Chapter 11
Issac escorted us to a drawing room on the first floor. "Please, have a seat. I will inform Her Grace."
The moment the door clicked shut, Kyle turned to me. "Ann, what are we even doin' here? I feel... I don't know, outta place, like I don't belong."
And there it was. The man had officially reached the level of panic I had hoped to avoid. Truly, I should have tied him to the porch and left him home.
I sighed and tugged his hand, guiding him to sit beside me on the sofa. "Listen, Kyle, you must calm yourself. Breathe, in and out. Slowly. You are working yourself into a state."
Kyle buried his face in his hands, his elbows perched on his knees, while his right heel tapped furiously against the carpet. "Are you really gonna ask Her Grace for help? I don't get it, Ann. Why are we here?" He turned his gaze to me. "Let's just go back. I'll go beg the viscount for forgiveness if I have to."
"Kyle, the viscount may not be the one behind this."
"What d'you mean by that?"
"It is a long story," I replied, unwilling to dive into the full mess right now. "But trust me on this, alright? Just believe in me."
"'Course I believe in you," he said earnestly. "But what if Her Grace starts talkin' to me? What if she asks me somethin'? I wouldn't know what to say! I'd make a fool of us. I'm so nervous, Ann. You, you speak like them, all smart and proper. And I sound like this. What if she says somethin' I don't even understand?"
I frowned, my pride bruised by his comparison. "Kyle, are you truly lumping me in with them? Them, of all people?" How dare he even entertain such a notion. I was deeply offended. I may speak with refinement, but to be equated with the upper crust. Preposterous!
"I didn't mean it like that, love. Just... I ain't as good with words as you. That's all." Kyle muttered, rubbing his face with both hands as though trying to knead the stress out of his very soul. "Just like that gatekeeper earlier, the duchess'll definitely talk to me first. They always greet the man first, don't they? How do I greet her properly? What do I say?"
"She will not greet you first."
His brows furrowed in confusion. "And how do you know that?"
Because I know. I am absolutely certain of it. But instead of diving into a lengthy explanation that would surely go over his head, I opted for simplicity. "Kyle, you do not have to respond to her even if she happens to direct a question at you. In fact, you do not even have to look in her general direction."
"Why, that'd be rude!"
I resisted the overwhelming urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. This man was utterly impossible. "You are overthinking this far more than necessary-"
A knock came at the door, cutting me off. Kyle instantly shot to his feet, standing ramrod straight as though Her Grace herself might come bursting in to issue a royal decree. He looked so stiff and panicked, I half-expected him to salute.
The door clicked open. And there she was, Her Majesty herself. No, wait. Her Grace, the Duchess of Ivoryspire, standing tall and composed beside Isaac. Disgustingly beautiful in her pristine white summer dress, her blonde hair intricately braided and resting over her left shoulder like she was posing for a portrait. Not a bead of sweat marred her flawless skin, much like Issac, who stood beside her, equally composed and irritatingly perfect. Honestly, those two should just marry and live in their shared realm of unattainable flawlessness.
"Welcome, Mrs. Woodstone," Millicent greeted calmly. Her voice was always crystal clear and utterly otherworldly. It was the sort of voice one could imagine narrating the descent of angels from the heavens. My irritation flared as the thought crossed my mind. The urge to metaphorically pluck out her vocal cords struck me with an alarming intensity. No mortal had any right to sound so divine while looking so pristine.
In Kyle's nervousness, he attempted to replicate Isaac's earlier deep bow. However, his execution was less than graceful. His back was stiff and he stumbled forward slightly, nearly losing his balance. To compensate, he began bowing repeatedly in rapid succession. "I'm Kyle Woodstone, and this here's my wife, Ann Woodstone," he stammered.
Millicent's piercing gaze never left me. Not once did she spare Kyle even the slightest glance.
Suppressing my simmering irritation, I steadied myself on my cane and stepped closer to Kyle, placing my free hand gently on his arm. The poor man was already frazzled beyond measure. I wanted to tell him to leave the room, to spare him from what I knew would be an unpleasant exchange. For if Millicent dared to test me further, I was ready to unleash every ounce of my admittedly less-than-noble personality upon her. But Kyle had spent thirty full minutes arguing to accompany me here. I knew he would not leave my side so easily.
I offered him a reassuring smile, hoping to steady his nerves, and then turned my full attention to Millicent. Now, unlike the nobility who seemed to delight in weaving intricate mazes with their words, I had no such patience. I did not care for games, and I certainly had no desire to engage in some verbal duel of veiled insults. I had come here with a purpose, and I would address it directly.
"It was you, was it not?" I said, smiling politely at Millicent's infuriatingly unreadable face. Oh, how I longed to glare at her, to let my simmering irritation burst forth like a flood. But alas, Kyle was here, and I had worked far too hard these past four years to maintain the illusion of my unshakable calm for him to see it now. Truly, pretending to be serene while quelling my fiery temper had been the greatest test of my endurance.
"May I have a word with you, alone?" Millicent asked, entirely ignoring my question. The audacity! How rude.
As though it were a royal decree, Isaac stepped forward, his palm gesturing gracefully toward the door. "Mr. Woodstone, please accompany me."
"I'd like to stay, please," Kyle's voice trembled slightly but resolute.
Ah, see? Exactly as I predicted. Kyle wasn't going to leave. He was glued to my side, come what may.
"Your Grace," I said, "please answer my question."
The room fell into a tense silence, the kind that could make even the faintest clock tick feel deafening. Isaac, clearly unsure of how to proceed, returned to Millicent's side, and her fiery red eyes remained locked on mine.
It became a battle of wills. If life were a gambling hall and there was a wager on who could maintain an expressionless, stoic stare for the longest time, I would bet every last copper of my savings on Millicent. Nay, I'd take out loans to bet on her too. The woman's talent for emotional opacity was unparalleled. She could rival a marble statue.
And so, we stood there in this silent war, the clock ticking away.