The Villainess's Secret Bedroom Service
Chapter 85: I Should Be The One, Not You

Chapter 85: I Should Be The One, Not You

Damien leaned back into the embrace of his comfortable black couch, situated in the heart of his study. He indulged in a generous sip of Northern red wine, all the while casually skimming through a substantial stack of documents held firmly in his right hand. The sheer volume of work he faced already weighed heavily upon him, considering the daunting preparations for the impending military campaign. Adding to this already substantial challenge was an unexpected ordeal – his own wedding. And not just to anyone, but to Lady Rosalie Ashter.

As his thoughts drifted towards his soon-to-be bride, Damien couldn’t help but recollect their last conversation at his parents’ gravesite. A familiar, vexing pang gripped his heart, constricting it with the thorny tendrils of remorse. Reflecting upon the way he had handled their discussion left a bitter taste in his mouth. Regardless of his anger or frustration, directing it at Lady Ashter had been a deplorable choice. The mere image of leaving his fiancée alone in the rain, standing before his parents’ tombstones, sent unsettling shivers down his spine.

"I am utterly exhausted. No matter what I do, regardless of how hard I work, it never ends."

With careless disregard, he tossed the stack of documents onto the coffee table beside him and wearily rubbed his face with both hands, releasing a suppressed, almost animalistic groan.

"How heartless of you, Your Majesty, to send me away right after the wedding. Lady Rosalie was right all along – perhaps not marrying would have been the wiser choice. At least for her."

Damien squeezed his stinging eyes shut, attempting to soothe his racing mind. He could not comprehend why his heart felt so restless these days. He had been dispatched to countless battlefields before, never experiencing such an overwhelming sense of unease that now engulfed him like an unrelenting avalanche. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, he genuinely yearned to return from the battlefield alive. The anticipation of the battle’s end was almost unbearable.

"I should make things right... I should talk to her tomorrow during breakfast. I do not want to leave her like this. She deserves to be treated better."

His train of thought was abruptly derailed by the distant rumble of a carriage approaching his manor. Startled by this unexpected and unannounced visit, Damien rose to his feet and strode toward the tall window behind his desk. There, he noticed a familiar golden pattern adorning the pristine white carriage which belonged to the Holy Temple, and which never failed to radiate a distinctive white glow, even beneath the thick dark veil of the rainy night.

The duke’s eyes widened even further as he observed Revered Altair descending the sturdy steps of the coach, holding none other than Lady Rosalie Ashter in his strong embrace. As if ignited by a peculiar sense of urgency, Damien nearly let his drink slip from his grasp and dashed out of his study, his hurried footsteps resonating through the hushed mansion hall, akin to the thunderous steps of a giant.

As he rushed down the grand staircase, he spotted Altair quietly moving through the mansion’s corridor. In his state of emotional tumult, Damien instinctively parted his lips, ready to greet Altair, however, Altair swiftly shook his head, evidently signaling that it would be wiser for His Grace to maintain silence.

"Do not worry, Your Grace. Lady Rosalie is merely resting. She dozed off in the Imperial Library, so I took it upon myself to ensure her safe return to your mansion."

Altair’s voice was low, yet cautious, and for some inexplicable reason, Damien found it oddly irksome as a visible shade of displeasure crept across his otherwise handsome face. The duke took another step toward the Priest’s disciple, extending his arms as if anticipating the presentation of a substantial gift.

"I see. Thank you for bringing her back, Your Holiness, as always, you continue to assist us both in various ways. Now, let me take Her Ladyship back to her room. Myself."

The unmistakable undercurrent of hostility in Damien’s voice caused Altair to pause momentarily. However, regardless of his annoyance or disdain for the duke, or his strong desire to hold Rosalie just a few minutes longer, practicality dictated that defying Damien’s command was an unreasonable course of action. Thus, Altair found himself with no option but to cave in.

With deliberate care, Altair placed Lady Ashter’s slumbering form into Damien’s sturdy embrace. He accepted Damien’s somewhat begrudging nod as his farewell and watched the duke resolutely ascend the staircase. As Damien’s footsteps faded away, Altair could not help but hear the frantic beat of his own heart in his ears.

"Good night, Rosalie."

He whispered softly into the quiet, his voice heavy with unspoken emotions, then turned around, and left just as empty-hearted as he arrived.

***

As Damien silently made his way toward his fiancée’s room, an unsettling restlessness tugged at him once more. Ever since their encounter in the Imperial Gardens, Lady Rosalie had a tendency to find herself asleep in his arms. What confounded him even more, was his complete lack of resentment toward this recurring scenario.

The sensation of Rosalie’s delicate form, the enchanting fragrance of her body and tousled locks, proved overwhelmingly delightful. It held an inexplicable allure, drawing him nearer with an almost irresistible force. His face seemed to lean in of its own accord, as if guided by an invisible symphony of strings. As his glistening golden eyes fell upon her chest, veiled by the cascade of her brown locks, he noticed a book tightly clutched in her own hand.

His curiosity piqued, Damien gently brushed aside a strand of Rosalie’s hair, and his eyes widened as they settled upon the title of the book she held.

’The Sacred Book of Satisfaction?!’

Suddenly, a surge of warmth enveloped Damien’s entire body, and his face flushed a bright shade of crimson. His gaze returned to the peaceful countenance of the sleeping Rosalie, her features radiating an undisturbed serenity. Unconsciously, he released a long, exasperated sigh, as if he were a volcano struggling to suppress an impending eruption.

’Why is she engrossed in such literature? Could it be... in preparation for our wedding night?’

The audacious thought flitted across the duke’s mind, prompting him to vigorously shake his head in an attempt to banish such lascivious musings. With tender care, he gently laid Rosalie upon her bed, ensuring she was snugly ensconced beneath a soft, billowing blanket.

His hand instinctively reached for the book once more, delicately extricating it from Lady Ashter’s lax grasp. After scrutinizing it for a few contemplative moments, Damien let out an irritated huff, using his hand to wipe the mild perspiration from his forehead as his gaze returned to Rosalie’s tranquil face.

’If anything, Lady Rosalie... I should be the one perusing this tome, not you.’