the sketch she had drawn quite decently. It was the side profile she had stared at endlessly while standing beside him in front of the railing, yet it still didn’t satisfy her. When she had first picked up the pencil to draw the man, she had been glad to realize she had a talent for drawing.

“Of course, the real thing is far better than this crude sketch.”

Wasn’t his jawline sharper than this? If she could see him again, she thought she could capture it properly….

“Miss.”

She had been so deeply lost in thought that she noticed the head maid stepping through the archway into the garden a beat too late.

Careful not to let the drawing be seen, Blair quickly covered the paper and pulled the open book to her chest. Sliding the sheet between its pages, she composed her expression as if nothing were amiss, looking deceptively calm.

“Mrs. Norris, what is it?”

“The Count of Twyford has just returned home.”

“Father?”

“Yes, miss. He brought a guest with him and went straight to the parlor.”

He brought a guest?

“Thank you for letting me know. I’ll go greet him now.”