No One Ever Loved Me - Chapter 97

For the first time in a while, the Queen’s Palace was wide open.

The ballroom, which had once felt so empty when I first became the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, was now overflowing with guests—no space left to spare.

Girls dressed in gowns as delightful to look at as spring gardens filled the hall, accompanied by stern noblewomen closely watching their daughters or wards like hawks.

At the highest point of the ballroom sat the Queen on her throne. To one side of her were Marchioness Federica and me; opposite us, on a diagonal axis, sat Margaret and Viscountess Damier.

From below, the eyes staring up at us were filled with awe—like we were chosen beings descended from the heavens. It was a gaze heavy with admiration, and more than a little pressure.

Worse, that admiration would now and then shift toward Ricardo, then quickly sweeten into a guilty delight—like a stolen candy melting on the tongue.

Ricardo had indeed been placed among the “chosen,” though his position was carefully curated—not quite above, and certainly not below.

He stood somewhere between the Queen and me, willingly taking on minor errands as if it were his rightful post.

When the Queen mentioned she hadn’t prepared a seat for him, he boasted that he was strong enough to stand through the entire debutante ball and that no one need worry about his stamina.

“Does Lord Ricardo make you uncomfortable, Cecilia?” Margaret asked.

Thanks to Viscountess Damier’s influence, her attire had improved dramatically since the day she first came to see the Queen.

Viscountess Damier herself wore a muted gray dress, seemingly indifferent to the occasion—but I suspected it was a calculated move to make Margaret stand out all the more.

“Ever since Lord Ricardo took it upon himself to be your accuser, everyone in the capital’s been talking about nothing else,” she added.

The way Margaret said accuser didn’t quite carry the original weight of the word.

It sounded more like a role in some grand romance—flavored heavily with meanings that probably didn’t exist in any real world.

And in her tone was a clear note of conviction: that such romantic liberty ought to be punished.

“Honestly, it’s not even surprising anymore. The way Lord Ricardo always manages to stir up trouble for you.”

Margaret, riding high on the Queen’s favor, took great pleasure in teasing Ricardo.

Born the illegitimate child of Baron Artois and having spent half her life dismissed or pitied, it was almost funny—tragically so—that she now used that rare favor to poke fun at Ricardo of all people.

I had long since given up trying to understand the one-sided affection Margaret had for me. Yet, somehow, she still found ways to surprise me.

“Why don’t you calm down and enjoy your tea like the rest of us, since it’s not every day you get to sit above others for a change?” Ricardo said, nudging a fruit bowl toward me from Margaret’s side.

“See? He’s always like this, Cecilia,” Margaret huffed. “He plays the gentleman around you, but he’s actually a terrible person.”

“My terrible side shows only around Lady Margaret. You needn’t worry yourself unnecessarily.”

“Young girls always mistake kindness for goodness. But a truly good man is one who doesn’t ruin a woman’s social circle just to prove a point.”

Margaret turned to me for support. Right, Cecilia? Don’t you agree?

I gave her a faint, uneasy smile.

The two of them couldn’t stop smiling and trading barbed remarks every time they met.

That was their right, of course. People had free will. But did they have to drag me into it every single time and ask me to pick a side?

“Madam Penelope’s done quite well with the event, Your Majesty.”

“Mm. Passable at least,” the Queen replied.

I decided the best course was to flee up a tree neither of them could climb.

The Queen shot me a side glance like a teacher disapproving of a slow student—but still gave me her approval.

Her look said, Why aren’t you working Ricardo harder yet?

But Ricardo was already so thoroughly cooked, if I added any more fire, the shell might crack and reveal whatever strange creature was hiding inside him.

A cracked egg might spill a pretty yolk, but whatever was inside Ricardo… I wasn’t sure it was even edible.

“The ballroom is perfect, and the girls are lovely. But Your Majesty, it seems the plan to bury my scandal beneath the debutante ball hasn’t quite worked.”

Thanks to Elodie’s dramatic testimony, even the morning of the debutante ball, my divorce was still front-page news.

Most of the articles were dedicated to Edgar’s exaggerated sins. The rest were filled with messages of sympathy toward Elodie, who had a loyal fanbase. My name was only mentioned at the end—something like, “May Lady Rosette finally find peace.”

Ricardo had proudly told me he’d pressured the newspapers.

Since it was impossible to silence the gossip after Elodie blew everything wide open, he’d decided instead to shrink my presence and push Edgar and Elodie to the forefront.

Then he looked at me like a puppy waiting for praise.

I glanced at Ricardo’s usual stiff and slightly grumpy expression—the one he wore in public places.

Our eyes met. I turned away so fast I nearly sprained something.

“Lady Cecilia, are you feeling unwell?”

Ricardo reached over with a wineglass.

But inside it was just chilled water.

At events like this, everyone drank wine—even if only for appearances. That made it obvious this was his way of taking special care of me.

“So it’s Lady Margaret’s fault, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you dare pin this on me, Lord Ricardo.”

“Lady Margaret’s been jabbing at me non-stop. Of course you’d be uncomfortable. I was this close to removing a thorn from my side in a perfectly legal, delightfully satisfying way. But no, Lady Margaret had to glare like I’d slapped her.”

Utter nonsense.

“Martha, it’s time to start receiving guests,” Marchioness Federica said, stepping in before Ricardo could get even more ridiculous.

Even she couldn’t bear to listen anymore.

The Queen pouted and rolled her eyes behind her grandmother’s back, annoyed that her fun had been interrupted.

“Yes, of course,” I replied.

