Clip-clop. Clip-clop.

At the familiar sound of hooves, Emily, who had been scattering grain for the geese, placed her basket on the windowsill and ran outside to the front of the house.

“Miss!”

She had been unable to concentrate on her work, worried about Eloise, who had driven off alone to Blissbury in a cart.

‘She always catches colds in the spring!’

While Eloise roamed the fields like a newborn foal in summer and autumn, she was prone to falling ill at the slightest chill in winter and spring.

Knowing that well, Mrs. Surberton and Emily had doted on her all winter. And yet, she had left without so much as a shawl or hat! Worse still, she had driven the cart herself!

Emily recalled the mocking words of her friend, who worked as a maid at Mr. Ogilvy’s house across the way.

“The status of a maid depends on the kind of lady she serves, don’t you think?”

Her friend had boasted about how refined and elegant the Ogilvy daughters were.

Though she had phrased it differently, the meaning was clear:

‘You’re pitiful for serving a lady like Eloise.’

Naturally, Emily had flown at her friend and yanked her irritating hair.

“Our lady is a thousand times better than yours, who’s so nasty she even got dumped by her fiancé! And if our lady went to Camborne and bought new clothes, do you think yours could even stand next to her?”

“So what? She’s already twenty-six and still not married!”

Their childish fight had only ended when their mistresses returned home. The noble ladies intensely disliked their maids, raising their voices.

Since then, Emily has stewed in frustration and placed Eloise’s best shawl and hat by the front entrance.

And yet, her lady had gone out dressed like a mere servant, utterly oblivious to her efforts.

Today, even if it meant being called insolent, she would give Eloise a stern talking-to.

Resolving herself, Emily hurried to the cart.

Had there been a lot to bring back from Blissbury? The cart, which had been empty when she left, now had something loaded in the back.

“Miss! I told you so many times to take a shawl with you… Miss?”

She had expected Eloise to shake her head and tell her to stop nagging.

Instead, Eloise looked as if she had seen a ghost. She hastily unloaded a large bundle of paper from the back of the cart and rushed inside.

Then, standing before the fireplace in the living room, she turned to Emily, who was about to follow her.

“Don’t come in.”

“What? Miss, what is that…?”

“Please, Emily. Can you wait outside until I call for you?”

At Eloise’s uncharacteristically stiff expression and tone, Emily forgot her resolve to scold her and stepped back.

Once Emily had left, Eloise unwrapped the bundle of papers she was holding and threw them into the fireplace one by one.

Whoosh!

The flames surged up, devouring the paper in an instant.

The sudden heat flushed Eloise’s face, but she continued feeding the paper into the fire.

The pages with her portrait, the ones with Lieutenant Colonel Ryan’s image—they all turned to ash in moments.

Not satisfied, she took the poker and crushed the remaining embers completely.

Cough!

She broke into a rough cough, inhaling the ash that rose with the heat, but her hands never stopped.

Only when the fire had burned everything to cinders did Eloise finally sink into a chair and mutter:

“Who does something like that…?”

That remark was directed at the scoundrel who had occupied her thoughts ever since she left Blissbury.

***

‘What kind of woman does something like that?’

At the same time, Ryan stepped out of the bath, drying his hair with a towel as he returned to his room.

The room remained as elegant as when it was first built. Though some furnishings were outdated, due to the meticulous upkeep, they retained an antique charm.

It was clear from the moment he arrived—the estate’s servants and stewards took great pride in maintaining this place.

This is why, the instant he saw that suspicious maid descending the staircase, he felt an irrational irritation, as if he were already part of this household.

She wore decent clothing for a maid, but her disheveled hair and lack of a hat or shawl—what kind of woman went around like that?

None of the noblewomen he had seen ever walked around dressed like that.

So he was confident she was a maid who had stolen her mistress’s clothes.

After all, he had seen her sneaking away with something in hand and thought to catch her and turn her over to the constables.

He searched through the pocket of his uniform, which was now a mess after he had helped pull a carriage out of the mud.

A crumpled drawing that the woman had failed to retrieve emerged from within.

Ryan scowled as he looked at the paper as if he had just seen the most insulting thing in the world.

It was a well-drawn illustration—well enough to be praised if only the n*ked man depicted in it wasn’t Lieutenant Colonel Ryan Wilgrave.

After throwing the drawing onto the table, he stepped closer to the fireplace and gazed at his reflection in the mirror above it.

A man with black hair, blue eyes, and a stubborn expression stared back at him.

“Ryan Thornton.”

He muttered the name he was “currently using.”

