“The Crown Prince seems unusually captivated by the Ember girl,” remarked the Countess of Vitrua to Herod, her tone casual but probing. “Though, I must admit, the Sietlin girl has an elegance that’s hard to ignore.”
Herod, however, dismissed the mention of Vischellope with a faint smile.
“She is lovely, yes, but not extraordinary,” he replied, his voice steady yet disinterested. His gaze, once again, found its way to Beatrice, who was now engaged in a quiet conversation with Carneron on the dance floor.
Herod’s mind was restless. From the moment he had first seen Beatrice, something about her had ignited a fire in his chest. She was unlike anyone he had ever encountered. The weight of her golden eyes, the contrast of her pale skin against her dark hair—it was as if she had been painted by the gods themselves.
When he had approached her earlier, kissed her hand, and exchanged polite words, his heart had thundered in his chest, betraying his usual composure. For the first time, he felt utterly and irreversibly ensnared.
“Beautiful,” he murmured to himself, his crimson eyes fixed on her once more.
His breath hitched as he watched her laugh softly at something Carneron had said. The jealousy that flared in his chest was foreign and unbidden, yet impossible to ignore.
It wasn’t just her beauty that drew him—it was her mystery. The quiet power that seemed to emanate from her every gesture, the way she seemed untouched by the frills and gossip of the debutante ball.
Herod knew, deep down, that this wasn’t a passing infatuation.
“I’ve fallen for her,” he realized with a mix of awe and dread.
The Crown Prince, for the first time in his life, found himself overcome by an emotion he couldn’t control. It was not merely admiration or attraction—it was love, pure and all-consuming, a feeling he had never anticipated.
And in the midst of the swirling gowns and glittering chandeliers, Herod made a silent vow to himself: He would claim Beatrice Ember, no matter what it took.
* * *
Beatrice followed Carneron’s lead through fifteen revolutions on the dance floor, silently counting each one in her head. The repetitive motion, the swirling skirts, the endless faces watching—it all began to feel monotonous. She estimated at least ten more turns would be required before the music ended. One turn, and then another.
As her dress flared out like a blooming flower with each spin, she continued counting under her breath. Sensing her lack of engagement, Carneron subtly pulled her closer by the waist.
“Are you bored, by chance?” he asked in a low voice.
“Seventeen.”
The unexpected reply caused Carneron to knit his brows slightly. Beatrice’s tendency to utter cryptic, contextless remarks required patience and focus, and this moment was no exception.
He pondered the significance of the number as they completed another turn.
“Eighteen.”
Ah, so she’s counting the spins.
The realization brought a faint, amused smile to his lips. Why bother counting? he wondered, only to find himself observing her more closely. Perhaps it was a way to pass the time, to distract herself from something unpleasant. He recalled his own youth, silently counting the steps during tedious waltzes, longing for them to end.
Carneron debated whether he should feel insulted. As one of the empire’s most eligible bachelors, he prided himself on his charm, looks, and impeccable social standing. Every year, letters requesting his favor piled up like logs in the hearth. And yet, standing before him was a debutante with absolutely no interest in him—not even a glimmer of admiration.
If she were merely pretending, he might find it amusing, but Beatrice’s indifference was genuine. Her golden eyes held no spark of fascination or curiosity. He was a man, and she had no interest in him as such.
Their dance concluded after exactly twenty revolutions. The applause that followed was polite but enthusiastic, marking the end of the debutante ball’s opening dance.
Beatrice’s performance was flawless. Unlike many debutantes, whose nervousness often resulted in minor missteps, she moved with the ease and precision of someone well-versed in the art of dance. Even Angelica, who had been meticulously trained, couldn’t match the seasoned grace Beatrice exhibited.
When paired with Carneron’s equally masterful movements, their performance was nothing short of breathtaking. Together, they moved as if guided by a single rhythm, their steps weaving an unbroken pattern across the floor.
