The carriage rolled steadily through the streets.
Mary sat in her seat, gazing out at the shortcuts blurred by the curtain of rain.
Across from her, the Duke of Morstan watched in silence, his eyes assessing—measuring.
"That Russell Watson," he said abruptly. The familiar name made the girl's gaze flicker for a fraction of a second.
"Yes, Father?" Mary drew her eyes back from the window and met his stare head-on.
"That Russell Watson—what's his background?" the duke asked. "I don't recall that surname."
"He…" Mary parted her lips, trying to find something—anything—that could soften the edges of Russell's presence in this conversation. Nothing came.
"He's just an ordinary student," she said at last. "That's all."
"An ordinary student," the duke narrowed his eyes, "who calls you by your given name?"
The moment the words fell, the air inside the carriage seemed to congeal.
His voice wasn't loud. His tone wasn't angry. There was no explosive interrogation—only pure, clinical curiosity.
Facing that curiosity, Mary hesitated for a heartbeat.
Then her mind assembled an answer—clean, neat, defensible.
"That was…" she began, steady and composed, neither servile nor defiant. "At the school's welcome social, he asked me to dance. Out of courtesy, I agreed. That's all."
She shaped every syllable to sound plausible—true enough to withstand scrutiny.
"I heard about it." The duke leaned back into the plush cushion, fingers interlaced. "A ridiculous farce."
Contempt was unmistakable in his voice.
"You rejected nearly everyone's invitations. Under everyone's eyes, you waited for him to appear."
He looked at her. Calm. Precise.
"That is not the level of 'that's all,' Mary."
Rain hammered against the roof in a dense, irritating rhythm.
Mary hadn't yet decided how to respond when he continued without giving her the space.
"And I also heard it was he who ruined Ethan Roy's son's reputation—turned him into a public joke."
"Whatever happened afterward aside, that night Ethan Roy was still a cabinet minister."
"He made a cabinet minister's son disgrace himself in public." His gaze stayed fixed on Mary, on the tension in her lips. "And what did you do, Mary?"
Mary's fingers tightened in her lap.
"I'm asking you a question, Mary."
"I…" she spoke softly. "I danced with him."
"Yes. You danced with him." The duke's tone remained even. "You know what that signifies."
"I'm sorry… Father."
Mary didn't argue. She didn't explain.
At times like this, any explanation was resistance.
And what that man hated—what he would never permit—was resistance.
Watching her lowered head, the fists clenched so tightly they whitened the gloves, the duke's eyes flashed with faint satisfaction.
Good.
Everything was still within his control.
This was merely an interlude in a larger play—nothing that would affect the main act.
"Lift your head, my daughter." His voice gentled.
"Ever since you were little, you've been obedient. All these years, the same."
"Every child has a rebellious phase. I had one too—and mine was far worse than yours."
"When I was young, I defied my father. I did something utterly disgraceful."
"He was furious. He called me into his study and forbade anyone from entering."
"I thought he would tear into me. I thought he might even punish me."
"But he didn't."
"Do you know what he said to me?"
He looked at Mary.
Mary lifted her head and looked back at him.
"Wh… what?"
"He said: I will forgive your first mistake."
The duke spoke slowly—repeating his father's words, and at the same time, laying a warning across the girl's throat like a ribbon that could tighten into a noose.
"But I will punish your second mistake severely."
Mary's breathing caught.
"…I understand, Father."
In the end, she spoke—so quiet it felt as though it might shatter on contact.
Her lashes lowered, sealing away every emotion in those clear blue eyes.
"Good." The duke reclined again, body relaxing, voice returning to its usual flat calm—as if the invisible clash had never occurred.
"He's nothing but an interlude. A stone that happened to appear on your road to adulthood."
"You may stop out of curiosity for a moment."
"But in the end, you will keep walking."
He paused, then continued.
"Your task today is complete. I've mortgaged two estates in the east of the city to Lloyds Bank in exchange for a short-term loan."
"Your appearance proved the Morstan family is still respectable—our credit has not collapsed. That's enough."
Mary's fingertips, hidden beneath lace gloves, unconsciously worried at the edge of the fabric.
No.
He isn't.
He isn't a stone.
He is the only person who treats her as "Mary"—not "Miss Morstan."
"You know why I compromised today, Mary." The duke's voice dragged her back from that brief, dangerous warmth of memory.
"Mycroft's combination strike was well played. I admit I underestimated him."
"Our family's cash flow has run into problems. We need a new—more reliable—ally."
An ally?
Mary's instincts sharpened. She didn't speak. She simply waited.
"The admiral's youngest son graduated from the Royal Naval College not long ago. I've met him once. He's a fine young man."
"His family carries weight in Parliament. And most importantly—they're not in the same faction as the Holmes family."
There was no emotion in the duke's voice. It was the tone of a man discussing business—cold calculations, risks and returns.
"In the week after next, I will arrange a dinner."
"You will attend."
…
Mary didn't answer immediately. She raised her head and, in the dim light, looked quietly at the man before her.
That look again.
The look of appraising merchandise.
The look of bargaining a price for something rare.
"I will, Father."
"Good." The duke nodded, satisfied. He said nothing more. He closed his eyes and began to rest.
For him, the conversation was over.
He had fitted a heavier shackle onto the canary that had tried to fly out of its cage.
The carriage rolled slowly into the Morstan estate.
At some point, the rain had stopped.
Mary stepped down from the carriage. The cold air cleared a little of the fog in her mind.
"Remember, Mary."
Behind her came the duke's voice—slick and nauseating.
"Don't disappoint me."
"Mm." Mary nodded. Lifting her skirt, she walked into the luxurious cage ahead.
"I won't, Father."
·
·
Back in her room, Mary sat at her desk.
A fresh sheet of stationery lay on the tabletop, and beside it a fountain pen, inked and ready.
She hesitated.
But in the end, the pen tip touched the paper, and her wrist began to move.
She wrote with meticulous seriousness, as though drafting a rigorous laboratory report—pausing now and then to think, then continuing.
Nearly half an hour passed before the letter was finally complete.
Mary lifted the densely written page and checked it from top to bottom like a student reviewing an exam paper, confirming every detail.
Only when she was certain nothing was wrong did she pick up the pen again and add the signature at the end.
—Professor
....
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