The Villainess's Secret Bedroom Service
Chapter 69: A Trembling Shoulder

Chapter 69: A Trembling Shoulder

The crescent moon cast a solitary gleam upon the black expanse of the star-deprived canvas of the sky, granting the night’s profound obscurity dominion over the cold and tranquil forest.

A tall figure, garbed in black attire, dismounted from his ebony stallion, his gaze swiveling toward a towering pine tree to his right as if anticipating to witness something of great importance. Progressing with measured strides, he halted beside the robust trunk as the similar dark silhouette of another form materialized stealthily from the veiled shelter of an adjacent tree—a counterpart dressed in akin attire, a line of jet fabric obscuring the lower half of his face. The large, wide hood of his lengthy cloak draped across his features, casting an ominous shade.

The two figures confronted each other with subtle quiet nods amidst the prevailing stillness of the night, and after a brief extension of the silence, the second man started, his voice hoarse and low,

"My Lord."

"Has everything been set in motion?"

Another subtle nod of the second figure’s head sufficed for an answer.

"Indeed. The barbarian faction has dispatched their sage. We have been apprised that his mastery of dark arts is noteworthy, granted the prerequisite span for the preparatory rite."

The first enigmatic man raised his head toward the deep black sky, his dark crimson gaze momentarily agleam as the gentle moonlight’s silver luminescence grazed them. He then rejoined the conversation, his tone turning serious and cold,

"Employ every means necessary to ensure triumph."

"Of course, Your Excellency."

Accompanying his gesture with another nuanced nod, the second man dissolved into the encompassing obscurity of the forest, leaving his companion to solitude. Alone, the first man lingered, his masked face still oriented toward the waning moon. A protracted exhalation, steeped in fatigue, escaped his lips as he swept his hand across his black cloak’s hood, allowing his long ebony locks to break free from their enshrouded sanctuary. Gradually, he shut his deep scarlet eyes and curled his lips into a wide smile tinged with ominousness.

"This year, they will all be there... and unwittingly assume the roles of lambs led to the slaughter."

***

Within the confines of her bedroom, Rosalie paced ceaselessly, her gaze of deep gray cast upon the large ticking clock adorning the wall. A palpable restlessness brewed within her as time moved with deliberate yet imminent speed. Last night she was full of resolve to talk to Damien about the Harvest Festival and was undeniably happy to realize that the confidence did not wear off even after long hours of sleep only to grow disappointed by the fact that the duke had to spend the entire day confined in the Imperial Palace which left Rosalie with no choice but to wait his return.

However, the impending commencement of the Harvest Festival, scheduled for the next day, compounded the sense of expectancy that pervaded the air, and a peculiar blend of anticipation mixed with an ever-intensifying undercurrent of anxiety was gnawing upon the deepest corners of Lady Ashter’s being.

At last, just when Rosalie was already about to give up all hope, a light knocking sounds echoed through the bedroom, followed by Sir Logan’s low voice,

"Pardon my intrusion, My Lady, but I have been informed that His Grace has returned from the Imperial Palace. He proceeded directly to his quarters."

Stricken as if by a bolt of lightning, Rosalie surged toward the door and with a single, forceful motion, swung it open, propelled by the impulsive urgency as if she were running away from the dangers of fire. In contrast, Sir Logan’s eyes widened, registering profound astonishment at the unexpected behavior displayed by Rosalie. Reacting instinctively, his arm extended as though to intercept her, nearly screaming at the top of his lungs,

"Wait, Lady Rosalie! His Grace is presently in the midst of bathing!"

Unfortunately, the girl had already ventured beyond earshot of his cautionary words.

A surge of elation, coupled with an engulfing tide of enthusiasm, burnt within Rosalie, a surprising mix of emotions that both elevated her spirits and cast a fleeting shadow upon her mental clarity. At the peak of this surge, she neared Damien’s chamber, and did not even notice that she invited herself in without even asking for permission, nearly breaking into the duke’s bedroom with a loud yet enthusiastic greeting escaping her smiling pinkish lips,

"Your Grace!"

Surprisingly, she encountered naught but a void and silence in response to her lively exclamation. Damien’s chamber lay shrouded in serenity, a solitary ambiance fostered by the soft glow of dimmed lighting, casting minuscule, whimsical shadows upon the lofty, eggshell-hued walls.

Lady Ashter slowly looked around the room, still not entirely convinced that it was empty, and awkwardly scratched her right temple, feeling slightly embarrassed by such a discouraging turn of events along with her own rushed behavior.

"Hmm? Logan mentioned he was in his bedroom, and I even see his uniform jacket lying on the bed... Has he already gone somewhere else?"

Slightly disappointed, Rosalie turned around, prepared to leave the room when a faint yet strange noise reached her ears, emanating from the ajar door of the adjacent bathroom.

’Ah, so he is taking a bath. Well, I suppose I have no other choice but to wait again. What is another hour added to the mix anyway?’

Having no desire to be caught and accused of indecent behavior, the girl was already retracing her steps to exit the bedroom when a renewed, now more unsettling and audibly muffled noise—akin to a suppressed animalistic groan—emerged from the confines of the bathroom, prompting her to halt, her face acquiring a shade of genuine concern.

"Your Grace?"

Rosalie waited, hoping to hear a reassuring reply which, however, did not follow, and as her anxiety began to soar with each passing second of silence, she cleared her throat and asked louder,

"Your Grace? Forgive me, I did not know you were taking a bath. Is everything alright? Should I call someone to help you?"

Once again, her concern was left without a verbal reply. Instead, Damien let out another miserable groan that echoed through the bathroom like a thunderstrike. Now unfathomably concerned, Lady Ashter rushed toward the bathroom door, shouting an incomprehensive apology along the way only to make an abrupt stop upon seeing Damien sitting naked inside the large wide bathtub, hunched, and covering his face with both hands, trembling and flinching as his body was struggling to refill its lungs with rapid, shallow breathing.

Rosalie took another step toward the bathtub, her hand stretching out to reach the duke’s trembling shoulder, and asked again, her tone losing confidence with each new word,

"Your Grace? Is everything ––"