Chapter 1: The Duke’s Mistake

Prologue

My name is Anais. I just ran away from my wedding. My feather-adorned wedding shoes are splattered with Viscount Wetherby’s blood—my groom. Like the famous pervert he was, that pig slapped my face, ripped my dress open, then groped my chest. I just couldn’t take it.

I’m running through the forest barefoot. Branches claw at me from all directions, and the cold, damp moss feels slippery under my feet.

The Wetherby family enjoys great power in the region, whereas I’m the only daughter of a drunkard who sold me off for a pittance. They’ll kill me if I get caught. I’m only nineteen. I don’t want to die yet. If I really have to die, I want to at least avoid rotting in a prison cell before getting hanged like a diseased chicken.

The wedding banquet is in full swing at Wetherby Manor. The guests probably think the newlyweds are in the bridal chamber spending their first night together. My plan is to run away as far as possible tonight, before they find out I stabbed a paper knife deep in that pig’s neck before they discover his dead body going cold on the sumptuously decorated marriage bed.

I’m going to run away to a distant city and start a new life there, concealing my true identity. No one will find me ever again.

***

A month later in Levlon, the capital city of Englewood. Philip Westmoreland, 17th Duke of Trobridge, pressed a finger to his forehead with a sigh.

“Not again? You’re not telling me another one ran away?”

Shaking her head, Mrs. White picked up a note from the desk and read it out loud.

“‘I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I liked him at first because he’s so handsome, but he’s awfully difficult to please. I’ll die early if I work with him for any longer.’ I found this note when I came in this morning,” she sighed.

“What a shame—she had good spelling. I didn’t mind losing the one before her, her spelling was terrible,” she grumbled for a moment and continued. “You’re lucky I didn’t withdraw the advertisement for a new secretary. We had an applicant, so I scheduled an interview with her this afternoon just in case.”

Philip glanced around the empty office in dismay. He’d committed many foolish mistakes over his 25 years, but buying a floundering magazine was the worst of them all. All the staff had resigned from their third-rate press and all he’d ended up acquiring was a shabby, scantily furnished office.

“Why can’t you live an ordinary life, like all the other lords and ladies?”

“Ordinary?”

“You know—like managing your estate or entering politics, like the late Duke did. Something more comfortable. Or you could start a respectable business,” complained Mrs. White.

“What is this if not a respectable business? I’m trying to make an honest living,” retorted Philip, spreading his arms out.

“You’re the sole editor of a failing magazine in a dilapidated office without a single secretary in your employ! You really can’t call this a business.”

“We can always hire a new secretary. Didn’t you say we have an interview in the afternoon?”

“Three secretaries have fled within the month! A new one will do this business much good, I’m sure.”

“I don’t believe I was that hard on them.”

“You talk to them in a frosty tone and raise your eyebrows at the smallest mistake—of course they don’t last longer than a couple of weeks. Didn’t I tell you to at least smile at them every now and then?”

“What difference would a smile make?” Philip made an innocent-looking face.

“Don’t give me that! You know full well your smile works like a charm.” Mrs. White shook her head.

“I don’t quite follow. Well, if you think it’s such a shame, why don’t you start working for me full-time as my secretary?” Philip tilted his head slightly to the side and gazed tenderly at Mrs. White.

“Your charm doesn’t work on me, sir!” She waved dismissively. “I’m only helping out a little because my sister used to be your nanny. When you’re over fifty, all you want to do is sit in front of the fireplace and rest your legs!”

“Rest your legs, Molly? You’re still hale and hearty! From file organization to staff management—I’d be hard-pressed to find someone more capable. Just wait till this business wins out—I’ll give you an immediate promotion and—”

“Goodness, what utter nonsense!” Mrs. White shook her head, arms akimbo. “That charming look of yours—I swear that’s the problem. I’ve lost count of how many people you’ve fooled with it. My dear sister used to say, ‘He’s the most handsome boy I’ve raised myself. Ladies will be swooning over him when he grows up!’”

“Haha.”

“It’s not funny! You’re aware of your charm and know how to use it to your advantage. It’s beyond me why you’d want to waste it in a place like this.” Mrs. White stared at the duke’s carefree face and continued more heatedly, “I’d expected you to be married to a pretty young lady by now and leading a peaceful life on your estate. I never imagined you’d be out in the city on your own, bent on publishing this magazine, for whatever reason.”

“It’s thanks to this printing press I’m working with you, Molly. Marriage is the least of my concerns right now; we have to get this forsaken magazine back on its feet. So, what time did you say the job interview was?”

Mrs. White thought no one would be able to resist that boyish smile as he carelessly swept back his thick, dark brown hair. And he had a knack for steering the conversation in the direction he wanted.

“Let me see… It’s two o’clock,” she replied, peering into her schedule book. “You must be on your best behavior this time—please don’t push her to the brink of tears and scare her away like last time. She’s the last applicant the employment agency can send us. If we can’t get her onboard, we’ll have to ask a different agency—which is quite disreputable, from what I’ve heard.”

“Disreputable in what way?”