But outwardly, the Queen kept playing the obedient granddaughter. She was too old, too experienced to reject the one person who had raised her—no matter how much she had outgrown the role.

She’d said she didn’t want to torment the marchioness like a rebellious teenager, and I believed her.

Even if she had seen me as a replacement, her love hadn’t been fake.

At her signal, the orchestra began to play a soft tune.

It was meant to soothe the girls’ fluttering hearts, to hide any small mistakes under the flowing music—a thoughtful selection.

People began to gather into gentle circles, leaving the center of the hall open. At the steward’s call, one by one, the debutantes came forward and bowed before the Queen.

One after another, young ladies approached the center of the ballroom—”So-and-so House’s daughter,” “Such-and-such Family’s heiress”—each offering a proper curtsy before returning to her parents with cheeks flushed in a rosy glow.

Some girls, bolder than others, dared to send lingering glances Ricardo’s way. But he wasn’t even looking—too busy watching me, likely to check whether I was upset by his teasing of Margaret.

By the seventh debutante, it became painfully obvious to everyone that Ricardo hadn’t looked away from me once.

No one dared to raise their voice in front of the Queen or ruin their daughter’s moment, but the whispers began to spread like ripples.

Ricardo was already well-known as the illegitimate son of Duke Bastian. Now, on top of that, he’d become a knight—and not just any knight, but the one who had displayed his chivalry by publicly accusing Count Edgar Linton in court. People had even begun to refer to him as the “accuser of the Rosette heiress.”

“Sir Ricardo, stop staring and look ahead,” I muttered quietly through my teeth.

The Queen, master of masking her expressions, didn’t react—but Margaret failed to hold in a laugh, quickly covering it up by pretending to sip her wine.

“There’s nothing else quite as captivating as Lady Cecilia,” Ricardo replied in a low murmur.

If we hadn’t been seated beside the Queen, I probably would’ve sighed and rubbed my temples.

At least he had the sense to keep his voice low enough that no one beyond our small group—Queen, Marchioness Federica, Margaret, and Viscountess Damier—could hear.

Federica was too busy watching her granddaughter, the Queen, with a mix of admiration and concern. The Queen, as always, wore her mask perfectly. And Viscountess Damier, focused on Margaret, had all but erased Ricardo from her awareness.

That left Margaret as the sole, unfortunate witness.

She bent over, shoulders shaking from holding in her laughter, gulping down more wine until she choked.

“Then maybe close your eyes,” I snapped.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ricardo obey, closing his bright gold eyes—the kind that were noticeable even from across the room. From below, it must’ve looked like he was dozing off during a formal presentation.

Margaret was now doubled over, almost collapsing from silent laughter.

Viscountess Damier clicked her tongue and gave Ricardo a sharp glare—her expression making it clear she blamed him for turning her future daughter-in-law into a laughingstock.

“Just look at Cecilia, Ricardo. If one of my attendants appears to be sleeping, it’ll reflect poorly on the Queen,” the Queen said, eyes still fixed on me.

I gave a small nod, and Ricardo opened his eyes with a smile.

“The Young Lady of the House of Rosette!”

The steward announced the eighth debutante.

“Oh my.”

Viscountess Damier gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

Isla stumbled awkwardly into the center of the ballroom, visibly fragile and unsteady.

“I didn’t expect her to actually show up.”

A perfectly Damier-like reaction—prioritizing the family’s reputation above all else. Rosette had clearly played her last card.

Edgar’s trial was still making the papers daily. It might not have been the front page anymore, but Rosette’s name still appeared often enough—especially in the more scandal-driven columns, which detailed how she had bartered her stepdaughter’s dowry in some grand scheme with the Linton household.

“Your Majesty…” Isla began, curtsying—only to lose her balance and fall.

She hit the ground so hard I could practically see the bruise forming beneath her dress.

“The Rosette heiress, is it?”

The Queen, who hadn’t even glanced at the seventh debutante, finally spoke.

“Well. I suppose for now, that’s technically true. Lady Isla, congratulations on your coming-of-age.”

Isla remained where she’d fallen, unable to get up.

I looked around for Rosette, but she was nowhere to be seen.

“Her daughter’s collapsed in front of everyone, and she’s not even here?”

“Shh! Didn’t you hear? The Countess of Rosette wasn’t invited.”

“What? Why?”

“She caused a scandal. One of the Rosette family’s branches submitted annulment papers. They said they couldn’t stay silent any longer.”

The soft background music did little to hide the growing murmurs and mocking snickers.

“But the Count Rosette… passed away.”

“Exactly. With him gone, they only needed to file the papers. Honestly, she was a second wife who insisted on acting like the bearer of the Count’s legacy—it was absurd from the beginning.”

Then it all made sense.

Rosette could no longer legally use the title Countess. But Isla—being the Count’s daughter by blood—was still eligible to be presented.

I looked closely at Isla, who had lost so much weight in just a few days. Then I turned to the Queen.

“Your Majesty, that was the final debutante for this year. We should move on to the next part of the evening.”

Aside from my whisper, the ballroom had fallen into a strange hush. So, my voice, though soft, rang clear.

“I see.”

With a graceful flick of her hand, the Queen signaled the orchestra to switch to a waltz.

The music changed.

Isla looked up at me with disbelief on her face.

If she ever found out the truth…, would she mourn the real Cecilia?

The question came and went like a breeze.

Cecilia was gone now. And everything she had wished for had come true.

I watched Isla as she quietly retreated to the edge of the ballroom, and I wondered:

Was it fair now… to say that the deal I had made with Cecilia had finally come to its end?

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