Chapter 3
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Chapter 3
The Augusta Family owned a three-story townhouse with a modest garden in Brentwood, on the outskirts of London. The sunflowers that lined the fence—planted when Mr. and Mrs. Augusta were married—had become emblematic of the Augusta daughters, with their radiant golden hair and striking beauty.
Though the Augusta Family, with five daughters and no sons, possessed neither great wealth nor elevated rank, their kind and beautiful daughters ensured they received invitations to every ball and soirée held in London and Brentwood without fail.
Yet on this particular evening, when all of Brentwood had been invited to Count Oslo's Gallery, the candelabras in the Augusta drawing room burned as an exceptional exception.
"You've ruined everything, Charlotte."
Helena paced the drawing room with flushed cheeks, her voice trembling with fury. Her carefully arranged golden curls quivered with each agitated step.
"This is my third social season. If I don't secure an engagement this year, I'll become like someone else...."
Helena's gaze fixed upon Charlotte—the "someone else" in question—as she spoke.
"Is that it, Charlotte? Determined not to fail alone, you've decided to sabotage your sisters' matrimonial prospects?"
At Helena's harsh words, their father George interjected with a weary sigh.
"Helena, Charlotte didn't deliberately mean to humiliate you. It seems she acted on Elder Sister Elicia's advice. I shouldn't have assigned such an elderly guardian to watch over Charlotte...."
George Augusta adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles with trembling fingers. He had been anxious about his wife Lydia attending social functions alone with three daughters in tow. Thus, he had specially requested the elderly Elicia to supervise—or rather, assist—the troublesome Charlotte.
"Father, Count Oslo will soon host a ball to welcome Prince Leopold. If we don't receive an invitation to that grand affair, where all of London's youth will gather, this social season is as good as finished."
Helena continued, her indignation unabated, as she fixed her gaze upon George and Lydia.
"It's not just me. You've destroyed Bianca's reputation before she's even properly debuted. And Jane, who's already engaged—do you think she's safe? Our family's already declining...."
"Helena, enough."
Lydia, unable to bear it any longer, cut short Helena's torrential words. What mattered most now was devising a means to appease Count Oslo's wrath. They possessed no funds to compensate him for the sculptures he'd imported directly from Greece. If Count Oslo refused to show mercy, the marriages of their daughters—who would require dowries—were as good as lost.
At that moment, Charlotte, who had been sitting in the corner weeping softly, spoke in a barely audible voice.
"Helena, I'm sorry for ruining your performance. But people will just say the Augusta Family's foolish third daughter has caused another scandal. So to protect your and Bianca's reputation, I...."
Charlotte's face was streaked with dried tears and remorse.
"You're beautiful and talented, Helena. You have so many suitors lined up for you. Even Jane, who was so popular, spent her time choosing from all those suitors and got engaged in her second social season. So you should...."
"Sigh... You really only know half the story, don't you? We are...."
Just as Helena was about to say something to Charlotte with a terrifyingly cold gaze, their mother Lydia interjected once more.
"Helena, you've had a long day, so go upstairs and rest. Charlotte, you should think about how to apologize to Count Oslo first thing tomorrow morning."
At Lydia's firm tone, Helena bit her lip. Then she glared at Charlotte once more before heading upstairs to her room. Watching her go, Charlotte spoke to George and Lydia with tears glistening in her eyes.
"Mother, Father, I'll go directly to Count Oslo this weekend and beg him until my hands are worn raw. Then perhaps he'll invite Helena and Bianca to the ball."
At Charlotte's naive words, George merely nodded with a faint smile. He didn't believe their troublemaking daughter would resolve this matter, but he agreed that she should apologize directly to Count Oslo.
***
Standing before my bedroom door on the third floor, I sighed. My governess Sydney must have already brought candles into the room, as warm light flickered through the crack beneath the door.
'Candlelight, ah....'
Facing Helena's fury and my parents' disappointed expressions, I thought I had completely forgotten about the man I'd met in the corridor that night. But seeing the cozy candlelight, memories of my conversation with the man on Count Oslo's staircase and the sensation of his hand touching my skin for the first time flooded back into my heart.
'And here I am thinking about a man in the middle of all this. Charlotte, you're truly the worst. Sigh....'
