TPB 3

Chapter: 3

“You’ve spent the entire ball dancing without rest, yet you still loiter around with the Marchioness’ daughter, exchanging petty ‘book impressions.’ The Marchioness’ daughter might get away with acting so frivolously, but you two are different. Surely you know such a simple truth?”

There was nothing incorrect in Mrs. Hitton’s sharp words.

Natalie was a noblewoman, but her dowry was woefully insufficient, while Emily’s dowry was ample, but technically she wasn’t a noble—she was from the gentry class.

Neither of them were celebrated beauties of the century, so, in short, they were… mediocre.

“I’ve told you countless times to save your chit-chat for your dull little reading circle, not to gossip among yourselves.”

At first, Mrs. Hitton had been delighted that Emily and Natalie were forming friendships with the daughters of wealthy marquises. She could never have imagined that the three of them would just wander around reading books in corners.

The bond between the three young ladies was built around the reading circle. Mrs. Hitton, who avoided books herself, hadn’t bothered to check exactly what kind of books they read, but she assumed they read things like poetry or plays and shared their thoughts.

“I cannot bear the disgrace of my daughter remaining an unmarried spinster. Of course, my sister, the Baroness, feels the same way.”

At her mother’s words, Natalie quickly nodded. Mrs. Hitton, observing her, did not look pleased.

Sighing deeply, Mrs. Hitton spoke again.

“It seems you still haven’t come to your senses, so there’s nothing left for me to do. As your guardian, I must wake you to the harsh realities.”

“Oh, Mother…”

“Emily, if you do not marry this season, remember that next season you will be expected to wed a gentleman thirty years older than you.”

“What? Mother! How could—”

“It will be better than becoming a spinster living under your eldest brother’s roof. And you, Natalie…”

Emily opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Hitton effortlessly cut her off.

“My support is only for this season. Surely you don’t expect to rely on Hitton Park next year as well, child.”

Natalie thought, So it has really come to this.

“There will be no next time for you.”

Mrs. Hitton’s firm declaration jolted Natalie, who had been quietly ignoring reality.

Typically, a young lady’s third social season was considered the last opportunity to find a suitable match, so Natalie knew that this season was her final chance. She also understood that, for a woman in this era, marriage was of utmost importance.

So whether it’s pie or pudding, I knew I had to marry this year.

Still, marriage felt distant and unreal, as if it weren’t her own concern.

Natalie finally spoke.

“…Yes. I understand, Aunt.”

“From now on, pull yourself together. As I’ve often said, you two should emulate Bianca, who succeeded in her first season. That girl became a Countess at such a young age.”

Bianca Daus—or now, Countess Rutherford—was Natalie’s younger sister by a year. Aside from a slight resemblance in appearance, everything about her was different.

Whereas Natalie was a dreamer, Bianca was extremely practical. She succeeded in marriage the very year she debuted in society, surpassing her playful older sister, and had recently given birth to a son.

Though her husband, the Earl of Rutherford, was thirteen years her senior, in today’s world, such an age gap was hardly shocking.

Above all, the Rutherford family was a prestigious judicial lineage. For a second daughter of a minor baron, there was no further consideration needed.

“I hope the two of you become ladies worthy of example as well.”

Not a shame, she thought. With that, Mrs. Hitton gracefully opened her newspaper.

Natalie, backgrounded by Emily’s protests, found herself staring blankly at the bowl of soup in front of her.

A model lady. A perfect bride. Marriage…

There was nowhere left to hide. Marriage was no longer something that could be postponed.

I really have to get married now.

Whether it was the looming reality or the hangover, her stomach churned.

“Oh my! Countess Eris of the Duchy of Heinsnober has been divorced. Whatever could she have done?”

Meanwhile, Mrs. Hitton had already moved on, reading the newspaper. There was a peculiar delight in her voice when speaking of someone’s marital failure.

Emily, momentarily distracted, thought perhaps her mother wouldn’t actually marry her off to an old man, and so eagerly turned her attention to the scandalous news.

“That countess was famous for her beauty before marriage, wasn’t she? How did she get divorced?”

“Well, perhaps she wasn’t truly a lady. In any case, divorce… she will never regain her honor.”

