Chapter 58: Bread, Pride, and Unwelcome Kindness
Chapter 57: Bread, Pride, and Unwelcome Kindness
Lyria’s POV
Corvin’s words lingered in the kitchen.
I felt my fingers curl slowly into my palms, though I forced my face to remain perfectly composed. Years of service had taught me that silence was often safer than pride.
But I also couldn’t deny that I felt this extreme urge to hit him across the cheek so he might return to his senses... if he had any at all.
Before I could decide whether to reply or simply retreat with what dignity I had left, Baron Redwick spoke.
"Marquess Hale," he said evenly, "I believe that everyone deserves to eat when they are hungry."
Corvin rolled his eyes in a manner that would have earned a reprimand from any governess in the kingdom.
"Since when," he asked dryly, "did you become so exceedingly charitable?"
He folded his arms across his broad chest, the movement shifting the loose linen shirt he wore. The garment was clearly meant for sleep rather than society, the collar unlaced and the sleeves rolled to his forearms. The candlelight caught in the pale strands of his tied-back hair, making it gleam like dull gold.
"From what I know of you," Corvin continued, "your interests seldom extend beyond those endless researches of yours. People rarely feature within them."
Baron Redwick did not appear offended.
If anything, he looked thoughtful.
His spectacles slid slightly down the bridge of his nose as he considered the remark.
"My researches are indeed important to me," he said at length, adjusting the frames with one finger. "However, I also happen to rule over a territory, Marquess Hale."
He paused, glancing briefly toward the hearth, where the cook stirred a pot with patient resignation.
"If I did not care for the people within my lands," the Baron went on, "then those lands would not prosper. In fact, they would not exist as anything worth ruling at all. My investment in the welfare of those beneath my governance is not philanthropy. It is simply the basic obligation of anyone entrusted with authority over others."
Corvin scoffed loudly.
"That sounds very noble of you," he said. "Though I cannot help wondering how a baron has come to feel so comfortable challenging a marquess."
The remark hung in the air.
For the first time since the conversation had begun, Baron Redwick looked genuinely taken aback.
It showed in small ways rather than dramatic ones.
A faint stillness entered his posture.
And a thin vein appeared at his temple, pulsing once beneath the skin.
Baron Redwick drew in a measured breath.
"I was not aware," he said quietly, "that belittling others had become a necessary qualification for those seeking the princess’s hand."
His voice was polite as he spoke.
"I had believed, perhaps foolishly, that men of standing were expected to conduct themselves with a degree of decorum befitting the occasion," Baron Redwick said. "I thought better of you, Marquess Hale. It appears I misjudged."
Corvin gave another short scoff.
He seemed almost amused.
I, however, felt the tension gathering like a tightening rope.
Baron Redwick turned away from him then, his attention shifting back to me with a gentleness that felt oddly misplaced in the middle of such a confrontation.
"Pay the Marquess no mind," he said simply. "He appears to be in poor temper this evening."
His expression had softened, the stern intelligence of his green eyes giving way to something far more considerate.
"I, for one," he continued, "am quite familiar with the discomfort of hunger. It has an unfortunate habit of making even the most patient mind restless."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"As I mentioned earlier, I am not your master. You are under no obligation to behave as though I were."
He gestured toward the cook.
"If you remain a moment longer, I am certain the man will have something ready soon."
The kindness in his tone felt almost unreal.
Especially when contrasted with the disdain radiating from Corvin beside him.
I dipped into a small bow.
"Thank you, Baron Redwick," I said sincerely. "Your kindness is greatly appreciated. But truly, I only came for an apple."
The Marquess made a derisive sound at that.
"An apple," he repeated, with the particular inflection of a man who had decided to find something amusing and was not bothering to disguise it. "Yes. I am quite certain that is precisely what brought her down here."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Though I suspect the apple in question was not intended to be asked for."
The accusation stung far more than it should have.
Baron Redwick frowned.
"Marquess Hale," he said, his patience thinning, "if you intend to remain unpleasant company, then perhaps you ought to take your leave."
Corvin’s brows rose.
After a brief pause, the Baron added mildly,
"You have already shown me the way to the kitchens, after all."
Corvin’s eyes narrowed at that.
"You forget yourself, Baron," he said softly. "I am a Marquess. You would do well not to address me as though I were beneath you."
"I address you," the Baron replied, staring directly at Corvin, "as one gentleman addresses another when the behaviour of said gentleman has become tiresome. I do not believe that requires a title for either party."
Corvin tried to speak when the Baron spoke up, interrupting him calmly. He was quite subtle about it because Corvin had only just opened his mouth before the Baron continued speaking, his attention on me.
"I suspect," he said calmly, "that all this commotion has rather ruined your appetite. Still, if you are determined to take something, I would recommend bread rather than an apple."
He tapped his chin thoughtfully.
"And perhaps a little soup to go with it. The manner in which your stomach announced itself earlier," he continued, "leads me to believe you are rather more hungry than you are willing to admit."
I stared at him in shock. His kindness felt almost bewildering.
Especially when Corvin remained only a few feet away, watching with open irritation.
The contrast between them was so stark it almost felt deliberate.
I opened my mouth to protest.
"That is not necessary, my lord—"
"I insist."
Baron Redwick spoke the words gently, yet they carried the quiet firmness of command.
"No one deserves to retire for the night with an empty stomach, after all."
His gaze flicked briefly toward Corvin.
"Even when the company present happens to be... somewhat disagreeable."
