Please Forget Me - Chapter 336

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

“So for the past five days, he hasn’t even been home—he’s practically been living at the palace. And yet he still made time to come today. Doesn’t that mean the Marquis is more important to Dr. Loveridge than His Majesty the King?”

When the doctor received an urgent summons from the palace and had to excuse himself mid-visit, Grandmother made a remark that put both the doctor and the Marquis in an awkward position. Watching everyone squirm was, admittedly, amusing.

“He was hiding in a manure pit of all places. Perhaps he thought that if he hid among filth, he’d be harder to find, since he himself is human garbage.”

The Marquis’s story about relentlessly tracking down and punishing deserters as a military police officer was painfully dull.

“To go so far as to turn one’s back on the country… I simply can’t comprehend how such cowards think.”

“Of course you wouldn’t understand, Marquis. You didn’t run, you fulfilled your duty as a hero.”

Encouraged by Grandmother’s constant praise, he began parading his tedious stories even more proudly.

“Still, since you’ve fulfilled that duty, shouldn’t it be time to take off the uniform?”

“The country still needs me. With His Majesty in critical condition, all the more reason I must remain at my post.”

“But surely House Mansfield needs you as well?”

“That sounds as though you’re implying I’ve neglected my duties as a Marquis.”

“Oh, not at all. Of course not. But there is still the duty of continuing the family line, that’s all I meant.”

As she poured more liquor into his empty glass, Grandmother finally revealed the true reason she’d summoned him tonight. Her foolish scheming was no longer amusing.

Make him stay the night and produce an heir. That’s the only way you won’t be discarded.

The Marquis frowned just as I had when I first heard those words. He had his own reasons for avoiding my bed.

As expected, things weren’t going according to Grandmother’s sordid plan. The reason she kept pressing him to drink was likely because she’d already sensed that neither he nor I had any intention of playing along.

“I’m feeling rather tired.”

The Marquis refused yet another offered glass and wiped his red face with one hand. It was clearly his signal to leave. Did that obtuse old woman think this was her golden opportunity?

“Coincidentally, the guest room is vacant.”

She sounded as though she’d startled him into running away instead.

“You should stay the night—”

“Grandmother, please excuse us for a moment.”

I’d been waiting for a chance to be alone with him. I wasn’t about to let him escape now.

“Oh my, how thoughtless of me. Then I wish you both a pleasant evening, hoho.”

Completely unaware of what I intended, she left with a beaming smile.

“Do you have something to say?”

The Marquis stared at me with sharp, fully alert eyes, perhaps my unexpected move had jolted him awake. At last, it was time to accomplish the purpose for which I’d endured this evening.

“How did we fall in love?”

Uncovering the truth, that was my goal tonight.

“You’ve been treating me like an enemy all evening. Why ask something like that now?”

“That’s exactly why. I don’t understand why the woman I used to be would ever love a man like you.”

The Marquis’ brow twisted harshly.

“Damn it… why should I endure this kind of treatment from a low woman like you? Hah—if you were just a little less pretty, I’d have locked you away in some back room at the Stamford estate long ago….”

At least he didn’t slam his fist on the table this time. Grinding his teeth, he muttered to himself, answering his own irritation rather than my question, then turned it back on me instead.

“You said you’ve been reading old letters and journals to recover your memories. Have you not read the letters I wrote to you?”

“I couldn’t find them.”

I’d searched everywhere—from my bedroom to the study—but there was no sign of the letters I was supposed to have exchanged with my first love. I’d begun to wonder if that, too, had been one of Killian’s lies.

But it seemed the letters did exist. Now the question was with whom they’d been exchanged.

“What did you write to me in those letters?”

“How would I remember that? It was over ten years ago.”

Only then did it click: forgetting the contents of a decade-old letter was normal. Remembering them clearly would have been far more suspicious.

“But you haven’t forgotten how I confessed my love to you, have you?”

According to Killian, I’d confessed with my mother’s necklace. But in the letter that accompanied it, I hadn’t explicitly said the necklace was my confession. If the Marquis had truly stolen only the letter, he shouldn’t have known the answer.

“You gave me your mother’s necklace.”

Then why does he know?

‘So does that mean this man is the real one… and Killian was the fake?’