Chapter 24

Had the intimacy of their midnight conversation meant nothing to him?

Had his kindness merely been a prelude to this public mockery?

No, Elwin’s instincts insisted that Leon was not so craven a hypocrite.

Then why?

A sharp ache blossomed in his chest, and his eyes stung with threatening tears. He quickly lowered his head to hide his face.

At that moment, Leon loosed an easy shrug, his expression perfectly relaxed. “I must confess, for the sake of my own conscience: I, too, had the milk poured into my cup first just now.”

At his playful confession, the ladies surrounding Leon dissolved into bright, charmed titters. To Elwin, however, the words were far from a jest. Leon was shielding him.

An instant warmth bloomed in the chest that had frozen solid moments before. Now, overwhelmed by the sudden reversal, Elwin felt his eyes prickle with a different sort of tear. He quickly looked up at the summer sky, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

“Oh, Mr. Leon,” one lady purred, leaning closer. “You display such a magnificent gemstone upon your watch chain, yet your palate is so remarkably modest?”

“On the contrary, my lady,” Leon countered smoothly. “In the capital, this is currently the height of fashion. Her Majesty the Queen herself prefers her tea brewed with the milk poured first.”

Instead of launching into a dry academic lecture on tariffs, trade balances, or porcelain thermal shock, Leon summoned the exact words guaranteed to captivate provincial high society. The mention of the capital, and more potently, the Queen, sent an immediate ripple through the gathering. Ravenwell was a prosperous and lively territory, but it remained a provincial backwater compared to the capital. The local youth coveted metropolitan trends and desperate connections to the court.

After exchanging furtive glances, several guests hastily drained their cups, set their spoons down, and pointedly signaled Frederick for a refill. When the fresh round arrived, the guests seemed to have collectively agreed to request the milk first. Even Frederick, his face darkening with intense displeasure as he poured, hesitated over his own cup before reluctantly splashing the milk in first.

How astonishingly shallow they are, Elwin thought, watching the spectacle with quiet irony.

“Mr. Leon,” a young gentleman chimed in, “is it true that the main thoroughfares of the capital are illuminated by gas lamps even through the night?”

“Indeed,” Leon replied. “Many establishments remain bustling until dawn.”

“And have you resided in the capital all this time? What business brings you to Ravenwell?”

“I did not travel directly from the capital…”

The allure of the capital was potent. The ladies flanking Leon had been captivated by his opulent jewels from the start, and they now coquetted openly, offering soft, fluttering smiles.

It was the picture of a harmonious garden party, yet Elwin’s mood remained clouded. His gaze, drifting repeatedly toward Leon, grew distinctly sullen. Why did his emotions swing so violently? The heart that had thawed at a single word from the Alpha now simmered with a bizarre, prickly irritation as he watched Leon charm the surrounding ladies. Leon’s effortless magnetism only served to make Elwin feel terribly small and shabby by comparison.

“I merely encountered them by chance at the port and decided to travel together,” Leon remarked, smoothly redirecting the spotlight when the female attention grew too suffocating. “Lord Dwight and I frequented the same public school, you see.”

He gestured toward Dwight, whose expression had indeed begun to sour as he found himself sidelined.

“Ah! St. Aldwyn’s College!” a lady exclaimed. “Is that correct, Lord Dwight?”

Sensing the spotlight return, Dwight’s chest swelled with pride. “Indeed. Are there any other alumni of St. Aldwyn’s present today?”

But Elwin noticed something peculiar. For a fraction of a second, Leon’s eyes swept the table, tracking the guests’ reactions with intense, guarded scrutiny—almost as though he were praying no genuine alumnus would speak up. Fortunately for Leon, the local gentlemen shook their heads in regret.

“Alas, no. In these parts, most families send their sons to nearby institutions, if not directly to the capital.”

It was indeed unusual for a capital resident to attend a provincial school in the south. Why had Leon traveled so far south for his education? Moreover, his accent was pristine metropolitan, lacking any trace of southern inflection. Elwin honed his attention, hanging on every word.

“I have relatives in that province,” Frederick interjected with an air of calculated intimacy. “Did the catastrophic fire that consumed the historic school building occur during your tenure, Lord Dwight?”

“Ah, do not speak of that dreadful affair,” Dwight laughed, a rare show of lightheartedness. “Every term paper I had submitted was reduced to ash. I endured absolute misery rewriting those reports.”

Amidst the general laughter, the young lady seated beside Leon leaned in close. “Mr. Leon, were you at the college during the fire? Were you harmed?”

“Ah… yes,” Leon replied, his tone curiously detached. “The devastation was immense. Even the library lost a vast portion of its collection.”

To Elwin’s ears, the response lacked the visceral weight of someone who had actually witnessed the tragedy. Dwight, however, remained oblivious to the subtle discrepancy and continued pompously.

“Leon was not of noble birth, so he would have been housed in one of the commoner residences—perhaps Merlin House or Briar. He would have been spared the sight of the academic halls burning.”

“So you were in different houses, then,” a guest noted.

