Chapter 07
Franz accepted the wine cooler offered by the attendant, taking a small sip that instantly cooled his mouth. The sweet, fruity notes and refreshing chill swept away the early heat as if it had never existed.
Though it was only April and summer had yet to begin in earnest, the heat beating down already felt unusual. It seemed this year’s sweltering season would be no less harsh than the last.
Summer was always a dreadful time for Franz, who was notoriously sensitive to heat. The full brunt of the season in June and July was even worse, made unbearable by the social calendar’s relentless demands. It was a time fraught with mental exhaustion, unwanted memories, and pressure to marry. If he could simply pass through it quietly, he would—but like a stubborn seasonal cold, it never failed to leave its mark.
“I visited Lafitte last autumn,” Marco said, swirling his drink thoughtfully. “The entire city smelled like sweet grapes. A marvelous place—filled with great wine and even better food.”
As murmurs of agreement and admiration followed, Christian lifted his shoulders modestly, though he clearly appreciated the praise.
“From August through October, Lafitte is cloaked in grape fragrance,” he said. “The harvest season brings festivals worth seeing. I’ll invite everyone this fall—it’s not just because it’s my hometown. It’s truly a beautiful place. You won’t be disappointed.”
He had reason to boast. The Margaux family wine had already claimed a place among the finest in Lapland. Count Margaux, Christian’s father, had carried the family’s legacy with pride, devoting his life to it. Now, it was Christian’s turn to continue the tradition.
The men sat in small groups, some smoking cigars, others deep in debate over politics, society, and education. But soon the debates gave way to more frivolous conversation—specifically, the young ladies who had debuted just two weeks earlier.
“You went on a date with Miss Zibermann, didn’t you? How was it?”
“It felt like… like I had somehow validated my entire life. I don’t know how else to describe it. It was the first time I’d ever felt something like that.”
“Oh, come on. You’re being dramatic—it was just one date.”
The others laughed quietly, though none could hide the faint sparkle of anticipation in their eyes.
“Well, who could blame him? She’s the most popular girl on the scene right now.”
“Nah, that title belongs to Miss Clarence.”
“Exactly. Clarence is clearly ahead of Zibermann.”
“I agree. There’s a grace and elegance to Miss Clarence—she’s lovely in every sense.”
“Zibermann is gorgeous too. There’s something intoxicating about her glamour.”
“She’s flashy, sure, but that kind of beauty can’t quite compete with Louisa Clarence.”
“No contest.”
The group split into supporters of Allen Zibermann and Louisa Clarence, but it wasn’t long before the Clarence camp dominated the conversation.
Pathetic, Franz thought.
Leaning back in his chair, he crossed one leg over the other and checked his pocket watch, hiding his boredom behind a faint smirk. Unfortunately, he still had a whole hour until his next engagement.
As Franz gave a cynical laugh, Andrew, seated beside him, chuckled in shared understanding.
“What’s so funny, you two?”
“They’re all so ridiculous. This is exhausting,” Andrew replied before Franz could.
Franz nodded silently in agreement. The heated debate over women was laughable, but not entirely unexpected. Every spring, like clockwork, society buzzed with talk of love and marriage. It was the season for background checks and evaluations, where young noblemen feverishly sought ideal matches, and debutantes basked in the glow of newfound attention.
A girl who stole the spotlight at her debut ball would inevitably become the darling of the season. It was only natural that every eligible bachelor would try to win her favor—even if only for a single date.
Men competed ruthlessly for the women they desired. Young lords courted debutantes, and the ladies, in turn, measured them—assessing whether they fit the mold of a suitable husband.
As for Franz himself, love had long ceased to hold any appeal. If the time came, he would marry someone appropriate for his station. But until then, business seemed far more reliable. Love betrayed; money did not. A painful lesson learned from personal experience.
“Still,” Andrew mused, “we’ll have to marry eventually, won’t we?”
Franz let out a sigh. “Do we really have to?”
His blue eyes brimmed with reluctant irritation.
“Franz, the Prince blessed by God himself, speaking so defeatist about marriage? You’ve really given up hope,” Richard teased.
Franz merely shrugged and turned his gaze toward the square.
In the distance, the central fountain soared into the air with imposing grandeur. The sun caught the arcs of water, making it glimmer like rays of light. The plaza below was already bustling with activity.
Ladies in vibrant spring dresses strolled leisurely, greeting him with radiant smiles.
“Your Highness, such a pleasure to see you!”
“Isn’t the weather simply divine today?”
“You look as dashing as ever, Your Highness.”
With a polished smile, Franz inclined his head in greeting—just enough to be polite, but not inviting further conversation. The ladies, having faced his cold courtesy before, weren’t fazed in the least. They simply giggled and moved on, confident that they would greet him again tomorrow.
“The weather is just wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Spring flowers are in full bloom, and butterflies flutter about—can you see them?”
Indeed, the square bloomed like a garden party, dresses fluttering like butterflies dancing in the wind.
“Will Your Highness attend the Brontë Marchioness’ music salon?”
“Oh, certainly.”
It would be rude not to attend—not just because of the well-connected Marchioness, but also her husband, a respected senator. Of course, he’d make a beeline for the smoking lounge.
“A music salon at the Brontë estate—it’s practically mandatory.”
