♡ TL: Khadija SK
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“Of course. It’s there, your gift. Just give me a moment.”
Hazel pulled the third item from the box. From its wrapped appearance, it looked like a woman’s shoe.
“I’m looking forward to the fourth thing,” Theodore muttered in frustration, lowering his head.
At the bottom lay a book. Theodore picked up the volume, wrapped in oiled paper and tied with string around its middle.
“Is this a wrapper too?”
“It’s a gift wrapped in a wrapper.”
Finally, something for him.
“That’s excessive packaging, Miss Hazel.”
“I’ll admit that.”
Hazel showed no interest in his reaction after presenting the gift, instead busying herself with tidying the items she’d called “wrappers.”
Theodore felt this indifference was typical of Hazel.
He was curious about the nature and purpose of the so-called wrappers and eager to unwrap his gift quickly.
Theodore tackled things step by step. First, the gift.
“Oh?”
He raised his eyebrows.
The book was the first edition of a famous Romantic poet’s debut work, often quoted in flirtatious letters.
A book that became rare after the poet himself suppressed it, unable to bear his early immaturity, and thus fetched exorbitant prices among collectors of old books and his admirers.
Theodore wasn’t a fan of romantic novels, but as a collector of antique books, he appreciated the gift.
“How did you get it?”
He wanted to ask if the gift’s cost burdened her, but Theodore was a gentleman who knew how to curb improper questions.
“It came to me by chance, and it didn’t suit me, so I was looking for a new owner. Then I met you, Sir Theodore.”
She meant she hadn’t acquired it specifically for him, but merely recalling him upon seeing it was enough to make him feel grateful. Especially since he’d never mentioned his hobby of collecting old books to her.
Or had he?
Theodore couldn’t quite recall, but how to phrase it?
He felt as though he were being treated as a special man deserving of something rare.
If Hazel heard this, she might say something like, “Your interpretation is like waiting for hell to freeze over.”
“Thank you. I’ll treasure it.”
“No need to thank me.”
“But next time, let me be the one to give gifts.”
“Why? Because you’re a man?”
Hazel’s forehead furrowed instantly.
“No way. Just because I’m wealthy. And because I’m courting you.”
Her brow smoothed out.
If Theodore wanted to be generous because of his wealth, there was no need to refuse. But receiving gifts alone wasn’t her style.
“Do as you please. I’ll do as I please too.”
“Does that mean I’ll get another overly wrapped gift?”
Instead of replying, Hazel shrugged playfully.
Theodore laughed at her natural expression.
Though he laughed alone, the atmosphere in the carriage grew warm.
***
The warmth persisted as the carriage roamed Hyde Park before heading toward the bustling commercial district lined with apartments.
“No way! That’s impossible, Hazel!”
Theodore shouted in a forceful tone unlike any before.
“Why not?”
Hazel’s eyes widened in surprise.
Her large, clear eyes seemed innocent at first glance.
It was hard to believe this was the woman who’d just calmly said to Theodore, “I’ll take off my clothes.”
Yes, that’s right.
Hazel had declared to Theodore:
“I’ll change my clothes.”
There’s a vast difference between “take off” and “change,” but to Theodore, it was the same since changing required undressing.
He asked, like a carriage broken down:
“Here, now? Do you understand what you mean?”
His voice was muffled, as if his throat were being squeezed, sounding grating even to himself.
In contrast, Hazel replied in a light tone reminiscent of a nightingale:
“Yes, in the carriage. It’d be odd to go somewhere else to change, wouldn’t it?”
How did it not occur to her that changing in a carriage with a man was strange?
Though Theodore usually enjoyed Hazel’s lively thinking, today was an exception.
“It seems you’ve forgotten, Miss Hazel—I’m a man.”
“How could I forget? You’re a man by every measure. And I know something else. Sir Theodore is a gentleman, isn’t he?”
“What does that have to do with the awkward position I’m in now?”
Theodore spoke in a wronged tone, as if on the verge of tears.
“I mean that even if I performed a striptease here, you wouldn’t peek.”
“Hazel!”
Theodore, who rarely raised his voice to a woman, shouted in a near-scream.
A striptease? How could she utter such a word?
Hazel looked at him in surprise, tilting her head at his shocked reaction.
“Isn’t it common in the salons and clubs men frequent alone? Or am I mistaken?”
She wanted to clarify, “I mean a striptease,” for precision, but refrained due to Theodore’s serious expression.
Theodore covered his eyes with his hand and let out a deep sigh.
There were indeed women who professionally sold their bodies, performing stripteases in salons or clubs, shedding their clothes to music.
That’s what Hazel meant by a striptease.