“We were,” Leon smoothly assented, offering polished flattery. “Yet Lord Dwight’s academic prowess was so legendary that his reputation preceded him across the entire campus.”

The smooth deflection only deepened Elwin’s suspicion.

They did not know each other at school. Lord Dwight does not even recognize him.

The realization hit him like a physical blow: the sole proof of Leon’s enrollment at St. Aldwyn’s was his own unverified claim. So absorbed was Elwin in this shocking revelation that when he set down his teacup, his fingers slipped. The teaspoon resting on the saucer clattered, splashing dark, reddish-brown tea directly onto his pristine white jacket.

Elwin stared in mounting panic as the stain blossomed across the fabric.

Before he could react, the Alpha seated to his right—who had maintained a smug silence until now—sneered mockingly.

“What a tragedy. To think you exerted such pains to deck yourself out, despite your family’s… straitened circumstances.”

Elwin blinked in disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”

“Seeing you scramble to deck yourself in such finery the moment the new count arrives,” the Alpha on his left added, his voice dripping with venom, “one can only conclude your intentions are transparent.”

Elwin immediately understood the source of their malice.

When these two Alphas had separately arrived at his family manor to propose, Elwin had been wearing his canvas gardening coat on both occasions, his hands still caked with soil. He had rejected them on the spot, not even bothering to wash his hands or receive them properly.

From his perspective, their sudden suits had been an insolent surprise. Custom dictated a period of formal courtship or familial negotiation, yet these two had arrived uninvited, specifically choosing days when his father was away. Their pitches had been identical: a patronizing offer to rescue the failing house of the count.

Alfred had seethed, demanding to know what manner of boorish men behaved so disgracefully, while Toby blustered on about how utterly exhausting life must be for a beautiful Omega. Yet Elwin had remained completely indifferent. For them to lay the blame on him now was entirely irrational.

What on earth are they whispering about? I could hardly present myself at an elegant tea party wearing a jacket smeared with soil.

As Elwin groped for a response, the two Alphas continued their mocking banter.

“And what purpose do fine clothes serve anyway?” the first scoffed. “The Count sits miles away.”

“Indeed,” the second chimed in, “but is it truly fitting for a gentleman to glower at those ladies with such envious eyes?”

“Well, Sir Elwin is an Omega, so I suppose gentlemanly decorum is quite beyond his concern. Ha ha.”

Their snickering grated on his nerves, yet it brought a sudden, jarring revelation: they were operating under a ludicrous misunderstanding. Admittedly, he longed to make a favorable impression on Dwight, and yes, Dwight was currently enveloped by a circle of ladies. Yet his gaze had drifted toward that corner of the garden not for Dwight’s sake, but out of concern for Leon. To be precise, his eyes had been anchored solely on Leon.

Wait… do they believe I am jealous over Mr. Leon?

The notion was preposterous. Granted, he had not particularly enjoyed watching Leon converse so amiably with those ladies earlier, and a pang of plainness had stung him when comparing himself to them—but jealousy? Out of the question.

“Pardon me,” Elwin said, rising abruptly from the table. “I must wash my hands.”

If he remained a moment longer, he feared he might actually scream that he was not, under any circumstances, jealous. Clutching his dignity, Elwin fled his seat and sought refuge in the manor’s washroom.

Fortunately, a vigorous scrubbing with his handkerchief faded the stain on his jacket until it vanished from view. Quieting the frantic hammering of his heart, however, proved a far more sluggish endeavor. He drew several deep, stabilizing breaths, lingering in the quiet corridor to stall for time before forcing himself back outside. Yet the garden stretched out in a needlessly sprawling expanse; hindered by his poor vision, he had to navigate his way back by tracing the silhouette of the decorative stone arch near the table.

As he drew near, the idle murmur of high-society gossip drifted through the air.

“So Mr. Leon hails from Savar!” a voice chimed. “Is that not the very region where the late Count Ravenwell was reputedly operating his mining venture?”

At the sudden mention of his father, Elwin froze in his tracks.

“Indeed,” another voice replied, dripping with condescension. “But did that venture ever truly bear fruit? The foreign mine magnates splashed across the papers are invariably fabulously wealthy, yet the Ravenwell estate as it stands today…”

A wave of muted snickers rippled through the gathering, a collective sneer at his family’s financial ruin.

Admittedly, the Ravenwell household was desperately strapped for funds, but their mockery was born of sheer, unadulterated ignorance.

Any enterprise grand enough to attract press attention typically demanded five or six years of cultivation. The Ravenwells had embarked on this endeavor a mere two years ago.

The grueling phase of initial investment was nearly complete; had circumstances remained favorable, the venture would have just begun to yield profits. Of course, his father’s sudden demise had cast a shadow of uncertainty over everything.

The financial administrator promised to settle the share disputes locally, Elwin mused silently. I wonder what has become of it now…

While he lingered in the shadows of his thoughts, the guests continued to dissect his family’s plight.

“At any rate, the current state of affairs is highly irregular,” a guest remarked. “The new Count must be drowning in worry. Once Sir Dwight officially succeeds, I am certain he will restore proper order to the estate.”