Her father and Gerbera saw her as nothing more than a convenient means of acquiring betrothal money.
And her mother—she could do nothing but weep at their whims.
It was unbearably miserable.
She didn’t want to stay in this house a moment longer.
“So, I am to marry the Duke of Spencer next, then?”
Cornelia said it herself.
“Oh! That’s my girl! Quick to understand, as always. That’s right. Will you go through with it?”
Her father, elated, grasped her hand.
She wanted to shake him off, but even that felt pointless.
And so, in less than ten days, Cornelia was once again sent off—this time, to the Duke of Spencer’s estate.
◇
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Cornelia Rosenblatt.”
Cornelia executed a flawless bow as she was welcomed by Iris, the duke’s eldest son.
Having already been married twice, she had mastered the etiquette instilled in her by the count’s and marquis’s households.
“So… you’re the infamous ‘Widow Who Sends Husbands to Their Graves’?”
Iris studied her with open curiosity.
For a duke’s son, he was surprisingly young—perhaps in his late twenties.
And he was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man Cornelia had ever seen.
His black hair was neatly braided and draped over one shoulder, and his deep, sapphire-blue eyes gleamed with an unsettling sharpness.
His nose was elegantly straight, and his features exuded a refined nobility.
Cornelia could see now—dukes truly were a different class of people.
The mansion was incomparably grander than her previous two homes.
The entrance hall alone could have passed for a palace, its rich decor carrying an air of solemn grandeur. An entire procession of butlers and maids had lined up to greet her, escorting her all the way to this reception hall.
“Given your reputation, I expected an older woman. But you’re rather young…”
Iris had been staring at her this whole time, seemingly unable to reconcile her image with the stories he had heard.
“I am eighteen years old. However, having already lost two husbands, this is now my third marriage.”
“Your third…?”
Iris’s eyes widened.
He must have been astonished that someone so young had already been widowed twice.
Cornelia was used to that reaction.
“By the way, where are the duke’s wives? I intended to greet them before meeting His Grace.”
“My father had only one wife—my mother. She passed away last year from illness.”
“I see.”
Cornelia found it odd that only the heir had come to greet her.
Normally, when she married into a noble family, she would first be assessed by the other wives, their scrutinizing gazes appraising her worth.
A nobleman with only one wife was rare.
She had assumed all aristocrats were like her father—heedless and indulgent, taking multiple wives without concern.
This, too, seemed to set dukes apart from lesser nobility.
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