The Villainess is the Villainess [LitRPG]

Book 2: Chapter 28 - Entrance [Part 1]

"Never be the first to arrive at a party or the last to go home, and never, never be both."

- David Brown.

Hughes perched himself on the edge of a plush seat, his back painfully straight as he tried, and failed, to appear at ease. A steaming cup of chamomile tea rattled softly in its saucer beneath his trembling fingertips. He could scarcely believe his fortune. To be in Lady Seraphina's sitting room, enjoying tea at her invitation, felt like the stuff of impossible dreams. Of course, it wasn't precisely the Lady herself who poured the tea—her maid, Miriam, did the honors with an expert's grace and skill—but Hughes allowed his mind to gloss over such trivial details. He had seized upon the certainty that life rewards those who take a bold chance, and here he was, living proof.

He cleared his throat, attempting to control the quiver in his voice. "You look… very lovely, Seraphina," he managed, feeling the words stumble from his mouth.

The moment he spoke her name so plainly, the two attendants, her lady-in-waiting and Miriam, visibly bristled at the bold informality. In contrast, Seraphina's expression remained as flawlessly serene as a becalmed lake. Of late, she had grown accustomed to Hughes addressing her in that casual manner, and it had grown into a practiced indulgence.

In the back of his mind, Hughes knew that any complimentary remarks on her beauty were probably futile. He could only imagine how many times she had been praised, courted, and lauded for her exquisite looks. The boy needed something fresh, something that would stand out.

Gathering his courage, he tried to quickly follow up. "I mean, well, you are, too, but that dress you're wearing—it's quite beautiful and very well made. Did you… Did you make it yourself?"

Even before the words fully emerged, he cringed internally at his poor delivery. In addition, he knew how absurd it was to ask a highborn noble if she had personally tailored her own gown. Still, the words had fled his mouth now, and there was no taking them back.

To his surprise, Seraphina's face lit up, a small but radiant smile curving her lips. "You think so?" she said lightly, reflecting on how, at the very least, Hughes had a keen eye and good taste. "I designed the cut myself for less formal occasions—something simple, easy to move in, yet still rather striking." She flicked her gaze appraisingly over him, then added, "Which leads me to my next point… what do you intend to wear to the Ball tonight?"

"The Ball?" His brows knitted together in confusion, heart pounding as it dawned on him that he had given no thought to the evening's festivities. "I… I wasn't planning on going at all."

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Seraphina shook her head, an indulgent yet faintly impatient sigh escaping her. "That will not do, Hughes, because I expect you to escort me this evening."

She was quickly coming to the conclusion that she had been given very poor clay to work with—the type of clay that was likely to crack or bend out of shape in the fire of the kiln.

"Escort… you?" The words stuck in his throat, and he forced them out with a croak. His mind whirled, eyes widening.

She arched a delicate brow. "Yes. You do remember asking me about a week ago, don't you?" she teased, pouting her lips in mock disappointment. "You were so gallant, so earnest in your request… I simply could not say no, but it seems you've forgotten all about it. I do think I will get quite cross if you truly have forgotten."

A bolt of cold sweat formed at Hughes's temple as he realized his memory had betrayed him. How could he have possibly failed to recall such a monumental occasion? He both cursed and praised his fickle mind. In any other situation, discovering such a lapse in memory would be horrifying, but in this instance, it was as if fate had graciously rewritten the story of his life to grant him the chance many would die for. He had apparently asked Lady Seraphina de Sariens, the most dazzling, most sought-after girl in the kingdom, to accompany him to the Ball, and she had said yes.

"Yes, of course," he blurted, striving for a polished tone that he could not quite master.

Even as he spoke, his imagination roamed far ahead. He pictured an entire future with her—managing her sprawling estates, raising two or three bright-eyed children who would surely inherit her poise and beauty. It was so easy to get swept away in the fantasy that he nearly forgot Seraphina was still talking.

"Which brings us back to the matter at hand," she said, tapping a manicured finger against her saucer. "You must find something suitable to wear. I can't very well have you on my arm if you show up dressed like a pauper."

Her words stirred him from his reverie. "Of course," he responded, his voice awkwardly stiff as he attempted to disguise his mounting excitement. Hughes felt as if he were floating in a dream.

Seraphina gestured toward the door with a languid wave. "Milly will escort you into town. You simply must find proper attire—and quickly. Milly, do take Ibn with you as well; you'll likely need someone to carry your purchases. It will be good for him."

Her maid Miriam narrowed her eyes, as though silently questioning Seraphina's judgment. Nevertheless, she dipped her head in a shallow display of obedience, then stepped forward, her posture rigid. Before Hughes could utter a word of thanks or confusion, Miriam seized him firmly by the arm. The contrast between her polite smile and the iron grip on his elbow was startling.

"This way, Master Hughes," she said through gritted teeth, giving him a not-so-gentle tug. "Time works against us."

As he allowed himself to be guided, almost dragged, across the threshold, Hughes could not help but cast one last, longing glance back at Lady Seraphina. She sipped her tea, a faint smile playing on her lips, and offered him a graceful, encouraging nod that made his heart flutter. He felt as if he were walking on clouds, convinced that fate had spun a fantastic tapestry, and he had somehow waltzed into the center of it.

There were simply some fates that should not be fought against.