Chapter 12-oh，Charlotte
Margaret walked barefoot directly to the bathroom to take a shower. Her appearance was clearly not quite normal, with disheveled hair, a skirt stained with wet spots, and high heels nowhere to be found.
But the maids in the house wouldn't conjure up any improper images. They only thought that Miss Margaret had been scolded by Mrs. White again. If not Mrs. White, then Miss had probably messed up something in the magic laboratory — such incidents had happened several times before anyway.
No one thought Margaret would behave any more out of line.
Under the steaming shower, the Duke's daughter washed away the sticky pale red semen between her legs. There were a few finger marks on her waist, but no broken skin; it seemed Damon had shown restraint, never using sharp nails to touch her.
Margaret ran her hand over her waist, still able to feel the warmth of the orc's palm.
White magic had healing spells. Without the need for magical potions, a brief incantation could heal simple injuries. However, the essence of magic was to draw upon the light elements in the air, and the light elements on this continent were pitifully scarce. This meant that using white magic directly required a great deal of mental energy.
So, most mages preferred to study medicines. After all, one of the main functions of white magic was to treat injuries and illnesses.
Margaret didn't need medication for the faint marks on her body. She walked to the dressing room and picked out the least fabric-heavy nightgown from a row of conservatively styled ones. Even so, after putting it on, the ruffled hem covered her knees.
Margaret glanced around. The room was filled with clothing of the same style. Elegant, dignified, modest, and plain. She seemed to see countless versions of herself, from childhood to the present.
The window on the third floor opened a moment later. Several maids were surprised to see a girl in a nightgown emerge from the dressing room, walk through the corridor, and toss a pile of clothes downstairs. Those gorgeous dresses, scarves, and hats all floated down lightly and landed in a thorn-covered rose bush.
She refused any help and made over a dozen trips back and forth before standing outside the empty dressing room and saying softly,
"I don't like these clothes."
The statement seemed like an explanation to everyone and yet also like a soliloquy.
The next morning, Margaret arranged for several tailors specializing in noble attire to come to the house. Mrs. White sat in the conservatory, listening to the servants' reports, not paying much attention to her daughter's unusual behavior.
"She's just feeling uneasy, with only three months left until the wedding. It's perfectly normal," Mrs. White said. "Besides, the first prince's birthday is approaching, and there will be a ball at the palace. Margaret should prepare some proper dresses."
As she spoke, she frowned.
Mrs. White had not attended balls for many years, but her husband, as the Minister of Finance of the Eastern Holy Land, would inevitably have to attend. Choosing a gift for the prince had to be done carefully; it couldn't make the White family seem like they were flaunting their wealth, nor could it seem dull and uninteresting.
It was a draining task, one that the Duke of Russell probably hadn't even thought about, so she needed to prepare in advance.
When Damon entered the room, there was barely any space to step.
The tailors had already left. Benches, stools, tabletops, and clothes racks were all piled with various silks and satins. Velvet jewelry boxes were casually strewn about, lids open to reveal dazzling gemstone necklaces, brooches, and earrings.
Margaret sat in an embroidered satin chair, her arm draped over the back, platinum hair cascading down to her waist. She wore only a thin petticoat, her two long, fair legs exposed, toes lightly grazing the deep red fabric spread across the carpet.
Damon's gaze lingered a second longer on Margaret's feet. Uncontrollably, he recalled the experience from last night, remembering how her soft, lovely toes had ravished his manhood, teasing the moist tip.
...Damon embarrassingly became aroused.
"Miss," his voice was hoarse and strained, tinged with subtle sadness and inquiry, "Are you troubled about the dresses for the ball?"
"The ball?" Margaret lifted her head, a fleeting look of confusion crossing her face. Then she remembered, Douglas' birthday was just ten days away.
Birthday... Royal ball...
Margaret's head began to ache. A flood of overwhelming and chaotic information churned once more, countless words flashing rapidly before her eyes.
[The first prince is hosting a grand ball at the palace. He has invited almost all the nobles of the capital, including the Boston family. Charlotte, as the recently acknowledged illegitimate daughter, has the privilege of attending the ball along with her sisters.]
[This is her first ball in her life. It is also the beginning of her love story.]
[She will meet Douglas.]
Margaret: "..."