Draman
His voice, strained and stubborn, carried a hint of desperation.
Admiration, he said.
In my past life, he had kept his vow to Eleanor, and even after marrying me, he had not touched me. The entire household ignored my status as a princess, but they revered Eleanor, a woman hidden from the public eye.
He was clearly in love with Eleanor, but now he would try to brush it off as “admiration“?
I couldn’t help but let out a dry laugh.
Edmund, seeing me unresponsive, grew increasingly anxious.
His gaze lingered on the silver rose brooch adorning my hair, and his demeanor softened, his voice gentle, as if addressing a favored kin.
“Princess, you still wear the brooch I gifted you–does this not signify some lingering regard?”
I offered a faint smile, my eyes drifting to the hurried figure of Eleanor approaching. With deliberate care, I removed the brooch and extended it to her.
“Lady Eleanor, you arrive at a fortunate moment. Accept this silver rose brooch as my gift for your wedding day.”
“May your union be blessed with joy and long years.”
Edmund paled, his voice breaking. “The silver rose brooch I gave you, Princess–how can you part with it so lightly?”
1
Chapter 3
With that, I turned to depart, but not before delivering a final admonition. “Lord Blackthorn, as a man now betrothed, you are no longer permitted to enter my privy apartments without summons. As for the items you left in my keeping, my attendants will see them delivered to your residence.”
With that, I turned to depart, but not before delivering a final admonition. “Lord Blackthorn, as a man now betrothed, you are no longer permitted to enter my private chambers without summons. As for the items you left in my keeping, my attendants will see them delivered to your residence.”
Edmund’s face paled further, his expression dazed, as though struck by the weight of my words. Did such a slight rebuke wound him so deeply?
In my past life, on his name day, I labored clumsily to prepare a dish of fine pasta, only for him to disdain it and cast it to the servants.
My countless public declarations of love were met with his scorn and mockery. I even humbled myself, mimicking Eleanor’s mannerisms to win his favor, only to be derided before the entire household as a graceless imitator. Compared to the humiliations I endured, my present actions were but a shadow of his cruelty.
Edmund opened his mouth, as if to protest, but Eleanor seized his arm. “Lord Blackthorn, the princess has shown us great kindness. Will you not honor her gift by placing the brooch upon me?”
He snatched the silver rose brooch, clutching it tightly in his fist, then turned and strode away, leaving Eleanor in his wake.
She called after him, her voice fading into the distance, but I neither heard nor cared to hear her words.
In my past life, he cherished Eleanor as the very breath of his heart, wincing at her slightest discomfort. Now, as his betrothed, why did he show no trace of that devotion? And why, toward me- once the object of his contempt–did he feign such reluctance to let go?
I spared it no further thought. By God’s grace, I had been granted a second chance, and I would not squander it.
In recent days, the noblewomen of the court, having heard of my recovery, hosted lavish banquets in my honor. I knew their courtesies were but a means to curry favor with my father, yet the palace’s long hours of tedium made these rare diversions welcome.
On this day, the king’s favored lady, the Lady Seraphina, held a grand feast at the royal summer palace. Edmund and Eleanor were among the invited guests.
As I wandered the gardens, I chanced upon a scene where Eleanor was cornered by a group of noblewomen, pressed against the jagged stones of a garden grotto.
“Eleanor Grantham,” sneered Lady Beatrice, daughter of Lord Harrow, whose infatuation with Edmund was known throughout Silvermire, “with so many eligible noblewomen, why did Princess Isolde choose you for Lord Blackthorn? You must have ensnared him with shameless wiles!”
“Her glances at him are bolder than a tavern wench’s!” another lady added, her voice dripping with scorn.
Beatrice, her temper fierce, stepped forward as if to tear at Eleanor’s gown. Eleanor, trembling against the cold stone, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, stammered, “Lady Beatrice, you mistake me… My regard for Lord Blackthorn is honorable, bound by propriety…”
Beatrice scoffed, her hand poised to strike, when a figure in moon–white attire parted the crowd. Lord Blackthorn stepped forward, shielding Eleanor with his frame. “Enough,” he said sharply, his glare silencing Beatrice. She faltered, then retreated with her companions, their steps hasty and abashed.
I watched, detached, as Edmund drew Eleanor into his arms, his eyes soft with a tenderness that could drown the hardest heart.
As I turned to leave, he seized my wrist, his voice thick with barely restrained anger. “Princess Isolde, what fault has Lady Eleanor committed to suffer such public humiliation at your hands?”
He laid the blame for her ordeal squarely upon me. I shrugged, pulling free with a firm gesture. “When did you become so blind, Lord Blackthorn, to judge without discerninent?”
He drew a deep breath, struggling to temper his ire. “Even if you did not orchestrate this, Princess, your inaction condones it.”
He spoke truth, but what of it?
In my past life, the torments I endured were not his direct doing, yet his indifference emboldened the household to heap scorn upon me. Even his so–called saintly Eleanor, with her vaunted kindness, stood by in silence as I was humiliated. By what right did he now accuse me with such righteous indignation?