Mrs. Hitton’s reaction was unsurprising.

In conservative Grand Vatten, the church upheld morality and virtue, preaching the importance of family devotion. Born into a society where being raised and buried in the church was customary, divorce was considered a shameful event among nobles, inseparable from religious doctrine. To divorce was essentially to have lied to God during one’s wedding, thus violating church teachings.

“So, remember, Emily. Marriage is not the end—you must always maintain your dignity…”

Mrs. Hitton’s tedious lecture continued.

Natalie, however, had not heard a word. Instead, she recalled her mother’s sighing advice during past rebellious moments:

Living like everyone else is the happiest. Trying to live differently only brings misery. Be ordinary, Natalie. Everyone makes sacrifices. Please, give up that rebellious streak…

Natalie had scoffed at her mother’s teachings back then. She had many questions about society, yet she lacked the courage to defy it. Changing the world would require extraordinary action, which she had no particular mission to undertake.

…Ah, I feel sick.

Her questions remained, yet she still had no alternatives. Life continued as it always had—neither one thing nor another.

Natalie felt an urgent need to vomit her frustration.

A week-long voyage from Grand Vatten by ship. In a small island nation, Roland, the commanders of the King William stayed at a hotel.

Thump, thump, thump.

In the hallway outside the officer’s room, a steady rhythm of pounding echoed through the wall. Occasionally:

“Ahh!”

A high-pitched moan added variety to the sounds.

The sentry guarding the hallway tightly shut his eyes. As if to tease him, another melodious moan escaped:

“Uhh, ahhh…”

The sentry wished he could kick down the door from which these sounds originated, but the occupant was beyond his authority.

The room belonged to none other than Lieutenant Roger Hitton.

“Lieutenant Roger Hitton.”

At that moment, a low-ranking soldier appeared, bravely knocking on Lieutenant Hitton’s door.

Naturally, unheard-of curses returned in response.

“But, sir, Major calls for you!”

The soldier insisted, yet unintelligible shouts came back. Only the last words were comprehensible:

“Three minutes! Just three more minutes!”

It seemed the lieutenant could not appear immediately.

Scratching the back of his head in frustration, the soldier left, ignoring Roger’s orders.

The sentry thought of himself as mere decoration in the hallway, pretending not to see or hear anything. Still, he could not fully ignore it. After all, only one Major existed aboard the King William.

“…Three minutes seem to have passed.”

Soon, the sentry felt nervous and lifted his eyelids.

He froze. At the end of the hall stood a long figure, previously unseen.

Is that… human?

For it was almost criminally beautiful to merely call it human…

The Major…!

The sentry’s jaw dropped. His mind went blank, forgetting even that he should have saluted.

Thump, thump, thump.

“Ahh!”

The absurd noises continued.

The tall, commanding figure leaned casually against the hallway wall, watching the dumbfounded soldier with an expressionless gaze, as if to see how long he would remain foolish.

Finally, the Major smiled gently, reassuring the sentry that his reaction was not unusual.

As the Major’s lips curved into a soft line, the sentry’s overwhelmed face betrayed his panic—natural for any human confronted with such beauty.

The Major then kindly instructed the sentry on proper procedure:

“Salute.”

The soft, soothing voice sent chills down the sentry’s spine. The word “salute” reminded him of his duty.

“Yes, sir!”

He offered a clumsy, half-hearted salute.

The Major did not reprimand him. Instead, he strolled down the hallway, stopping at the door from which the thumping and moans emanated.

“Open it.”

The Major’s tone was firm, though his face was gentle.

“Yes, sir!”

The sentry hurriedly grabbed the door handle and twisted.

Click. Click. The handle spun uselessly, echoing down the hall.

The Major’s smile deepened.

“…Do you think a locked door will open by itself?”

“Oh…”

The sentry understood, exclaiming belatedly:

“I have to announce myself. That I’m here.”

The Major whispered patiently.

The sentry secretly swallowed. For a superior officer to personally knock on a subordinate’s door was no ordinary event. This angelic man, who subtly tilted his eyes when they met, was not just any superior.

He was Prince Ian of Grand Vatten.