What Remains in the Damaged Place - Chapter 38

The tea party concluded successfully, and after bidding farewell to the guests, Camille Floyden finally allowed herself to drop the courteous mask she had worn all day. As the last of the carriages departed, she retreated into the house, exhaustion settling in as she made her way to the toilette room. The heavy scent of cosmetic powder and strong perfume still lingered in the air from the preparations that morning.

“Take them off,” she instructed.

“Yes, my lady,” one of the maids replied obediently, kneeling down to carefully remove the lace gloves from Camille’s hands.

Her pale, delicate hands—untouched by hardship—brushed back a few loose strands of hair. Two more maids quietly moved behind her, gingerly untying the complex arrangement of lilies and hairpins in her styled hair.

Knock, knock.

A soft rap at the door signaled the entrance of the house steward.

“My lady, this just arrived at the estate,” he announced, handing over an envelope.

Camille, slouched in her chair from fatigue, accepted the envelope without much thought. It was plain, devoid of any decorative patterns, but when she flipped it over, she noticed the seal—an anemone flower stem wound around the wax.

Her mood brightened slightly, as if the envelope contained the one piece of good news in an otherwise tiring day. She delicately broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

As she began to read, however, her expression gradually darkened.

“What?” she muttered aloud, her eyes glued to the words as if she couldn’t believe what she was reading.

“Shall I prepare your bath, my lady?” one of the maids asked softly, knowing that Camille usually soaked in a hot bath after her tea parties to unwind.

But Camille, her complexion still unsettled by the letter’s contents, waved the maid off.

“Not now. I wish to be alone,” she said curtly.

“Of course, my lady. Call if you need anything,” the maid replied, noticing Camille’s displeased mood. The maids quietly retreated, leaving their mistress alone in the room.

Now in solitude, Camille rose from her chair, her mind still fixated on the letter. She removed her heavy jewelry and loosened her dress, seeking the comfort of the sofa near the balcony. Even as she sat down, her eyes remained locked on the letter, unable to pull away from what she had just read.

She pressed her manicured fingernails into the paper as she reread the critical line that had caused her distress.

“The subject has been confirmed to have a close relationship.”

The letter was long, filled with detailed observations, including things seen firsthand and rumors heard within the Duke’s household. Despite her growing agitation, Camille forced herself to focus on the words.

Her eyes stopped at another damning sentence.

“Seen entering the subject’s bedroom late at night.”

Bedroom…
“Seen,” meaning someone had witnessed this personally.

This letter had been sent from one of Camille’s informants—an undercover maid she had discreetly placed within the Justitia estate. The spy, acting under Camille’s direct orders, had been gathering intelligence for her for some time. Given that the report came from someone loyal to Camille, there was little reason to doubt its authenticity. The informant had too much to lose by fabricating anything.

The more Camille absorbed the contents of the letter, the more the reality of the situation sank in.

“A mistress.”

Her lips, colored by red rouge, pressed together as she bit down in frustration.

It felt as if a massive boulder had been thrown into the smooth, steady waters of her two-year engagement.

A mistress in the Duke’s estate?

The idea that a maid—one of lowly status—had managed to become Valderion’s mistress made Camille’s stomach twist in anger. She crumpled the letter in her hand, tossing it onto the table beside her with a sharp movement.

Her engagement to the Duke of Justitia had been, perhaps for him, nothing more than a business arrangement—a tool to consolidate power. But for Camille, it had been different.

Camille’s feelings for Valderion had been simmering for a long time, ever since that fateful encounter.

It had happened on the night of a grand ball hosted by the royal family.

The event, much like the others she had attended, was typical in many ways—extravagant decorations adorning the halls, crowds of nobles draped in glittering jewels, and the ebb and flow of conversations and social circles forming and dissipating as the night progressed.

Camille had played her part flawlessly, just as she had been taught. She maintained a perfect smile and moved with the grace of a swan, her steps light and elegant. Years of practice ensured that she could execute the role of the perfect noblewoman without much effort.

“Camille, make sure you conduct yourself with care before the royal family and the Duke of Justitia. You don’t want to earn their disfavor,” her father had warned before the ball.