“Well… They’re supposed to gather dishonest women from out on the streets and—”

The door to the publishing house opened with a tinkle of the bell. Philip didn’t have a clear view from deep inside the editor’s office but, judging from the way Mrs. White was straining her neck, a visitor seemed to have entered. The wall clock was pointing to a quarter to two.

At least she seems to be perfectly punctual. Good, thought Philip. He’d sent away an applicant on one occasion because she’d arrived an hour late and kept blaming it on her shoes.

“This way—come in. Still cold for spring, isn’t it?”

Philip smiled in secret as Mrs. White, who’d been grouching all day, employed her best kindly tone. She seemed desperate to keep this applicant, probably because she was sick of working on her own. Besides, for all her gruff tone, Mrs. White was a generous, kind-hearted woman. Philip could guarantee that.

“Now, take off your hat and—this way. You can leave your coat and bag there.”

“Alright, thank you,” said a young woman, slightly breathlessly.

Seated at his desk, Philip listened in on their conversation, pretending not to pay attention. He’d seen eight aspiring secretaries in total over the past month, including three he’d hired. All of them had been young women from ordinary families who needed to earn their living—unlike the rich young heiresses of his usual social sphere.

They’d come to his office seeking modern work such as typing or taking messages instead of sewing, sheep farming, or housemaid jobs. The problem was that none of them possessed any secretarial skills. Moreover, they lacked tact or social skills that were crucial in the office.

Also, they had no love for the work itself. Had it been the second or third applicant who’d said, “Novels? Magazines? My mom tells me to keep away from them because they’ll put the wrong idea in my head. And reading gives me a headache. Oh well, I need to put food on the table, don’t I? Haha, I hope you don’t mind—I’ll do whatever you ask me to do!”

If this young woman is our last hope, I guess I’ll have to hire her no matter how bad she is… ugh. In any case, we really need her to stay. Remember: as nice and kind as possible, Philip was telling himself when a knock came at the door. Mrs. White peered in.

“Are you ready? May I send her in?”

“Yes, of course,” said Philip, moving the stacks of paper on his desk to the floor. Someone knocked at the door again.

“Come in,” he called. No applicant had knocked on his office door until now. Not only was she punctual, but she had good manners and social skills, too.

The door opened and a young woman with a small frame entered. Her chestnut hair was tied neatly into a bun at her nape. She was wearing worn brown boots and a gray skirt that came down to her ankles. She’d probably left her coat where Mrs. Brown told her to, as she was wearing a knit cardigan over her blouse. Everything was neat and clean but very worn; her cardigan was threadbare at the elbows.

Philip had been unconsciously studying her attire from the bottom up when he met her eyes and flinched. Large, deep green eyes were staring at him. It was a defiant gaze that seemed to say, Yes, I’m wearing shabby clothes. So what?

Embarrassed to have been caught staring at her clothes, Philip cleared his throat and jumped to his feet.

“Welcome. I’m Philip Westmoreland, the new editor-in-chief of Harmony magazine. Although we’ll change its name soon.”

“Nice to meet you. My name is…er…Lauren Whitman.”

When Philip gestured for her to sit, she cautiously sat down and glanced around.

“I know it looks rather empty at the moment.”

Be as kind and gentle as possible! Philip reminded himself of Molly’s advice and smiled. Most women he’d met had dropped their guards and mellowed up the moment they saw him smile.

“It may take some time, but this magazine will become a respectable, flourishing periodical. We’ll publish well-written thriller novels and articles instead of cheap romances. And—”

“What? Wait—wait a minute!” the woman cried, narrowing her brows in confusion. His smile evidently wasn’t working this time—she looked far from smitten. “What did you just say? Thriller novels?”

“Um, that’s right. I acquired this place with the intention of starting a new magazine.”

“But… what about romance novels? You won’t even consider this manuscript, then?” She rummaged in her bag—a large, yellow-brown bag for men. It was worn, like her threadbare clothes, and the leather was peeling off at the corners.

Philip fell silent, too stunned to speak. The woman pulled out a thick, rumpled bundle of paper from her bag.

“What on earth…” he muttered dazedly and took the bundle she was holding out.

The Princess’s Fiery Passion?

Beneath the title page, each page was filled with dense writing. She seemed to have used a faulty typewriter, as all the m’s had been hastily scrawled in. Some of the pages were covered in stains, and some of them had scribbles on the back. Judging from the thickness of the manuscript, she seemed to have been toiling over it for a long time.

“What… is this?”

“It’s a manuscript—for my novel! A romance novel.”

“Er, yes, I can see that. But why are you giving this to me?”

The woman looked baffled. She eyed him with amazement, apparently wondering how such a person had become the editor-in-chief.

“Because this is a magazine for romance novels. I need to show you my work to see if you’d be interested in buying it.”

“What? You’re here to sell your manuscript? Not, er, to apply for the secretary position?”

The woman was staring at Philip, dumbstruck, when the door chime rang outside his office. The door to the publishing house opened and shut forcefully. Another woman cried before catching her breath, “Oh, I’m so sorry I’m late! My carriage got stuck in the mud on the way! Have I missed the job interview?”