No One Ever Loved Me - Chapter 92

The fainted Countess Rosette was swiftly moved to a guest room. The Queen, as if nothing had happened, smoothly shifted the conversation to the upcoming debutante ball.

It was almost as if getting rid of Countess Rosette had been the goal from the start.

Marchioness Federica stared at the Queen in disbelief.

She looked at her as if the granddaughter she had cherished and loved dearly had suddenly returned wearing someone else’s skin.

Though in truth, the opposite was closer to reality.

The Queen had always worn the mask of a dutiful daughter in front of Marchioness Federica. But she wasn’t just any noblewoman—she had married a king and become Queen. The naïve girl from her youth could no longer exist.

In fact, it was likely that the Queen had never been that innocent, even as a child. Knowing how Marchioness Federica longed for her daughter, she had imitated a woman she only knew from portraits and lived accordingly.

“Where is the debutante stage planner?” the Queen asked.

At her signal, an attendant quickly summoned the person in question.

Penelope entered the drawing room with a pale face, her head lowered, visibly trembling with nervousness.

“Y-Your Majesty,” she greeted, her voice shaking like a frightened goat.

I caught Ricardo smirking at his childhood friend’s nervous state and gave him a disapproving look.

He mouthed something in protest, but I couldn’t make out what he said.

Rather than wasting time trying to lip-read his poor excuse, it seemed far more practical to rescue Penelope from her growing panic.

“Your Majesty,” I said gently, “perhaps we should have Madame Penelope sit before she passes out as well. Of course, even if every guest were to faint, I doubt your palace would run out of rooms to house them.”

At my suggestion, the Queen motioned for an attendant to bring over a low stool.

But even with that simple kindness, Penelope looked like she was on the verge of collapse just from realizing the chair was meant for her.

“So,” the Queen said lightly, “I’ve heard you’re quite talented at stage design.”

“I-It’s a modest talent, Your Majesty.”

“Cecilia wouldn’t have introduced someone to me if they only had modest talent. I plan to invest a bit more gold into this year’s debutante ball. I’ve neglected it in recent years, and I feel guilty about that. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime event that young ladies dream of their entire lives. I shouldn’t have treated it so lightly.”

In truth, the Queen wasn’t particularly passionate about the debutante ball itself. What mattered wasn’t the event—it was the restoration of her authority.

And this event would be the foundation.

Using the ball as a pretext, the Queen had summoned a commoner to the palace, and the King had allowed it.

In this strictly hierarchical society, the very idea of a commoner entering the Queen’s palace—and sitting in her drawing room having what resembled a conversation—was shocking.

The more politically astute nobles wouldn’t focus on the presence of a commoner, but rather on the fact that the King had silently endorsed such an extraordinary move by the Queen.

Perhaps the King hadn’t thought it through. After all, this was a man who lived with a mistress in a garden as plain and unremarkable as his personality.

To long for “normalcy” while keeping a mistress—what a contradiction.

Then again, many “ordinary” men did the same—playing house with their wives in public while indulging in lovers in private. Maybe, for the King, having a mistress was just another attempt at living out a version of normal.

But nobility, born into power and status, wouldn’t understand the King’s contradictions. The Queen, however, had every intention of using his limitations against him—slowly carving out the power that should have been hers all along.

“Are you frightened by how many people you’ll have to look up to?” the Queen asked calmly. “I’d like a word alone with this young lady. Why don’t the rest of you take a stroll through the palace gardens?”

Countess Damier promptly hooked her arm through Margaret’s and led her out.

Margaret, who had been about to approach me, was dragged away without protest. She looked back at me longingly, her eyes filled with concern—but Countess Damier’s surprisingly brisk pace soon pulled her out of sight.

I wondered—was Countess Damier trying to give Ricardo an opportunity?

After all, just before Countess Rosette was carried out, Ricardo had shamelessly made a statement that left no room for misunderstanding.

He’d said he would report Count Edgar Linton for my sake. But what kind of knightly virtue involved tearing apart another’s household?

Even Sir Juan, who had been knighted long before Ricardo, had only cautiously hinted at helping me, and only if I asked him directly.

Ricardo, on the other hand, had never even properly trained with a sword. His title was purely honorary.

I still hadn’t gotten used to this noble society, where people seemed unable to exist without stacking honorifics behind their names. They became lords by inheriting estates the moment they came of age—even if they had never touched a sword in their lives.

Even Edgar had inherited his knighthood from his family. Before he succeeded the title of Count, he too must have been called “Sir Edgar.”

In that context, the title “Lord” was practically an insult to Ricardo.

It was reserved for second or third sons who didn’t inherit anything—and when they came of age, they were often given scraps of land from their mother’s relatives just to ensure they could call themselves lords.

The fact that Ricardo, the designated heir to the Duke of Bastian, was still referred to as “Lord Ricardo” was proof enough that the current Duke had not the slightest interest in his illegitimate son.

That was why Count Edgar Linton, despite his jealousy, had been able to look down on Ricardo. It fed his fragile pride.

“I’m honored to experience such gracious care from Your Majesty. Shall we, Lady Cecilia?”

Ricardo offered his arm to me with a half-hearted thank-you that was little more than a formality.

As I glanced at the Queen, I saw an expression that was half disbelief, half calculation—wondering how best to make use of him.