Franz replied with poised indifference, bowing slightly to imply: that’s enough—now go.
He longed to wave them off with a flick of the hand but held back. These young women were not easily discouraged.
“Do you already have a partner for the evening?”
“If not, what about Lady Booker? Her musical taste is impeccable.”
“Yes, do consider her. She’d make a lovely companion.”
Franz said nothing. He merely stared off toward the distant fountain with an expression of bored detachment. Richard, sensing his discomfort, stepped in.
“Alas, Franz already has a partner for the evening.”
“A partner? Who could that possibly… be?”
Before the curious ladies could press further, other young lords, hoping to change the subject, jumped in with their own questions, and chaos erupted.
Blushing, the ladies retreated with graceful bows and proper etiquette, like true ladies of noble birth.
“Well, I have to give them credit for their composure,” Marco said with a teasing smile. Then, squinting thoughtfully, he added, “But Franz—why did you buy Publica all of a sudden? Weren’t you mocking it just a few weeks ago for peddling cheap romance?”
“Right? I heard they’ve been in financial trouble.”
“No matter how bad things get, a newspaper should uphold its mission. Publica used to be Lapland’s most respected publication. Now? It’s a shadow of what it was.”
Richard and Andrew chimed in, eyes turning to Franz with curiosity. Surely, he had a reason for such a strange move.
“Lapland needs at least one paper that writes real news instead of scandalous gossip,” Franz said, frowning slightly. “There’s nothing decent to read in the morning. It’s aggravating.”
“That’s your reason?” Marco laughed, half-disbelieving, half-impressed.
“But the paper’s running at a loss…”
“A temporary loss is worth it. Long-term, it’ll be profitable.”
The times were changing—economically, socially, even politically. Though the past hundred years had seen peace, nothing lasted forever. It was time to pay attention to global affairs. War could erupt at any moment.
Among countless datasets and predictions, newspapers were one of the few tools that could analyze troubling trends. A reputable source of information was indispensable.
As much as Franz found Publica personally distasteful, it remained the only paper still trying to uphold journalistic standards.
“Well, I suppose that makes sense.”
“I knew you had a plan,” Richard said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t understand why you’d invest in a sinking ship.”
“You always have a reason, don’t you?”
Though Franz never explained his true motives, his friends trusted that there was something behind every move he made.
“Thanks, Franz. I’d almost given up reading the morning paper. Maybe now, we’ll finally have a paper worth our time again.”
Andrew gave him a warm smile, and Franz responded with a faint smirk, a subtle lift at the corner of his mouth.
That’s when it happened.
He heard his name.
“How can we get Louisa Clarence to agree to even one date?”
Unlike Allen Zibermann—who rarely turned down an invitation from a respectable family—Louisa Clarence was another story. Her rejections were legendary. The more she refused, the more desperate the men became.
Not for marriage. Just a single date.
But even that was like reaching for the stars.
“I heard she’s close with her older sister.”
“Wait—she has a sister?”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it!”
“None of us knew?”
“So, Louisa Clarence is the younger one? Is the sister beautiful too?”
“She must be. They’re sisters, after all.”
The revelation caused quite a stir on the balcony. The focus quickly shifted from Louisa to her mysterious elder sister.
“A new challenger appears!”
“I’ve never heard about this sister.”
“Has anyone seen her? I bet she’s gorgeous.”
“Anyone know who she is?”
Some of the young men asked in frustration, only to be met with groans and head-shaking.
“Another victim in the making.”
“If anyone has a higher wall around her heart than Louisa Clarence—it’s Iella Clarence.”
One man scoffed. The friend beside him nodded in agreement.
“You really don’t know? Plenty of guys have approached Miss Clarence just to get closer to Louisa—only to be turned away cold. She’s turned down a good number of them.”
“No joke.”
“She’s hard to read. You look at her blank expression, and suddenly you feel like the idiot.”
They were used to shy, giggling debutantes—not someone like Iella, whose indifferent gaze made them feel small. Her honesty was impossible to mask.
“Maybe that’s because you’re an idiot.”
“Hey now!”
Laughter erupted among them. A welcome distraction from a lazy midday.
“She doesn’t just reject you—she does it so politely that you feel bad for even asking.”
“You ever get a response?”
One man nodded solemnly. The others looked at him with sympathetic eyes, offering rueful smiles.
“I’ve never received a letter so refined and proper.”
“Too refined. It’s like being sliced with a perfect blade—clean, sharp, final.”
Those who had received her responses understood. They nodded with solemn empathy.
Those who hadn’t just looked confused.
“What’s the big deal? A girl’s a girl.”
“You’ll get it once you get the letter.”
Iella’s rejection letters all followed the same tone:
“For the very act of writing such a letter, I can already tell you must be a wonderful person. Which is why I feel truly sorry and troubled to respond with refusal.
Please, I ask you not to place me in such a difficult position again. Is it not selfishness to pursue your own feelings if it brings discomfort to another?
Is it too much to hope that a gentleman might bring joy to others through true consideration?
Forgive me if this letter causes you pain. Please excuse my rudeness.
I return your flowers and your letter. I wish you only happiness and that the Lord’s blessings be with you.”
—Iella Clarence
It wasn’t even a love confession—but reading that letter still left a lump in your throat.
Among the rejected, Iella Clarence had become something of a legend.
