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Chapter 08
“Well… I’m not sure there’s anything worth knowing. Ella Clarence is a bit… ordinary, isn’t she?”
“Hey! You really only know half the story.”
“Listen, appearances in a woman aren’t everything. Take that to heart.”
One of the men in the group gestured him closer with his chin. As he approached with a puzzled expression, the man quickly spoke.
“Judging women’s looks is no different from gambling. And you know gambling leads straight to ruin, right?”
The man who had been blank a moment ago now nodded with a meaningful smile, as if he understood.
“Lady Luisa is an outstanding beauty, but Lady Clarence has a more refined charm.”
“She doesn’t dress up much, but her graceful posture, her steps, and her noble bearing are as proper as any aristocratic young lady.”
“Are you asking whether Ella Clarence is pretty?”
The men who had first brought up the daughters of House Clarence nodded eagerly. He smiled faintly at them before answering.
“If you expect more than you can imagine… you’ll probably end up disappointed.”
At that, the men frowned.
“Is she pretty or not?”
“How frustrating! It’s not about whether she’s pretty!”
“I guarantee none of you here will get a date with her, let alone a reply.”
Several of the men who had been rejected before nodded firmly, saying, “True enough!”
“Even if it’s Franz,” one of them added, deliberately bringing up his name to support the argument.
Franz’s fingers, which had been tapping the table absentmindedly, stopped at once. He turned toward the speaker.
It was Blair Mossman. A man who, despite always losing to him, never stopped treating him like a rival. It seemed he was currently obsessed with winning dates from young noblewomen.
Franz looked at him with renewed interest. Blair’s confident expression was almost amusing—pitiable, even.
Blair, sensing this, said smugly,
“Even you, the so-called prince of all, won’t be able to get a single date with Ella Clarence.”
So now he was treating something as trivial as dating like a matter of life and death. Pathetic.
“I’m not interested,” Franz replied calmly.
Blair clicked his tongue.
“What a shame. I won’t get to see you get rejected.”
The surrounding men muttered, “Here he goes again,” either amused or awkward, but Franz remained composed.
“Unlike you, Blair, I’m not used to failure or rejection.”
He smiled wickedly, not at all apologetic.
Blair frowned.
A moment later, Blair let out a hollow laugh, though his eyes still burned with determination.
“Good, Franz. I hope you never get used to it. Then the Club Trophy won’t be yours this year… whose will it be, I wonder?”
His tone dripped with sarcasm.
‘That bastard.’
Franz was certain Blair had engineered the situation on purpose.
Pretending to be considerate while actually calculating outcomes in advance—he would never be able to beat him.
Franz had always been generous, even to lower servants, never discriminating by status. The greater one’s privileges, the greater the responsibility—that was his belief.
So he had always been lenient with Blair Mossman’s insolence. Even Blair’s persistence, always challenging him despite losing, had been tolerable.
But bringing up the Club Trophy was crossing the line.
The Club Trophy, made of pure gold, was a yearly prize awarded at a seasonal competition held every May.
The events varied each year—hunting, golf, tennis, horseback riding, swimming, or even absurd games like drinking contests, eating races, or hammer strikes.
Franz always won. Because of that, the contests were gradually designed to disadvantage him more and more. Yet he still won every time.
Still, he never expected Blair to drag the Trophy into this.
‘How childish.’
This was neither clever nor new—just dull.
“Hey, Blair,” Franz said lightly. “You’re not avoiding the bet because you expect rejection, are you? Do you even know who I am?”
The “Prince of the Capital,” the notorious royal playboy. Everyone knew how adored he was.
“Isn’t this bet too favorable for me?”
As he looked around with a relaxed smile, everyone nodded.
“Yeah, this is way too favorable for Franz.”
“Which woman would dare refuse him?”
“Any woman would welcome him with open arms.”
“Open arms? More like open legs,” someone joked crudely.
Laughter spread through the room.
“Shouldn’t we change the bet?”
Just as the atmosphere seemed to turn in Franz’s favor, Blair raised his voice.
“No! We proceed as planned!”
He quickly added,
“Franz, don’t take it personally. It’s not that I doubt you—it’s just that I respect Ella Clarence’s resolve.”
Franz didn’t care.
“This year’s bet is too predictable. Not even worth my interest. Winning something like this would be too easy.”
He smiled lazily.
“My trophy cabinet is already full anyway. I’ll have a new one made next year. Oh… Paul Simon might be disappointed.”
Even mentioning the furniture maker drew irritation from Blair, whose lips trembled.
Yet despite everything, the others cheered loudly at the idea that Franz would not participate.
“Franz! You must keep your word!”
“No backing out!”
“If Franz isn’t in it, this is our chance!”
Blair’s plan had clearly backfired. But he still declared confidently,
“The bet stays!”
Meanwhile…
“Franz.”
Richard called him.
“You’re really not participating?”
Franz replied calmly.
“Yes. I’ve lost interest.”
Richard sighed.
“You do realize the Club Trophy is at stake, right?”
Andrew laughed.
“Honestly, I don’t see him doing something so childish either. If Franz agrees to it, I’ll bet my horse, Yvette.”
Marco silently nodded in agreement.
Meanwhile, elsewhere, whispers continued:
“The final event is the last night of the Rose Festival, right?”
“The fireworks. Whoever watches them with Lady Clarence wins the Trophy.”
“But there’s a legend about that fireworks display…”
“Isn’t this a bit harsh on Lady Clarence?”
“Do you believe in that legend? It’s just a bet. If you’re scared, drop out.”
“No one’s dropping out!”
The Rose Festival was the national festival of LaFland. Every May, from mid to late month, the capital Bilehn hosted its largest celebration.
It was a festival enjoyed by nobles and commoners alike—a season where couples formed in large numbers.
