The Villainous Marquis Is Obsessed With Me

Chapter 82: The Wrong Wing

"If it isn’t my old friend," the man said as he approached the couple, immediately catching their attention as he flashed a deceptively charming smile in their direction.

Penelope stared at the man as he approached.

He was striking, with sleek, raven hair swept back perfectly and sharp, amber eyes that seemed to calculate the exact monetary value of everything they landed on. He was draped in extravagant silks of rich emerald and gold—fabrics far too flamboyant and pristine for a typical Vandalian lord. She was certain he wasn’t a noble from around here.

The man’s gaze flicked to Vincent. "It’s been ages since we last saw each other. Were you enjoying such a good time being married that you no longer wish to step into Valois?"

"I could say the same to you, Marquis Laurent," Vincent replied, his tone cool, flat, and clearly unimpressed by the man’s grand presence.

Marquis Laurent, one of the most powerful and notoriously wealthy power brokers from the grand kingdom of Valois, only chuckled. He adjusted a massive diamond ring on his finger, the gemstone catching the sunlight brilliantly.

"Ah, still as strong-willed as ever. I suppose this beautiful lady is your wife? How rude of you to not introduce me to the new Marchioness." Laurent stepped closer, offering a flawlessly executed, theatrical bow that practically dripped with practiced elegance. His amber eyes locked onto Penelope with an intense, lingering curiosity that bothered her. "Lovely meeting you, My Lady. I am, as one would say, a rather distant friend of your husband."

He straightened once more and looked at Vincent, his gaze lingering just a second too long on Penelope’s face. "Your wife is absolutely breathtaking. This is entirely unfair, Marquis Vincent. You never once mentioned that the women of your kingdom possessed such exquisite beauty. Had I known, I would have paid a visit to Vandalia a long time ago. I suppose I understand now why you chose not to marry Lady Catherine. I wouldn’t either."

Vincent smoothly pulled Penelope to his side by her waist, and he wasn’t smiling any more.

"You are free to visit whenever you like, Laurent," Vincent said, his voice dropping to a dangerously low, calm octave. His gray eyes pinned the Valois noble to the spot, flashing with a clear, lethal warning. "Since you have passed on your greetings, my wife and I shall head inside now."

"Of course," Laurent replied smoothly, raising his hands in a mock gesture of surrender, though the amused glint in his eyes didn’t fade. "I’ll certainly be seeing you around."

Without responding back, Vincent turned, his hand resting firmly on Penelope’s lower back as he guided her away from the Valois Marquis and toward the grand marble steps.

The heat of his palm through her gown was a silent anchor, grounding her against the calculating stares of everyone.

"Is he really a friend of yours?" Penelope whispered as she looked up at Vincent, like she could not believe the words coming out of that man’s mouth.

"Not even close," Vincent replied. "Why?"

Penelope shook her head.

At the top of the steps, the Emperor’s chief herald stood waiting, flanked by four imperial guards in pristine armor. The herald, an older man with a rigid posture and an elaborate ceremonial staff, bowed deeply as the couple approached.

"Marquis Of Vandalia, Marchioness of Vandalia," the herald announced, his voice carrying the practiced, resonant clarity required for royal presentation. "His Imperial Majesty has been eagerly anticipating your arrival. The traveling nobles are being gathered in the Grand Sala before the evening banquet. If you would please follow me."

Vincent simply nodded. "Lead the way."

The heavy, gold-trimmed double doors of the palace were thrown open by the guards. As Penelope stepped over the threshold, the sheer opulence of the imperial interior washed over her. High vaulted ceilings painted with frescoes of ancient battles loomed overhead, and the polished marble floors reflected the light of a hundred crystal chandeliers.

This was far grander than anything Penelope had laid her eyes on, which proved fair, because this was the imperial palace.

As they moved deeper into the grand foyer, Penelope realized that receiving high-ranking international guests at the imperial palace was less of a welcoming ceremony and more of a highly orchestrated theatrical performance. The palace was alive with a rigorous, synchronized chaos.

A small army of imperial servants clad in the palace’s signature blue and silver livery lined the sweeping corridors. As Vincent and Penelope passed, the servants bowed in a perfect, undulating wave, never raising their eyes above the hem of Penelope’s gown.

Before they could even reach the main hall, a high-ranking court official stepped forward, presenting a silver tray that held two exquisite goblets filled with spiced, gilded wine.

"Welcome, Your Lordships. Please accept this traditional offering before proceeding further," the official announced, lowering his head slightly as he extended the tray to bring the goblets within their reach.

Penelope glanced sideways at Vincent, wondering if this was the exact ritual he had warned her about during their carriage ride. Offering spiced wine was a sacred imperial gesture—a symbolic guarantee that the guests were safe under the Emperor’s roof. To refuse it was to publicly question the Emperor’s honor, a fatal mistake for anyone wishing to survive the court.