“Finally, something to eat,” Beatrice muttered as she let Carneron guide her off the dance floor.
“Perhaps not just yet,” he replied.
As if on cue, Prince Herod approached with the elegance and confidence of someone who believed himself to be the center of the universe. His radiant smile was unwavering as he extended a hand toward Beatrice.
“Beatrice Ember,” he began smoothly, “may I have the honor of the next dance?”
Beatrice responded with a smile, one that was as polite as it was detached. She relinquished Carneron’s hand and placed hers in Herod’s, inwardly lamenting her situation.
Carneron, who had fought so adamantly for her first dance, handed her off to the prince without a second thought, disappearing into the crowd with a casual stride. His swift retreat irked her enough to momentarily glare at his back, though she was quickly drawn back onto the dance floor by the prince.
Carneron’s motivation for stepping aside was simple: dancing with Beatrice was a curious mix of frustration and bemusement, and he had no intention of extending the experience. Why feed himself an endless stream of subtle barbs when the prince seemed eager to take over?
Herod’s dance was just as uneventful, though his expression grew faintly disappointed as the music ended and he returned to the Empress’s side. Beatrice spared no further thought for him. While she needed to earn the prince’s favor to gain access to the Imperial Library, she found it challenging to feign charm or flirtation. Still, she felt she had performed adequately, smiling at all the appropriate moments.
As she returned to find Carneron, she caught sight of his self-satisfied smile and felt an immediate sense of disquiet. What had she done wrong?
Meanwhile, her stepmother remained engaged in conversation with the Empress. Calrex stood with Felix, surrounded by peers, while Floria seemed to have disappeared altogether. Beatrice scanned the crowd, only to find herself repeatedly locking eyes with various nobles who quickly looked away.
Some were women, others young heirs or debutantes like herself. Though etiquette dictated that those of lower rank refrain from initiating conversation with their social superiors, their curiosity about Beatrice was palpable.
Unfazed, Beatrice resumed her search for Floria, wondering what chaos the rest of the evening might bring.
After Agatha had casually tossed a few words into the noble circle, the crowd around her had grown, naturally pulling Beatrice into the flow. It was a game of influence that Beatrice knew well but still found tiresome.
Just as she was contemplating a graceful escape, a familiar voice reached her.
“There you are, My Lady.”
A gentle hand wrapped around her arm, and when she turned, she was met with the sight of golden hair glimmering under the chandelier’s light. Of course, it was Floria. Beatrice offered a faint smile at her impeccable timing.
“There are so many people here; it took me forever to find you,” Floria said, laughing lightly. “And here you were, looking for me too?”
Beatrice nodded politely. “Indeed.”
Floria’s laughter carried the kind of brightness that attracted attention, and as she scanned the room, her gaze settled on a group of young noblewomen and gentlemen she seemed familiar with. Without hesitation, she led Beatrice toward them.
Floria’s approach was perfect for introducing Beatrice to the broader social circle—bringing her into a group where Floria’s presence would smooth the way. The awkwardness of initiating conversation would be mitigated by a shared acquaintance.
As the two approached, the reactions were mixed. Some straightened their posture, visibly nervous in the presence of a duchess’s daughter. Others whispered behind their fans, their glances betraying their curiosity. A few young men couldn’t help but meet Beatrice’s gaze, while one or two familiar faces from prior encounters stirred vague memories.
Beatrice hesitated briefly before opting for the safest response: a well-practiced smile.
“Good evening, Lady Corneu. Lady Desmond. And…” Her gaze settled on one in particular. “Ah, we meet again, Lady Natalia Fieldrope.”
Floria turned to Beatrice with a note of surprise. “You know her?”
“Yes, we’ve met before. A pleasure to see you again, Lady Fieldrope,” Beatrice said.
Natalia Fieldrope, composed as ever, returned the greeting with a poised smile. Internally, however, her thoughts churned.
