The Marquis and the Footman - Chapter 1: Prologue

Leila’s morning began early. Before the sun even peeked over the horizon, she was already awake, freshening up, and attempting to tame her unruly red hair.

Her naturally curly hair was never easily smoothed out with just a bit of morning care. When it was long, she could simply tie it back, but ever since she had cut it short, she had mostly given up on managing it. Truthfully, she sometimes found herself longing for the familiar touch of his hand, gently brushing down her disheveled locks. When he smoothed her hair as if it were the finest silk, her face would flush red without fail.

[Your face is the same color as your hair now.]

Leila shook her head at the teasing whisper echoing in her mind and quickly finished buttoning up her shirt. After layering on her vest and jacket, completing her uniform, she stood still in her room for a moment, hesitating.

Her room was attached to his, with two doors—one leading to the hallway and another directly connecting to his chamber. He often complained about her refusal to use the adjoining door, but she could never bring herself to open it. The invisible wall she had built for herself—a barrier to prevent any unnecessary expectations—stood firm between them.

As always, Leila eventually chose the hallway door and stepped out, stopping before his chamber. The ornate patterns carved into the grand door made her pause as she tidied up her attire once more. She brushed off any specks of dust, checked the buttons on her black vest, and straightened the collar of her crisp white shirt. Only after ensuring she was perfectly presentable did she finally knock.

Knock, knock, knock.

As expected, there was no response. Even though she knew he wouldn’t be awake at this hour, Leila still cleared her throat and spoke.

“Ahem… My lord, it’s Maurice.”

With careful hands, she pushed open the firmly shut door. The room was shrouded in darkness, the heavy curtains keeping out any hint of light. Moving with practiced ease, she pulled them open one by one, just as she had done countless times over the past several months. As each curtain was drawn back, the soft glow of dawn seeped in through the windows.

Only after unveiling the last window, the one closest to the bed, did Leila finally turn to gaze at the beautiful man still fast asleep.

Herion Clarke. The young Marquis of a noble lineage spanning three centuries.

Leila’s employer.

Leila’s first love.

And Leila’s lover—at least, in her heart alone.

Leila carefully studied the man sprawled across the bed in deep sleep. His appearance was enough to take her breath away.

His nearly white-blond hair, scattered over the pristine sheets, caught the soft morning light, emphasizing its silky texture. Though his emerald-green eyes were hidden beneath his thick lashes, she knew well how brilliantly they sparkled, like finely cut gemstones. His sharp nose and smooth jawline were flawless, as if sculpted by the hands of a meticulous god. Her gaze trailed down to his bare, toned upper body, and before she knew it, she swallowed hard. His lower half, concealed beneath a thin blanket, only fueled her imagination, causing her face to flush.

She saw this sight every morning, yet she still found it difficult to look away.

After what felt like an eternity, Leila finally snapped out of it and turned to fetch a glass of water from the bedside table. Just as she took a step, a firm hand grasped her wrist. With a startled gasp, she lost her balance and tumbled onto the bed.

“Ah!”

This happened almost every morning, yet she never failed to be caught off guard.

A strong arm wrapped around her from behind, effortlessly pulling her into a firm embrace. Before she could protest, a hand slipped beneath her tightly buttoned vest, skillfully navigating past the layers of fabric.

“Mmm.”

A low sigh of frustration escaped him, as if the snug fit of her shirt made it difficult for his hands to move freely. Leila stiffened at the warm breath tickling her ear. She knew all too well that struggling was futile—there was no escaping his grasp. Resigned to her fate, she sighed and spoke.

“You have a full schedule today. There’s no time for this.”

“No time for this?” Herion chuckled, pressing his cheek against her tousled hair. “What exactly do you mean by ‘this,’ Leila?”

Her ears burned at his teasing tone, making her realize she had played right into his hands.

“Did you deliberately wear something with so many buttons?”

Of course. She swallowed her words, keeping them to herself.

The real reason she dressed this way was simple—every morning, she ended up tangled in his arms, rolling around in bed. The exhaustion from this daily ordeal was one thing, but what terrified her more was the possibility of someone discovering them.

If anyone found out that Maurice—the lowly footman—was actually a woman, let alone caught her in such a compromising position with her master, the consequences would be catastrophic.

Olivia, the lady of the house—his mother—would drag her out by the hair and toss her into the streets without a second thought.

And then there was her family.

‘It would bring disgrace to my name… And worst of all, it would ruin my brother Aiden’s future…’

As she thought that far, she squeezed her eyes shut. But there was no way a mere button could stop the Marquis, who did whatever he pleased.

Rip. A foreboding sound reached her ears.

“W-Wait a second.”

Leila hurriedly tried to stop his hands, but the buttons had already popped off, and the vest was flung far away. Even the shirt underneath was beginning to tear. Just how many clothes would he ruin before he was satisfied? Her small wardrobe was already filled with garments Helion had destroyed. And if she added today’s outfit to the count…

The thought of having to sew all those buttons back on made her head spin. But he didn’t give her the chance to dwell on it.

“This morning— Ah!”

In an instant, his hands slipped under the tightly wrapped fabric, cupping her chest. Helion pressed a kiss against the exposed skin of her nape, making an audible sound. He wasn’t fond of her hair, which had been cut short for her disguise as a man, but he did like that it left her neckline exposed.

He wanted to leave a mark there—one as red as her hair. But remembering what had happened the last time, he held back. If he left a noticeable trace again, she’d only run off, hiding behind his little brother, Isaac, as a shield. And as amusing as that sight had been, he had no desire to see it again. Even if Isaac was just a seven-year-old child.

