Chapter 9

　　He was on the balcony of a luxurious restaurant overlooking the riverbank. The gentle smile he wore as he looked down at her gave him a much softer air than the last time they had met.

　　“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but you must be mistaken.”

　　Liam chuckled at her defiant retort, though tears still glistened at the corners of her eyes.

　　She was right; her eyes were not wet from weeping, just like that day.

　　He had been certain she was crying, but the moment their gazes met, all traces of tears had vanished. It was impressive how she could erase all evidence in seconds and adopt the righteous, composed gaze of a noblewoman.

　　But it seemed even her formidable control was failing her today. The raw redness around her eyes was clear evidence of a recent storm. Gazing down at her pale face, he spoke on impulse.

　　“Would you care to come in?”

　　He took his arm off the railing and gestured toward a table set right beside him. On the pristine white tablecloth, place settings for two were arranged.

　　“Don’t you have a prior engagement?”

　　“A minute has passed. His chance is as good as gone.”

　　She said nothing.

　　“And from the look on your face,” he added, his voice dropping slightly, “you seem to be in desperate need of help.”

　　Listening to the soft melody of the piano, Arlen looked down at the promenade where she had just been standing. From this high vantage point, the entire riverbank stretched out before her in a breathtaking panorama.

　　“If I had known we would meet here, perhaps I should have thought of a favor to ask.”

　　The corner of his mouth curved into a faint smile. Surprisingly, the smile melted his intimidating aura, lending his features a sudden gentleness. The clear moonlight cast a soft glow on the magnificent man, who seemed to lack for nothing. Perhaps it was the change in location, but his demeanor was a world away from the cold arrogance she remembered.

　　For a moment, her first impression of him as an unapproachable, great noble was forgotten. The oppressive weight of his presence had lessened just enough for her to truly see him.

　　The gold-thread embroidery of hawthorn flowers on his beige vest shimmered faintly over his broad shoulders and firm torso. The cuffs covering his strong wrists were impeccably tailored, hinting at a stern character, while the sharp, navy-blue jacket suited him so well that ‘handsome’ felt like an understatement.

　　Unconsciously staring, Arlen found her voice.

　　“Do you…come here often?”

　　“It’s the perfect place to enjoy the night air with a drink.”

　　Liam filled a glass with ice and whiskey, the corners of his lips curling.

　　With a flick of his flawless wrist, ice cubes clinked in the swaying glass.

　　The sharp aroma of whiskey mingled with the cool air as the amber liquid flowed between his lips, his throat moving with a slow, deliberate swallow.

　　“Coffee?”

　　“Yes, that would be lovely.”

　　His low voice broke through her reverie, and Arlen nodded automatically.

　　A large whiskey bottle and a glass sat before him, but her own empty glass had been cleared away the moment she sat down, a silent assumption that she would not be drinking.

　　Her gaze followed the waiter as he retreated, and she glanced around the restaurant.

　　In the starlit, brilliant space, every table was filled with couples who looked like lovers.

　　The place was so full of wonders that, were it not for her current troubles, she might have forgotten her duty to act as a proper lady and simply stared in awe. A pianist played beautifully, but it seemed the patrons’ attention was tuned not to the music, but to her and the Duke.

　　She met the eye of a noblewoman who was casting furtive glances their way, and the woman turned her head with a start. Arlen quickly straightened her own gaze.

　　“What is it?” he asked.

　　"It’s nothing.”

　　A waiter placed a cup of steaming coffee before her. After watching it for a moment as the cool night breeze drifted past, Arlen reached for it. It was her first time in a place like this, and she had only nodded in vague imitation of him.

　　But the moment she took a sip, she grimaced. The bitterness was so intense that it was hardly comparable to the sting of black tea. The Duke raised an eyebrow.

　　“To be honest, it’s my first time trying it.”

　　“I can have it changed to tea.”

　　He flicked a finger, summoning the waiter, but Arlen shook her head. A shy vitality bloomed on her smiling face.

　　“No. I want to try it.”

　　A satisfied smile touched the corner of the man’s lips as he leaned back.

　　“As you wish.”

　　Smiling back, Arlen blew gently on the coffee and wet her lips.

　　It was more palatable than the first sip.

　　As her gaze wandered, it landed on a white document on the table.

　　“Request to Increase Ma’in Principality Transit Tax…”

　　Having muttered it aloud, Arlen quickly looked up.

　　He was already watching her, but he simply swirled his glass as if it were of no consequence.

　　“A document from the man who was late for our appointment,” he said coolly.