Watching Vincent smoothly lift his goblet and take a measured sip, Penelope mirrored his movements, copying his precise etiquette with effortless grace.

The court official, satisfied with their compliance, smoothly stepped aside so they could move on with the herald. The chief herald led them toward the Grand Sala, a massive holding chamber where the arriving foreign dignitaries were being meticulously filtered.

"Are you tired?" Vincent asked softly, his gray eyes searching her face as they stepped away from the official. "I can have the herald lead us directly to our quarters instead if you want to get some rest."

Penelope was initially going to tell him she was fine, but if she were entirely honest with herself, the sheer number of high-ranking officials gathered in the distance was making her nervous. She was trying her best to play brave, but the weight of the capital was already heavy. Still, she didn’t want to hold Vincent back from the political duties awaiting him.

"You should go ahead to the Sala first," she said, offering a small, reassuring smile. "I think it wouldn’t matter much if I am absent, but everyone will notice immediately if you aren’t there. I’ll head to our quarters and rest for a bit before the banquet begins."

Vincent nodded without a single complaint. In fact, a look of quiet relief crossed his features. "That is even better. I would prefer to keep you away from these people for as long as possible anyway."

Catching the sudden shift in their direction, the chief herald paused and turned back to look at the couple. Vincent raised a hand, calling out to him with cool authority.

"My Lord?" the herald asked, stepping back toward them with a polite bow. "Is there a problem?"

"The Marchioness is feeling fatigued from the long journey," Vincent commanded smoothly, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. "Have one of your most trusted guides escort her to our assigned quarters immediately. Ensure she is undisturbed until it is time to prepare for the evening banquet."

"Right away, Your Lordship," the chief herald replied, bowing deeply. He turned and gestured sharply to a high-ranking imperial maid waiting nearby. "Take the Marchioness of Vandalia to the Sapphire Wing. See to it that she has everything she requires."

Vincent turned back to Penelope, his expression shifting into something much softer as he took her hand. He brushed his thumb gently over her knuckles, his gray eyes locking onto hers.

"Go get some rest, Penny," he murmured, his voice low and private.

Penelope offered a small, grateful smile, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. "I will. Do not let them keep you too long."

With a final, reassuring squeeze of her hand, Vincent stepped back and turned toward the sala with the chief herald.

"This way, My Lady," the maid said respectfully, keeping her head lowered as she gestured down a quieter, sunlit corridor. Penelope took a deep breath and followed her guide toward the sanctuary of her private quarters.

The imperial maid walked a precise half-step ahead of Penelope, her soft leather slippers clicking rhythmically against the pristine marble. As they left the bustling grand foyer behind, the oppressive hum of the arriving nobility faded, replaced by the tranquil, echoing quiet of the palace’s residential corridors.

The architecture here shifted from intimidating grandeur to a more refined, breathtaking luxury. The high walls were lined with towering arched windows that overlooked the inner palace gardens, bathing the hallway in warm, golden afternoon light.

"We are entering the Sapphire Wing now, My Lady," the maid murmured politely, her voice trained to a quiet, soothing cadence. "This wing is reserved exclusively for the most distinguished guests of His Imperial Majesty. The House of Aelgard has occupied these specific chambers for generations whenever visiting the capital."

Penelope observed her surroundings as they walked. Despite maintaining her composure, she could not completely hide her awe.

Unlike the vibrant reds and golds of the main palace, this wing was decorated in calming hues of deep navy, silver, and cream. Heavy, sapphire-blue velvet drapes hung from the windows, tied back with braided silver cords, and exquisite oil paintings of the empire’s coastlines lined the walls.

As they turned at the end of a sun-drenched corridor, they almost bumped into someone who was also making a sharp turn. The sudden near-collision made Penelope and the maid startle backward.

"Oh, m-my apologies," the woman quickly said, though her voice held a practiced lightness rather than genuine shock.

Penelope looked up, immediately realizing this was no servant. The young lady was exquisitely dressed in layers of pastel silk that shivered with every breath, her hair styled prettily with delicate pearl pins. She was undeniably beautiful, but as her eyes swept over Penelope, a brief, calculating sharpness flickered beneath her long lashes before vanishing behind a soft smile.

"I-I was on my way out," the lady said, smoothing down her skirts with a delicate chuckle that sounded a bit too airy. "When you’re in a huge palace, you tend to miss your way along one of these corridors. I was on my way to the Sala when I missed my route. I’ll be on my way now."

She gave Penelope a small, polite nod, but her gaze lingered heavily on the unique embroidery of Penelope’s gown—and the unmistakable direction she was heading—before she turned and hurried off down the hall.

Penelope watched her retreating figure, an uneasy feeling settling in her chest. The lady had sounded perfectly sweet and apologetic, yet there was a subtle, lingering coldness to her demeanor, as if she had been looking for something—or someone—in this exact wing.

"My Lady?" the maid murmured, gaining Penelope’s attention once more . "We should proceed to your quarters."