Then I turned to check on Penelope. Despite everything, my brave Penelope was doing her best to stay strong. She winked at me with one eye as if to say, “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

It looked like Penelope had meant to wink, but she was so tense that it came off more like a twitch—like someone with a stye struggling to blink properly.

Ricardo, as usual, showed no sympathy for his friend’s discomfort. Instead, he silently urged me with a look that said, Well? Are you going to take my arm or not?

The Queen had already given her permission, and Countess Damier had stepped away.

Marchioness Federica, however, clung stubbornly to her place beside the Queen, gripping the armrest of her chair with a dignified expression that made it clear she had no intention of leaving.

Perhaps the Queen never expected to get her grandmother to move. She shot her a brief look of irritation, then sighed as if resigning herself to the fact that this was how it would be.

“Lady Cecilia.”

Ricardo’s patience had worn thin; he finally broke the silence.

There was no use trying to resist like Marchioness Federica. The Queen wasn’t going to devour Penelope, and it wasn’t as though I had anywhere better to be. I took Ricardo’s arm.

He gave a satisfied smile and walked forward with elegance. He even adjusted his pace to match mine, never forgetting the difference in our stride.

Out in the corridor, he led me to a courtyard—one so secluded and silent that no one else dared step inside.

While Countess Damier and Margaret were likely admiring the lovely garden the Queen had designed for guests, I found myself wandering through a yard overgrown with weeds, where the only thing worth looking at was Ricardo’s face.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to come here,” I said.

“It’s only a problem if we get caught.”

“The fact that you’re here is already a problem.”

“Only if someone finds out.”

“And how do you expect to keep that from happening?”

The Queen’s palace was vast, yes—but it was constantly patrolled by attendants.

They hurried through the halls, cleaning rooms the Queen never used, polishing decorations she never glanced at, sweeping gardens she never walked through.

“This place,” Ricardo started. He hesitated briefly before finishing his sentence.

“This is where the Queen’s first child is buried.”

He watched me closely, just like he had when I first heard about Elodie’s stillbirth.

As if he was afraid, I might feel sorry for the Queen. That even a trace of pity might appear on my face.

“No wonder no one’s allowed here,” I replied, flatly.

Ricardo exhaled, the breath leaving him in one long sigh.

“You’re being knighted.”

“You sounded like you were testing the waters a few days ago. So I took the chance.”

“And the Duke of Bastian agreed?”

“Doubt it. That man treats me worse than a stray dog.”

So, it had been decided without the Duke’s consent. Though by now, he would have been informed.

To have a youthful mistake return to him—not only exposed, but honored—must have been infuriating.

“And the sudden accusation? What was that all about?”

“The King wanted to make me a knight. I don’t know the first thing about chivalry, but it seemed like a good excuse to make some noise.”

He had spent years compensating for the stain of his birth—talking down to other nobles, acting arrogant to hide his insecurity. But every now and then, he let a piece of that troubled past slip through.

Only with me.

Which made it feel heavier.

The Queen had told me I was free to want Ricardo. Like a token, a favor—offering him up, as if he were a gift wrapped in silk ribbon.

She said desire could be learned, and that I was quick to learn.

Was that true? Could someone as broken as me really learn how to feel, just by being taught?

I imagined Ricardo with a bow in his hair and chuckled. A man as solid and broad-shouldered as him didn’t suit ribbons, even in fantasy.

The fact that I didn’t truly want him… maybe that meant I wasn’t a fast learner after all. Or maybe it meant feelings weren’t something you could just learn.

“Is the Queen mistreating you?”

Ricardo’s question came out of nowhere.

No build-up. No context. I looked at him, baffled.

“You haven’t said how Elodie is. Or what Count Linton is up to. Or what your stepmother might be plotting behind the scenes. You haven’t asked a single question.”

Ricardo watched me seriously, eyes searching my face.

“The Queen is mistreating you, isn’t she? I thought something was off. You look exhausted. The shadows under your eyes are deeper. She’s not letting you sleep, is she? She’s working you too hard?”

Whether the shadows were deeper or not, I couldn’t care less.

I was being treated almost too well at the Queen’s palace. And the Queen herself had surprisingly little to do.

Ricardo had to know that. The only reason he’d lash out at the Queen like this was because of one thing.

He’d done the same with Margaret—picking fights over people who got close to me.

This was jealousy, pure and irrational. The jealousy of someone obsessed, angry that he didn’t get enough of my time, while others did.

But when I realized that, oddly enough, I felt relieved.

Ricardo’s obsession, though it resembled love, wasn’t really love.

There was something almost religious in his gaze—faithful, not romantic.

His devotion had started simply because I had acknowledged him. His belief in me was like the belief of someone who had been swept into a cult.

A follower convinced that the leader was a god sent to Earth.

I didn’t want Ricardo. I didn’t want to keep him.

I felt responsible for him. For saving him.

That’s why I told the Queen I wanted all of Ricardo Bastian—not just a part of him.

It wasn’t a lie. I couldn’t lie. It wasn’t surprising the words came so easily.

“If you divorce that bastard Count Linton, I’ll make sure you never have to serve as a handmaid again. If I’d known the Queen was going to work you like this, I would’ve found a different way.”

Ricardo fidgeted, looking helpless, as if the weight of everything was somehow his fault. He couldn’t even bring himself to touch his face.

I looked at him—maybe I smiled.

A little pathetic.

A little sad.

Maybe even a little fond.

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