Spectators and performers called it art, but Theodore felt uneasy about it for no clear reason, leaving whenever such a show began or showed signs of starting.
To Theodore, it wasn’t art.
Art should emerge into the light, even enduring public critique.
A performance held in secret, one its practitioners weren’t proud of, wasn’t art.
Theodore believed a woman’s beauty deserved praise, but displaying, selling, and buying it this way was problematic.
Above all, how could art be something shrouded in secrecy and whispers?
Most men didn’t tell their lovers or wives about watching a striptease. Nor could they.
Could someone say to their daughter, “Today I saw a striptease, and the dancer’s body was so splendid it was art itself”?
Everyone who watched kept it hushed.
So how did Hazel know about “stripteases”?
“You seem very curious. Wondering where I heard of it? I didn’t eavesdrop. I overheard it by chance.”
Men could be such fools sometimes.
They acted like ostriches, thinking they were safe by burying their heads in the sand when pursued by a foe.
“I overheard a conversation recommending a striptease performer while wandering at a ball.”
Theodore took a deep breath.
He was relieved Hazel didn’t have friends telling her odd things, but he was also concerned.
“From now on, let’s wander together. Whether you eavesdrop or overhear, do it with me.”
“Do you have a hobby of listening in on people?”
Hazel teased, though she knew his words stemmed from worry.
His reaction was amusing.
She felt satisfied seeing him distressed by the idea of a striptease.
She’d always questioned this culture men enjoyed.
“Anyway, I need to change, so I’ll leave the rest to your conscience, Sir Theodore.”
Hazel tossed her words lightly like a feather and reached for her dress buttons.
“Hazel!”
Theodore called to stop her, but she only smiled.
In the end, he surrendered, turning toward the carriage’s backrest.
He shut his eyes tightly, making it abundantly clear he wouldn’t look.
‘He’s truly a gentleman.’
In truth, Hazel wore a long underdress, so even if he peeked, it wouldn’t be a big deal.
Though showing an underdress to a man who wasn’t a husband was impolite.
‘But it’s not a huge matter.’
Hazel didn’t see it as significant.
She changed quickly for Theodore’s sake.
But for him, that moment—however short or long—felt like torture.
‘I thought closing my eyes would suffice.’
Theodore sighed, resting his forehead against the carriage wall.
‘The real problem is the sound.’
Why were women’s dresses made of rustling materials?
He could easily guess what Hazel was doing from the sound alone.
Theodore tried not to think of her by focusing on various reports from his estate, but his efforts failed.
He unintentionally pictured her unbuttoning, slipping her arms from sleeves, dropping the skirt to the floor, and sliding into a new dress.
Heat surged rapidly through Theodore’s body, and he clenched his fists.
He’d thought himself sexually restrained until now, but he realized he couldn’t control his instincts any better than any other man.
Theodore felt disgusted with himself for failing to rein in his impulses.
“I’m done, Your Grace.”
Had it gone further, Theodore might have despised himself, but Hazel halted his spiraling thoughts just in time.
He let out a long sigh and turned his head slowly.
His forehead was beaded with sweat, his ears visibly flushed.
“Goodness? Are you ill?”
Hazel placed her hand on his forehead without thinking, as she would with Andre.
Theodore’s shoulder jerked up in alarm, causing her to pull her hand back in surprise.
“Sorry. I acted rashly. But, Your Grace, you really seem sick. Your face is red.”
“It’s not from illness.”
“Are you hot?”
“The air is quite refreshing.”
If he wasn’t sick or hot, why was his temperature rising?
Hazel was intelligent, but utterly naive about intimate relations between men and women and matters of love.
Book knowledge differed from reality. So, she might never grasp the meaning of Theodore’s heat, no matter how much time passed.
Theodore, with no intention of explaining, looked at Hazel, now dressed in plain work clothes instead of a lavish gown.
“Was the gift wrapper meant to be for you? You said it was for my gift.”
“Things have multiple uses, don’t they? If we only used them for their obvious purposes, it’d be dull. A waste of resources.”
Hazel was truly adept with words.
Would a day come when Theodore could outtalk her?
He smiled with a light laugh and asked:
“Where do you plan to go?”
“Didn’t we agree not to ask?”
“I thought undressing in front of me unlocked your heart too.”
“Try harder.”
Hazel seemed in an exceptionally good mood today. It likely tied to her destination, but she didn’t reveal it easily.
“It makes me more curious.”
Theodore curbed his curiosity at a reasonable limit.
“Drop me off in a quiet alley at the road’s end.”
“If we keep going, we’ll reach Essent Street. You know it, don’t you?”
A street known for printing presses and textile factories—dirty, dark, and dangerous.
“I know.”
Theodore wiped the smile from his face and stared at Hazel calmly.
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