　　“He was deliberately late, no doubt to signal he has no intention of negotiating.”

　　“No intention of negotiating?”

　　“The Principality of Ma’in has decided to impose a transit tax on goods from Alcant entering Stoneburn under the Crawford Company’s name.”

　　“So they pass through the Principality of Ma’in.”

　　His smooth jaw moved in affirmation.

　　Only then did Arlen understand that the whiskey glass at her seat had belonged to the ambassador from Ma’in.

　　“It’s a common tactic,” he continued, a cynical edge to his voice.

　　“The petty resentment of those who have nothing but cannot bear to see others prosper. Raising the tax rate only on the product for which we rejected their request for a larger supply… it’s a clear message.”

　　“That sounds like a difficult situation.”

　　“Now that the tax has been raised, we’ll have to raise our prices. It is just another hassle.”

　　Listening silently, Arlen nodded with an expression of understanding.

　　She recalled reading about similar disputes in the trade histories she had devoured in the library—a natural consequence of supply failing to meet demand.

　　Come to think of it…

　　Blinking, Arlen spoke up.

　　“There is a way to handle that.”

　　Liam watched her intently as she passionately offered her opinion in response to his casual remark. She clasped her hands and leaned forward slightly, the river breeze rustling her neatly tied brown hair.

　　“You can find a detour route.”

　　The wind swept a few strands aside, revealing the stark white skin of her nape. Every time she blinked her dense lashes, her violet eyes seemed to deepen the contrast. He took a sip of his whiskey, his gaze traveling slowly, deliberately, up the elegant line of her neck. A few stray hairs brushed against her faintly flushed cheeks.

　　Liam lazily rubbed the condensation on his glass with his thumb. Even as he felt the cold surface, his eyes remained fixed on her throat. The strangely captivating skin looked incredibly soft.

　　A sudden thirst seized him, and he raised the glass to his lips.

　　“Changing the land route to a sea route is another option.”

　　She leaned closer.

　　A few strands of hair, which had been precariously tucked behind her small ear, finally slid down her white neck.

　　She chattered on, proposing other solutions—methods he had, of course, already reviewed and dismissed as unviable.

　　Yet, hearing them again from her red lips gave them a different quality. Every time her crimson lips parted and closed, her tongue would shyly appear before retreating.

　　Liam slowly stroked his chin, tearing his gaze from her mouth to take in her entire face. Her cheeks, the color of ripe pomegranate, were fresh and vibrant. The corners of her full lips were prettily upturned.

　　Her slender frame looked fragile enough to be swept away by the wind, yet her ramrod-straight posture hinted at an unshakeable inner strength. He was struck anew by the realization that, even unadorned, she was simply beautiful.

　　Deciding he’d had too much to drink, Liam set down his glass. Just then, conscious of their surroundings, she lowered her voice.

　　“If they only raised the tax on one product, could you not just list it as a different item on the paperwork?”

　　“That sounds like you’re suggesting I smuggle,” he murmured, an eyebrow raised.

　　“Technically, it is not smuggling if you have official documentation.”

　　His gaze, which had been lingering on her hair, her lips, her jawline, rose to meet her lilac eyes directly. He gave a slight nod, a silent command to continue.

　　“The Principality of Ma’in has no authority to inspect goods destined for another country. The contract is between Alcant and Stoneburn.”

　　“And if they recklessly tried to inspect it and the goods were damaged, they would be liable for massive compensation…”

　　Liam trailed off, a new thought dawning.

　　Arlen leaned forward again, the candlelight in the center of the table dancing in the river breeze. In its flickering glow, her eyes shone.

　　“You would just be tricking them a little. They were the ones who acted like brats first.”

　　She whispered the last part like a shared secret, her hand cupped near her mouth, before quickly straightening up. Liam swallowed a silent laugh at the illicit scheme proposed by such a prim-looking woman and tapped the table with a long finger.

　　“So, because they acted like brats, it is fair to deceive them?”

　　“More than that, after a few months, Ma’in will be dying of curiosity. It is a product they covet, is it not? They will be hesitant to inspect it for fear of repercussions, and since they will not know the volume of distribution, they will grow anxious and eventually try to open a shipment in secret.”

　　“And your point is to use that moment to renegotiate.”

　　“Yes. And at that point, Your Grace can show your magnanimity by forgiving them in exchange for lowering the transit tax.”

　　An intrigued smile touched Liam’s weary lips. He was the type to abolish the tax entirely, not merely lower it, but he had to admit her logic was sound. It was a viable threat.

　　“The rumors about you being a failure were clearly nonsense.”