I found myself agreeing with those who said I didn't belong in the Augusta Family. As I opened the door while berating myself, it happened.
'Oh!'
By my bedroom window, where six candelabras were placed, stood the silhouette of a broad-shouldered man—utterly out of place in my modest room. A strange man in a lady's chamber—a scream escaped my throat involuntarily.
"Kyaaaah!"
As I screamed, the man quietly brought his finger to his straight lips. Without thinking, I stopped screaming like an obedient puppy. Then, illuminated by the candlelight, his face finally came into view. It was the man from the staircase at Count Oslo's residence.
Recognizing him, I cried out in a trembling voice.
"W-what on earth are you doing here? Who are you? How did you even get into my room...?"
The man said nothing, moving with deliberate slowness toward Charlotte's bed before settling onto it. His hair, dark as a summer night sky, fell across his brow as he brushed it back with casual grace, then spoke to her.
"You said we'd meet again, didn't you, my lady?"
His composed voice resonated through her chamber.
"I have something to tell you."
He gazed at Charlotte with that same dizzying smile, his demeanor far too calm for someone who had invaded a lady's bedchamber. Rather than fear, Charlotte felt exasperation as she questioned him.
"Never mind what you have to say—who gave you permission to enter my room? If anyone sees you here in my bedchamber, my reputation will be..."
"You needn't worry about that."
His head tilted slightly toward the doorway where Charlotte stood. His elegant, measured gesture left her momentarily dumbfounded.
"Ah, someone's coming. You should have screamed louder earlier, my lady."
Before he could finish speaking, Sydney, her governess, appeared in the corridor, roused from sleep by Charlotte's cry.
"Miss Charlotte? What's all this screaming in the middle of the night?"
Charlotte rubbed her eyes as she pointed frantically into her room at the governess.
"Sydney! There—that man! I swear I don't know him at all, I didn't call for him! But he just appeared in my room and—"
At Charlotte's frantic gesturing, Sydney peered hesitantly into the chamber. Yet despite the undeniably captivating man sitting brazenly upon Charlotte's bed, Sydney responded with indifference.
"What man?"
"The man on my bed! Why are you acting as though you can't see him?"
Charlotte jumped at the governess's unexpected response. But Sydney simply stared at her with a puzzled expression, as if the man truly were invisible. Shocked, Charlotte turned to regard the man with a rigid expression. He merely gazed at her with amusement, his shoulders rising in a casual shrug.
'Could he be... a ghost? A demon? What am I looking at?'
Charlotte's mind reeled at the man's brazen composure. Then Sydney clicked her tongue disapprovingly and spoke.
"Good heavens, what is a man doing on an unmarried lady's bed? Miss Charlotte, you haven't fallen asleep reading one of those scandalous novels again, have you?"
"No, I wasn't reading anything of the sort—"
Charlotte felt a flush of indignation at the accusation, but before she could protest further, Sydney turned back toward her own room and spoke again.
"Well, if you do, please keep it quiet—very quiet, Miss Charlotte. I'm going back to bed."
Watching her governess retreat down the hallway, Charlotte's lips trembled. Yet she couldn't find the words to respond, for she herself scarcely understood what was unfolding before her.
'Did I strike my head when I fell? I must be seeing things from the shock—'
It was the only explanation she could conjure. Just then, the man who had been quietly tracing his fingers across the books on her nightstand whispered softly.
"If it were merely a phantom, wouldn't that touch on the stairs have felt far too real?"
His words conjured the scene from the staircase vividly in her mind—his soft hands gliding across her neck and shoulders, his burning gaze. Heat flooded her cheeks as she shut the door and strode toward him with purpose. "Tell me, mysterious gentleman—or should I say, ghost? Are you reading my thoughts now?"
"Excuse me, mysterious gentleman—or rather, ghost. Are you reading my mind now?"
"No. But I can read what you're thinking from your expression."
The man turned his gaze from the pile of books to look at Charlotte and answered. His grayish-green eyes were too intense to be called a ghost's, and too beautiful to be called a demon's. As if he had read Charlotte's thoughts once again, he smiled sharply and spoke in a low voice.
"And my name is Leopold, lady."
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