Her mind flew back to their encounter at the dressmaker’s. At the time, Natalia had dismissed Beatrice as an illegitimate daughter with no significant standing in her family—a misjudgment that she now realized had been a grave error. Following that altercation, Natalia had noticed a swift and decisive shift in her social standing.
Her original partner for the debutante ball had sent a letter backing out at the last moment, and every other prospect she approached had politely declined. Today, she’d been forced to attend the ball with the escort of one of her family’s knights.
The timing and precision of her ostracization left no doubt: it was the work of the Ember household. Natalia now understood that Beatrice was not someone to underestimate.
Beatrice exchanged pleasantries with the rest of the group, her expression calm and pleasant. Natalia, watching her closely, assessed her options. If Beatrice still harbored ill feelings about their previous encounter, any overt hostility could spell disaster.
After a moment’s thought, Natalia decided on a strategy. Adopting a soft, conciliatory tone, she spoke up.
“It’s truly a joy to meet you again, Lady Ember. I’ve been meaning to thank you.”
Beatrice turned to her, tilting her head slightly in curiosity. “Thank me? For what, Lady Fieldrope?”
The other ladies in the group, now equally intrigued, paused their conversations to listen.
“During our first meeting, I was rather careless and made a misstep,” Natalia began smoothly. “Your words helped me realize how thoughtless I had been. I’ve since reflected on my behavior and come to appreciate the advice you offered that day.”
Beatrice studied Natalia for a moment. Her expression remained pleasant, but there was a subtle tension in her golden gaze. The group around them was silent, waiting for Beatrice’s response.
“I see,” Beatrice said at last. Her tone was cordial, but Natalia couldn’t shake the faint chill in her words. “I’m glad my words resonated with you. However…”
The edges of her lips curved into an unsettlingly polite smile. “Shouldn’t you extend your gratitude to the lady you wronged instead of me?”
The subtle challenge in her tone was unmistakable, and Natalia felt her chest tighten. Around them, the others interpreted Beatrice’s words as a gracious and virtuous reminder, nodding in approval.
But Natalia knew better. Beatrice’s words were a clear warning: ‘Do not cross me again.’
“Of course,” Natalia replied, her voice steady despite the unease creeping up her spine. “I’ve been meaning to apologize to her as well. Thank you for reminding me, Lady Ember.”
“Think nothing of it.” Beatrice’s smile brightened, though her eyes remained as unreadable as ever.
For the rest of the exchange, Natalia maintained her composure, but her every instinct screamed that Beatrice was not someone to be trifled with. This was no mere illegitimate daughter; this was a predator hiding in plain sight, her polite demeanor a façade concealing the sharp fangs beneath.
* * *
Beatrice chatted briefly with Floria’s friends before excusing herself, claiming she needed a break. Smiling endlessly had left her cheeks on the verge of cramping.
Moreover, her empty stomach only added to her irritability. She quickened her pace intentionally to discourage anyone from trying to strike up a conversation. Soon, she reached the lavishly adorned food tables, where the dishes were more art pieces than sustenance.
At most of these parties, the food served was more ornamental than practical. Light finger foods and desserts were nibbled at, but it was rare for anyone to truly dine. Still, some young noblemen filled a plate or two to stave off hunger. Beatrice, however, found herself alone among the ladies near the food.
Just as she reached for a pristine plate, another hand shot out to grab one first—it belonged, predictably, to Carnarmon Marques. Next to him was Felix, who had somehow managed to slip away from Calrex’s watchful eye.
“I’ll carry your plate for you,” Carnarmon offered.
“Why?” Beatrice responded bluntly, leaving him momentarily at a loss for words. Meanwhile, Felix was already piling meat onto his plate.
“Well, I just thought…”
“Never mind. Why don’t you take a plate for yourself instead?”
Thus, the trio—Beatrice, Felix, and Carnarmon—each ended up with their own plates, which they promptly began filling.
