Chapter 195

Chapter 195

Deatrice gave that response, but in truth, even after arriving at the mansion, she sat in the carriage for quite some time. Her body had grown as cold as ice, and the chill had seeped even into her flesh. Deatrice, as if by habit, closed her eyes when Lucius’s hand gently caressed her face.

Behind them, a bonfire crackled, and the warmth emanating from Lucius was comforting. Eventually, unable to resist the impulse, she surrendered herself into his embrace.

She wanted to reveal everything, to show him the portrait she had brought. She might apologize, trembling with anxiety, and tell him that perhaps her father had brought the wrong person and staged a drama in the reception room. Then he would comfort her and promise to find out what happened and take the portrait away from her.

She would become his ally, taking her place in blaming her father. But that wasn’t the way she wanted it.

It wasn’t because she didn’t want to blame her father; it was because she couldn’t properly apologize to Lucius anymore.

“Why are you so weak? Was the work tough?”

That’s what she intended to say after she found out everything and apologized.

However, even at this moment, lying to him in his tenderness was excruciating. She kept her face hidden from him and suddenly stood up.

“I think I should go. By now, the room should be lit. I want to lie down in bed.”

“Are you very tired?”

“Yeah. I need to rest because I’ll be going again tomorrow. I haven’t finished my work yet.”

She turned her body slightly, standing askew to avoid showing her face to him. Lucius, perplexed, tried to follow her face with his eyes and leaned towards the back of the sofa, but when she turned her head back and smiled as usual, he dismissed the feeling of strangeness.

“Isn’t Dixie taking advantage of your kindness too much? Why not leave it to someone else?”

“No. I want to do it.”

She replied gently but firmly, and Lucius, looking at Deatrice with a hint of regret, advised her in a sympathetic tone just before she left.

“Dee, you don’t need to get involved in things that aren’t really your fault.”

She wanted to say that she understood, but the words caught in her throat, and she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. She left the reception room without uttering a word.

Wasn’t it her fault?

It could be. But she still didn’t know.

***

That night, Deatrice pretended to fall asleep first and escaped from the bed she shared with Lucius.

She kept her eyes closed, but sleep never came, and she felt Lucius’s movements even more keenly. Lucius, after briefly resting his chin, looked at Deatrice and then nestled his face deeply near her waist, falling asleep. His arms wrapped around her waist felt heavy and uncomfortable.

“Lucy, please lie down properly, okay?”

Deatrice tried to wake him up by shaking his shoulder, but in reality, a whisper like that couldn’t wake him up. The scent of whiskey lingered in his breath, as if he had drunk a bit. Deatrice worried that he might get a hangover but realized that she didn’t actually want him to wake up. It felt easier to deal with him in this sleeping state than when he was awake and sober.

When he was asleep, he wouldn’t ask her any questions or hold any resentment towards her. But at the same time, he was still the ‘Lucy’ she loved.

If what she had imagined were true, would she feel like this throughout her married life?

Would she forever long for the sleeping Lucius?

She lay down near Lucius’s outstretched hand, covering her face just like Lucius did, in an uncomfortable position. Strangely, she felt more at ease than before. She listened to the sound of Lucius’s heartbeat and soon fell asleep.

***

The next day was somewhat more comfortable than the day before. The initial shock had subsided a bit, and above all, she was determined to investigate things properly. First, she needed to confirm who this woman, Bella Anise, really was and whether the portrait and the woman in the reception room back then were indeed different people. Deatrice thought about who could provide this information and, as she was doing so, she came across Tom, who just nodded in acknowledgment when she greeted him.

“Wilson.”

When she called his name, Tom turned around, looking somewhat taken aback, as if he thought he’d be scolded for something.

“What can I do for you?”

“It’s me and you, could we have a talk? I need to ask you something.”

“Me?” Tom responded with an arrogant expression, as if he was wondering what on earth she could want from him. He glanced at Rosalynn, seeming uncomfortable, then cleared his throat awkwardly. After a moment, he reluctantly nodded his agreement.