“Just for a moment—it’s fine.”

“It is not fine for me.”

It was never just for a moment. How many times had she believed those words, only to lose her entire morning?

Helion buried his face against Leila’s nape, almost as if he were whining, but he didn’t loosen his arms around her. His hands pressed firmly against the peaks hidden beneath her tightly wrapped bandages. When he felt the hardened nub under his touch, he let out a low chuckle.

“This is always in the way.”

With a firm tug, he yanked the bandages down, exposing her breast. His fingers found her nipple, pulling and rolling it between them. Then, as the soft flesh pushed through the loosened fabric, he pinched and tugged at the mound.

“Hngh!”

“They’re already this hard… Are you sure?”

“Hah… W-Wait, t-today’s schedule….”

Leila had only verbally refused, but her nipples had stiffened from the repetition and were already damp beneath. Herion smirked as he watched her shake her head, then reached down and stroked her flat stomach with one hand while the other rubbed her nipples.

Leila was unable to push Herion’s hand away completely as it slid down. Eventually, her trousers were halfway down and caught on her legs. Only a pair of underpants remained, making her centre feel even more naked. Herion’s fingers slid between her legs, damp with anticipation, pushing through the dense fabric.

“Ahk.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

Herion laughed softly against Leila’s nape. Even his ticklish breath was enough to send shivers through her, making her body instinctively curl in on itself.

“Ha… Leila.”

He called her name in a hushed voice. She should have answered, but the fingers teasing her peak over the thin fabric of her underwear made it impossible to form words. All she could do was let out a stifled whimper, afraid that any louder sound might slip past the door and into the hallway beyond.

“Ha… yes… ahk… mmh.”

Leila squirmed, trying to evade the rigid heat pressing insistently against her, as if he might strip away her underwear and take her at any moment. Whether she realized it or not, her resistance only served to provoke Herion further.

He hesitated for a brief moment, debating whether to undo the bandages binding her chest and strip away her undergarments entirely.

In the end, he made his decision.

With a firm tug, he unraveled the knot, and the bandages fell away, fully exposing one of her soft curves. His hand closed over it immediately, while his other hand slipped beneath the thin fabric below.

Before she could even react, his fingers had already found their way to her most sensitive spot, rubbing against her heated flesh. The sudden touch made her jolt, a gasp catching in her throat as his fingertip brushed against her peak.

Desperate, she blurted out the only thing that could possibly make him stop.

“Ah…! Mmh…! M-Marquis! T-Today’s lunch… You have a scheduled meal with Lady Achello from the Marquisate!”

The moment her words left her lips, Herion’s hand froze as if it had touched ice. Then, without hesitation, he withdrew from her entirely.

Though she couldn’t see his face with him holding her from behind, she was certain his expression had hardened.

Bringing up another woman—that was the only way to stop him.

And it was always the same topic: the young ladies his mother arranged marriage meetings with. So many names, so many faces that even he likely struggled to match them all.

“You really are…”

Herion let out a low sigh, then pulled her into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around her with a force that left no room for escape.

Leila had no desire to speak of the women he met either.

Even if she knew she would never be the one to marry him.

With his face buried near the curve of her neck, Herion exhaled deeply before finally letting her go, as if surrendering to the bombshell she had just dropped.

“Go change your clothes. I’ll take care of the preparations myself.”

At Herion’s words, Leila sprang to her feet, hastily pulling on her underwear and trousers. She clutched at her nearly ruined shirt and the bandages that had come completely undone, avoiding his gaze.

She didn’t want to see the expression on his face.

She didn’t want to read his emotions—whether it was irritation toward a plaything daring to feel jealousy or frustration at being left unsatisfied.

She didn’t want to know.

“Yes,” she murmured.

She turned toward the hallway but froze when she glanced down at herself.

If she stepped outside in this state, with her torn clothes exposing her chest, it wouldn’t just reveal that she was a woman—it would also expose her relationship with him.

With no other choice, Leila reached for the door that connected his bedroom to hers.

As soon as the door clicked open, his voice stopped her.

“Leila.”

Her steps halted.

Behind her, he approached, his bare torso only loosely covered below by a sheet.

Leaning down, he pressed his lips lightly to her ear.

“Since your clothes are ruined, let’s go shopping today,” he murmured. “That shirt has too many buttons. I think something easier to take off would be better.”

He gave her round head a teasing tap.

Leila’s already flushed face burned even hotter. Without turning back, she darted into her room and shut the door behind her.

It wasn’t just Leila who tensed up whenever the topic of his potential fiancées came up.

She wasn’t the only one affected.

Herion felt it, too—more deeply than she realized.

If she had pouted, told him not to go, not to meet them, he would have found any excuse to cancel, to avoid those arranged meetings his mother set up.

But every time, she pushed him toward those women instead.

Every time, she reminded him that she was not an option.

And each time, it left him more frustrated, more hurt.

Fine. If that’s what she wanted, he would give her exactly what she asked for.

With a sigh, he ran a large hand through his hair, ruffling it in frustration.

Inside her room, Leila quickly changed out of her torn clothes and damp undergarments.

She hadn’t lied—today’s schedule really was busy. The busier Herion was, the more she had to prepare.

The ache in her chest, the thorn she had embedded in her own heart, was an annoyance—like a splinter under her fingernail. But she didn’t have time to dwell on it.

A marquisate’s footman had far too much work to do.