Felix seemed to gravitate toward a selection of meats, and when their plates were compared, they were eerily identical. Watching this, Carnarmon began selecting the vegetables that Beatrice had skipped, falling in line behind her.
While Beatrice wasn’t the type to savor her food, hunger had taken over, and she felt the need to devour as much as her stomach could hold. Soon, her plate looked like a miniature mountain of food. Felix’s plate mirrored hers, and even Carnarmon, after a glance at her plate, began adding more to his.
The three settled at a side table equipped with cutlery. Beatrice and Felix began eating in earnest, while Carnarmon simply sat, observing them silently. Beatrice suspected he intended to swap his untouched plate with hers after she finished the first, to give the illusion that she hadn’t eaten too much—a peculiar but not unwelcome gesture in a society critical of noble ladies with hearty appetites.
“Who eats so much at a debutante party?” Felix teased.
“If you’re going to talk nonsense, just focus on eating,” Beatrice shot back.
“I’m just worried about you.”
“Worried? You’re barely taller than me. You should be eating more.”
Carnarmon , who had been quietly listening to the sibling banter, signaled a passing servant to bring drinks. Despite the abundant food on their plates, both Beatrice and Felix displayed impeccable table manners. Felix ate with military precision, while Beatrice treated the meal like a task to be methodically completed.
It was almost impressive how she ate without any discernible enjoyment, expressionlessly chewing and swallowing. Carnarmon quietly slid a drink toward her.
“Is this seat taken?”
A calm voice interrupted their silence. All three looked up to see the Archduke of Ambrosio standing at their table.
Beatrice, seeing no immediate response from either of her companions, answered, “Please, have a seat.”
The Archduke sat down with a modest plate of food, though he seemed to have no intention of eating it. His first act was to release a soft sigh, prompting Carnarmon to break the silence.
“Not enjoying the party?”
“Not particularly. Too many people,” Ambrosio admitted plainly, without even attempting to hide his displeasure.
His sky-blue curls, soft and fluffy like cotton candy, framed an unusually somber expression. It was well-known that both the Duke and his son were reclusive by nature, but seeing it so plainly expressed in person was still striking.
“Lady Angelica is… quite lively,” he added, his tone carrying a note of exasperation.
Ah, Beatrice thought. It wasn’t that he disliked the princess or the crown prince; it was simply the overwhelming energy of Angelica’s socializing that wore him out.
Beatrice turned her attention back to her steak. Humans were humans, after all. Was there really much difference between them?
“You could always leave now that the first dance is over,” she suggested, sliding her empty plate toward Carnarmon and pulling his untouched one in front of her.
The Archduke hesitated before shaking his head. “It’s not that simple. She’s the princess.”
“I don’t recall any rule that says royal partners can’t leave early.”
“She’d get mad,” he muttered, his expression darkening slightly.
Ah, so Angelica’s temper must be something. Beatrice was briefly curious about what the princess looked like when angry.
Felix, having cleared his plate, chimed in abruptly. “How’s the Duke doing these days?”
“He’s well, thank you,” Ambrosio replied, though Felix didn’t let the conversation linger long, instead turning back to his drink.
Beatrice polished off a third plate before finally calling it a meal.
The rest of the evening was filled with meaningless conversations and equally meaningless dances. By the time Agatha suggested leaving, Beatrice was debating setting fire to a corner of the ballroom just to liven things up.
As they bid farewell to the royal family, the Crown Prince, with a strangely wistful expression, asked, “Will I have the chance to see you again?”
Her brothers’ faces twisted in a mix of emotions, but Beatrice, ever composed, smiled graciously and replied, “Of course.”
Back at the Ember estate, Beatrice collapsed into bed after the maids helped her change out of her dress and remove her makeup. Though her body felt fine—being more resilient than most—her mind was utterly drained.
As she buried herself under the covers, her last thought was how desperately she wished she could escape it all.
<To be continued in Volume 2 of The Lady You Want to Kill>.
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