Chapter 275
‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.
You must have been uncomfortable too, because at some point you stopped responding to him altogether.
A true gentleman would have backed off then. But if he had been a gentleman, he wouldn’t have offered such rude advice in the first place. Instead, he grew stubborn and refused to stop. And eventually, he crossed the line.
“That’s not how you do it… Miss Loveridge, next time push your hips back a bit more.”
“…Don’t you think it’s rude to comment on a lady’s body?”
You finally spoke up. In my eyes, you had already endured far more than necessary. You would have been justified in rebuking him harshly, yet that single sentence was all you said.
He didn’t apologize. He just stood there, staring blankly as if he’d been slapped. You waited for a moment, but when no response came, you gave him a cool, polite nod and turned away.
Only then did he move.
He reached out and yanked hard on your braided hair.
“Ah!”
“How dare a commoner lecture a noble on manners? In the old days, someone like you would’ve been carrying my golf bag and trailing behind me!”
He pointed toward his servant standing a little apart from the group of young nobles and shouted. Your face turned red in an instant. Until then, you had met his rudeness with wit and elegance. But now you were visibly shaken, at a loss.
That was when I lost control.
“Do you think we associate with you because you’re worth it? Honestly, none of us even want to breathe the same air as someone as inferior as you! We tolerate you only out of respect for the Ackroyd estate that invited you! You should be grateful—ugh!”
I grabbed the back of his collar, spun him around, and drove my fist into his repulsive face. I heard a bone crack.
That was the first time I had ever struck a person rather than a punching bag. Perhaps because of that, I hadn’t intended it—but I broke his nose. He couldn’t even fight back. One punch sent him to the ground.
By any measure, I had crossed a line myself. And yet, my anger didn’t subside.
‘Who do you think you are, insulting my guest? They say the ignorant don’t even realize their ignorance. Watching you pretend to know golf when you can barely play is laughable. I let it go out of pity, not because you were right. And this is how you repay that? You humiliate a lady invited into my home? Where did my mother even find such a lout? Get out of my house. Now.’
There were so many words boiling inside me, yet not a single one would come out. That only made my rage burn hotter.
‘Damn it.’
I couldn’t even voice a simple curse. In the end, unable to contain myself, I kicked him hard in the lower abdomen while he was struggling to stand, like kicking a football.
You may or may not believe this, but I’m not a violent man. That truly was the first time I had ever hit someone.
It’s embarrassing to admit, but my anger still wasn’t spent. I hit him a few more times. Then I looked up and met your eyes.
You were staring at me, eyes wide. In that instant, my face burned as if set on fire.
I felt so ashamed I thought I might die on the spot.
I tried to flee, but a servant chased after me carrying my golf bag. Only then did I remember why I’d gone there in the first place. The words I had prepared were already gone.
After wrestling briefly with the urge to run, I pulled the parasol from my bag and thrust it toward you without a word.
Your eyes somehow grew even wider.
You accepted it, clearly flustered and I turned and ran.
I’d forgotten that the parasol was supposed to be my excuse to speak to you. But I didn’t forget to grab that wretch by the collar and drag him off the field. I was afraid that if I left him there, he might harm you.
“Have him thrown out immediately.”
That was my demand the moment I returned to the house.
“What did he do?”
I explained briefly: he’d been rude to a lady all day, and when she called him out, he did something so crude even a six-year-old wouldn’t do—he pulled her hair.
“He even hurled verbal abuse at her. It was so vile I can’t bring myself to repeat it.”
I avoided specifying what he’d said.
“We will not host guests who are rude and ill-bred. If we do, people will say we are no better.”
“Killian, this is unlike you. You’re quite angry. Did he trouble a young lady?”
“……”
My mother was perceptive. My father always said that made life easier for him.
“It was Miss Loveridge, wasn’t it.”
And that was precisely why my mother made me uneasy.
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