His eyes were dark as he locked his gaze on her face, expressionless and cold. Yeara stared at him. She bit the inside of her cheek, and even though she was expecting this, why did a part of her chest feel a slight pain? She did not expect that to happen to her. Was it the way he said it—so final, like he could not love?
Ever.
"Then why did you choose to marry me?" she asked her voice slightly cracked. She did not understand why he had chosen to marry her when he did not even love her. What was his reason? He must have a reason.
Zalthor spun her, and finally the music slowed. Yeara's eyes locked on his waiting for an answer, Zalthor moved his head low gracefully. The crowd gasped lightly.
Even though he had not necessarily done anything, him actually doing that was shocking, because the king had never done that to anyone before.
The light returned as Zalthor walked to his seat. Yeara moved through the crowd, her gaze searching for her parents, but eyes were just watching her, whispers around as people now found thier voice as the lights returned. Finally, she caught sight of her mama, who was waving at her with a wide smile on her lips.
Yeara's eyes lit up as she walked quickly to her. Little Cedric was not there, and neither was her papa. She finally reached Lady Persophone.
"Is everything the matter?" Lady Persophone asked as she scanned Yeara's face observingly, noticing the slight sadness on it.
"I will marry him," she finally spoke as she bit her lips softly. Lady Persophone's eyes widened slightly taken aback by her daughter's sudden statement. Yeara shifted her gaze.
"I need air, Mama," she said as she walked forward toward the other door that led outside. She did not care about the gazes of the people as she walked to the door pushing it open walking through the hallway.
The chatters could not be heard; the place was empty. Tears began to roll down her cheeks as she moved quickly to the end exit.
She had said it last night, and even though it was not her wish to marry the king, she could not back off her words. She finally reached the garden.
Her chest rose and fell as the tears kept falling uncontrollably. It was like all the tears she had kept back decided to disgrace her. The fresh air slapped her face, pushing the strands backward. Her hands covered her face. She was glad nobody was there.
Her shoulders trembled.
The garden was big, with flowers and well-trimmed grass, benches placed at different sides. Yeara moved and sat down. She forced a smile as she wiped her tears.
"It's okay. You are a strong woman," she reminded herself. She should be glad… right?
She stood and cleared her throat. There was no need to cry. She took a few sharp breaths, smiled, and slapped her cheeks softly, as if to make sure she looked normal. Just as she turned, she heard voices from the covered grass area. She halted in her tracks.
Moans.
Yeara's eyes widened in shock as her gaze snapped toward the covered grass area.
She waited. Then she took a few tentative steps toward it, curiosity pulling her forward—the same curiosity that killed the dear cat. The closer she drew, the louder the moans became.
Her heart began to beat rapidly. She did not understand why she wanted to know who that was. She could not believe she was hearing such sounds in a ball garden. How shameless could that person be?
She finally reached the covered flowers. She moved her hands, pushing them aside. Her lips parted in awe at the design—it was like a curtain, but made with flowers and leaves. If somebody saw this, they would never have thought it was a curtain; they would have thought it was part of the garden and the end.
"Ahhhm—"
The moans slipped through. Yeara's thoughts finally returned to why she had come here in the first place. She had been easily carried away by the flower-and-leaf curtain. She pushed it aside and peeked her head in.
She decided to turn away. This was not right. She had no place looking at a couple; it was not her business if they were doing scandalous things in the garden.
She moved to shift her head, but her eyes caught the male figure standing there, kissing a woman, his hands rummaging over her body as if he wanted to devour her.
Yeara gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in shock.
That was… that was—
Duke Larkin.
The same man who had wished to marry her—this was no longer the calm, warm-looking man who seemed incapable of hurting even a fly. The way he kissed the woman was as though the world were about to end.
The man moved. He had heard her shocked gasp. His head rose as his eyes locked on Yeara's wide ones. He immediately stepped back, straightening himself as the back of his hand wiped his mouth cleaning away the smudged bright red lipstick on it.
The woman turned, and Yeara felt her head spin. She could not believe what she was seeing right now.
"Lady Goldie…"
She did not understand. The lady's gown was zipped down, one hand loosely holding it, her shoulders bare. The vulnerability was uncomfortable.
Duke Larkin moved quickly toward Yeara, his dignity and good image flashing before his eyes.
"Lady Yeara, it is not what you think."
Yeara turned quickly and began to run.
'Stupid girl. Why did you have to see such?' she scolded herself as she moved through the walkway of the garden towards the large door.
Then an arm held her tightly. Her gaze snapped to the side as Duke Larkin stood there, hair slightly disheveled, face pleading, almost filled with regret.
"Lady Yeara, I can explain. Please let me explain," he said.
Yeara raised a brow, tilting her head in confusion.
"Explain what? If I am not mistaken, we have never had any history for you to give me an explanation, Duke," she said, drawing out the word Duke with emphasis almost…Belittling.
Duke Larkin loosened his grip, eyes wide as he stared at Yeara, whose lips curved wider as her hand moved to her chin as if in deep thought.
"Imagine what would happen if the others found out that the honorable General Duke Larkin—the only humble man in the world—was caught in a scandal," she said, her gaze laced with mockery, her words dripping with sarcasm.
"No need to beg, because I would not lend you my ears," she smiled, offering a graceful curtsy.
"My husband already misses me. I do not want you causing another scandal," she said, her gaze sharp before she turned and walked away elegantly.
Duke Larkin watched her, eyes wide.
Yeara walked with graceful steps, but once she entered the hallway and realized he was no longer behind her, she immediately began to run. The fear she had been holding back earlier surged. Heavens knew how hard she had tried to suppress it. She just wanted to escape.
How could he do such a thing? With no one other than a—
A married woman.
A married woman with six children…her neighbor.
Her steps quickened as her body shuddered with disgust and irritation, her heels clicking loudly against the floor. The hallway was dim. She turned back, regretting ever coming outside. She bent slightly, removing her heels as she held them in her hands just in case she needed to run faster.
Then she heard a sound.
Her heart dropped.
She looked back again—but her body collided with something hard. She staggered back, but a strong arm held her, steadying her.
She knew that scent.
Zalthor.
She looked up at him. Despite the cold, intimidating aura, she felt relief. In fact, that aura brought her comfort. Her hands tightened around her heels.
Zalthor leaned forward slightly, sharply yet aloof. He finally shifted his gaze calmly to Yeara, his lips curving as he spoke.
"Husband, huh?"