And so, she did. She carried herself impeccably, her demeanor unfaltering, aware that the slightest misstep before those of such status—particularly the Duke—could have consequences.

The Duke of Justitia, Valderion, mingled among the crowd, effortlessly commanding attention. While the royal family occupied their place of honor, Valderion’s presence was equally prominent, if not more so. He moved through the gathering with elegance and poise, each gesture and glance exuding the polished charm of a man accustomed to being the epitome of nobility. Even something as simple as taking a sip of wine appeared graceful and refined in his hands.

At that point, Camille hadn’t given him much thought beyond acknowledging his status and the responsibilities her father had reminded her of.

In truth, she had been rather tired.

Lately, she had been organizing tea parties and forging connections at her father’s instruction, a taxing endeavor that left her drained. On top of that, the hours spent preparing for the ball had taken their toll.

“Father, the wine has made me feel a little lightheaded. Would it be alright if I stepped out for some fresh air?” Camille had asked, politely excusing herself from her father’s side.

The ball continued in full swing, but Camille made her way out, seeking the cool night air. Outside, the evening had fully settled in, the sky a dark canvas sprinkled with stars like faint freckles. The temperature had dropped, and Camille pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders as she walked toward a secluded balcony.

And there, she saw him.

Valderion, who had moments ago been inside the ballroom, was now standing alone on the balcony, leaning casually against the railing, a cigar between his fingers.

For a moment, Camille hadn’t recognized him.

The man standing before her seemed different from the flawless figure she had observed inside the ballroom. Here, Valderion appeared more relaxed, his posture looser, with the cigar hanging precariously from his lips, a far cry from the aristocratic image he usually projected.

There was something raw and untamed about him in that moment, like a potent, heady drink.

If anyone else had been standing there, they might have seemed tired or informal. But on Valderion, this languid stance only enhanced his allure. It was as if he were some kind of nocturnal god, watching over the night with a detached, regal air. The image of dark mist curling around him or moonlight casting a divine glow upon him felt perfectly fitting.

He exuded an aura that transcended the ordinary—something sensual and magnetic, capable of making anyone’s heart race.

Camille was no exception.

She found herself mesmerized, standing still as if caught in a trance, watching him from a distance. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from the striking scene, as if she were witnessing a living masterpiece.

“Your Grace, there you are.”

Camille hadn’t realized how long she had been staring until one of Valderion’s attendants appeared.

How long had she been standing there, so entranced that she hadn’t even noticed the approach of another person?

Despite having no reason to hide, Camille instinctively ducked behind one of the columns, watching from the shadows as Valderion remained unmoved by the attendant’s presence.

“You’re needed back inside, Your Grace,” the attendant urged politely, but Valderion took his time.

He continued to enjoy his cigar, allowing the smoke to rise in lazy spirals into the night air. His relaxed demeanor contrasted starkly with the attendant’s obvious anxiety, but Valderion was in no hurry. He finished his cigar at his own pace before finally straightening up.

With that one simple action—standing tall and discarding the cigar—he seemed to shift back into the version of himself that Camille had seen inside the ballroom: poised, composed, and flawlessly elegant.

Before turning to leave, Valderion glanced over his shoulder, his sharp eyes flicking toward the column where Camille was hiding.

“Is something there?” the attendant asked, confused.

Valderion didn’t answer immediately. He simply gazed in her direction, as if he had known she was there all along. Camille’s heart pounded as she pressed herself further behind the column, hoping not to be seen.

“No,” Valderion finally said, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He turned away, walking back toward the ballroom with the attendant in tow.

Camille waited until they had disappeared from view before stepping out from behind the column.

Even though he had said there was nothing there, his gaze had lingered just long enough to let her know that he had noticed her presence. She hadn’t been as hidden as she thought.

Her hand instinctively moved to her chest, where her heart was beating faster than it should have been.

There was something about Valderion—something that made her heart tighten and flutter in ways she hadn’t expected. It was as if he had pulled her into his world without saying a single word.

From that moment on, her feelings for him had only grown. The engagement that had once been a strategic alliance became something more to Camille—a hope, a desire that had been set in motion on that dark, starry night.