“For now, I’ll live under that name.”

He smirked as he continued to look at himself in the mirror.

Until he came here, he was called Ryan Wilgrave.

A long time ago, on the day he first saw the portrait that had been painted of him, he had burst into rare laughter.

Because the man in the painting looked nothing like him.

He had been so annoyed with the painter, who had come claiming to immortalize the face of a war hero, that he had ordered his adjutant to sit in his place and pretend to be him.

When the painter arrived, Ryan commanded that he be thrown out immediately.

But more and more people kept coming, wanting to paint him. Even when he threatened to take disciplinary action, they persisted. When he finally investigated the matter, he discovered he had somehow become a war hero.

Even the royal court and parliament had sent letters urging him to cooperate, likely intending to use him for propaganda.

It was absurd. He frequently undertook covert missions—what good would it do to make his face widely known?

So Ryan summoned his adjutant and gave an order.

“You’ll have to be Ryan Wilgrave from now on.”

Of course, his adjutant had vehemently protested, but in the military, orders from a superior were absolute. When Ryan commanded, his adjutant had no choice but to obey.

And so, the world learned of Ryan Wilgrave as a fair-haired, blue-eyed, handsome man.

“For God’s sake, Colonel, the truth will come out someday!”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes. For now, just leave it as it is.”

Ryan had thought it was for the best. Not only did the bothersome artists finally leave him alone, but having an entirely different face associated with his name would be advantageous for infiltrating enemy lines.

Just as he had anticipated, when he dressed as an ordinary soldier, no one ever suspected he was Ryan Wilgrave.

Then the war ended. When he arrived at the negotiation table looking nothing like his portrait, not only the enemy but even the high-ranking officers of his military, who had never seen him in person, were left speechless.

Seeing their reactions, Ryan was convinced he had made the right choice.

That conviction remained even after he returned to Newham.

‘It was absurd.’

People hung up a portrait that wasn’t even his and sang praises to his name.

He might have understood if they were simply commending his military achievements.

But watching people swoon over a man they didn’t even honestly know filled him with disdain.

Loving someone without even knowing what they looked like—

‘Foolish and pathetic.’

His scorn for these admirers only grew when he stopped by his residence in the capital.

“What is all this?”

“Invitations for you, sir.”

“I can see that. What I’m asking is, why are there so many? Has it become customary for a single person to send ten invitations simultaneously?”

“That is because everyone in the capital—no, all of Albion—admires your reputation, sir.”

Naturally, Ryan ordered responses rejecting every single invitation.

Around that time, his friends had visited him.

“I feel like I’ve just been put up for auction as freshly caught fish. Everywhere I go, eyes scrutinize me, checking for any flaws. And the moment I meet their standards, I get dragged around to greet dozens, no, hundreds of young ladies whose names I can’t even remember. After that, I must dance until my lungs give out—all while ensuring I don’t offend a single lady who is watching me with hopeful eyes.”

Philip, usually a man of few words, had been so exasperated that he spoke in a near rant.

“Dealing with noblewomen isn’t the worst part. Beautiful and well-mannered ladies can at least be a gentleman’s pride. But those others…! The ones who pretend to be modest and virtuous when they are anything but! They whisper about thrilling, dangerous affairs and say they’d settle for being a mistress. Oh, heavens.”

“Yes, just as Philip says, every woman in Albion is practically dying to devour us.”

The one who interjected was Richard.

Unlike Philip, Richard had enlisted after his father suggested that war might curb his debauched tendencies.

Naturally, the moment the war ended, Richard had been the first to rush back to Newham, confident that the capital’s beautiful women were waiting for him. He had vowed to have the most incredible love affair and find true love.

Yet, contrary to his bold claims, Richard had only been seen at all-male gatherings.

“At least noblewomen are better. But when even the maids start stripping off their clothes and walking into my chambers…! The world may be in turmoil, but this is going too far.”

Shaking his head, Richard poured himself a glass of whiskey and turned to Ryan.

“The one who needs to be the most cautious among us is you. Your reputation is unmatched, and your lineage is noble—you are currently the most eligible Albion bachelor. You may have a difficult personality, but with your status, that only adds to your charm. Once you return to Newham, visitors will be at your door every day. And not just that—even the maids in this mansion will be watching for an opportunity to slip into your room at night.”

“Don’t insult Wilgrave’s staff.”

At Ryan’s remark, Richard let out a small, amused breath.

“Ryan, you need to understand just how desirable you are. In any case, don’t ignore my advice.”

And that night, Ryan regretted not heeding his friend’s warning.