My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

Astrid Van Gravenberg stood before him, staring up at him.

His expression twisted before he could stop it.

Astrid saw it.

Her own face soured immediately.

What had she done to earn that reaction?

She had not even intended to speak with him. Camellia had been nearby, and Astrid had meant to join her after finishing a brief conversation with one of the younger ladies. Yet on her way across the hall, she had heard Ulrich speaking with the princess.

Not every word. Only enough.

Enough to hear Count Rubenhart speak to Camellia in a manner Astrid could scarcely understand.

He had told the princess she did not need to become the Queen’s image.

He had spoken of her own wishes, of refusing expectations, of choosing for herself.

Astrid still had difficulty believing it.

Ulrich Van Rubenhart had said those things.

The same Ulrich who had spent the evening looking at half the court as though they were furniture arranged badly in his path. The same Ulrich who had humiliated Crown Prince Albert in front of everyone and treated Julian Van Gravenberg with the same contempt one might give an irritating fly.

He hadn’t even been like this with her.

He had never even tried.

Yet toward Camellia, he had been different.

Cold by ordinary standards, perhaps. He spoke with that same sharp, arrogant way of his, as though every word had already been judged before he allowed it into the world. Still, Astrid had watched him carefully throughout the evening. He had shown a ’softer’ spot for Camellia, from Ulrich’s perspective of course, but still. He had asked her to stay with the sisters. He had even given her advice that sounded dangerously close to comfort.

Why?

There was only one explanation Astrid could reach.

Ulrich wanted Camellia.

The thought made her stomach twist.

She had heard enough about Ulrich Van Rubenhart long before meeting him properly. The Count Rubenhart had a reputation across Skargardia: powerful, distant, irritatingly proud, and so convinced of his own superiority that he barely bothered to hide it. He was an exemplary noble in every outward sense, wealthy, capable, refined, possessing lands that prospered under his rule.

Yet he also looked down on everyone.

The court. The prince. The old houses. Even the king himself.

A man like that would never choose an ordinary bride.

He would not marry beneath his rank. He would not settle for the daughter of another count. He would barely consider a marquis’s daughter, no matter how admired or beautiful she was.

Louise Van Rommels was already the sort of match most nobles would call perfect. Her father was a marquis. She was loved by the court, pursued by countless young men, and carried herself with all the elegance expected of a future marchioness.

Yet Ulrich had not married her.

Astrid had heard the whispers. Louise wanted him. Marquis Rommels wanted a decision. Ulrich delayed, never accepting and never rejecting the possibility outright.

He was keeping Louise in reserve.

Because he wanted someone higher.

Camellia.

Astrid’s fingers curled at her sides.

The shamelessness of it!

He had come to the princess’s birthday celebration, brought three witches into the royal palace, insulted the Crown Prince, seized the attention of the entire ballroom through that absurd dance with Airam, and now he was speaking privately to Camellia as though he already possessed the right to advise her.

He believed even he could marry her!

He believed he had a chance!

Astrid’s glare attempted to say everything her rank prevented her from voicing.

"Stay away from her!"

"You are not worthy of her!"

"Do not mistake her kindness for interest!"

"Do not dare use her!"

Ulrich looked down at her.

After having experienced Airam’s murderous cold glare for two years, Astrid’s outrage barely registered as a threat. Her face had gone slightly red beneath the gold light of the hall, and her blue eyes flashed with such open disgust that she looked more offended than frightening.

Compared with Airam, Astrid’s glare was almost cute, however.

Her cheeks had puffed slightly with indignation, and her blue eyes tried very hard to look dangerous. Airam could make grown men reconsider their next breath with a single look. Astrid only looked like a spoiled young lady who had been denied the last sweet at dinner.

Ulrich had no patience for either expression tonight.

He had already spent enough of the evening managing three teenage girls, calming arguments, preventing public disasters, and enduring the attention that came with bringing Anna-Maria’s daughters into the royal palace. Astrid Van Gravenberg was not his responsibility. She was one of the women whose future mattered in the novel, certainly, but her troubles belonged to the protagonist who would enter her life three years from now.

Ulrich had no reason to involve himself in her affairs.

He dismissed her from his mind and continued toward the western side of the hall, where the flow of guests thinned near the servants’ corridor.

Behind him, light pump shoes brushed the marble.

At first, he assumed Astrid had merely chosen the same direction. The hall was crowded, and several guests moved between the pillars to escape the density around the dance floor. Yet the sound remained behind him through one turn, then another.

Ulrich stopped.

Astrid nearly walked into his back.

He turned so suddenly that she froze with one foot raised behind the other, her hands still gathered in the folds of her skirt. Her expression shifted from outrage to startled embarrassment in the space of a breath.

Ulrich looked down at her.

"Following a man through a crowded royal hall," he said, "is that how low Duke Gravenberg’s daughter has fallen?"

Astrid’s eyes widened.

He continued before she could answer.

"It appears neither the son nor the daughter can be redeemed."

With that, he turned away and resumed walking.

Astrid remained where she was.

For several seconds, she could only stare at his back blankly.

Her mouth had fallen open. The insult was so direct, so casually delivered, that she had not managed to understand it until he was already moving away. She had heard the stories about Ulrich Van Rubenhart. Everyone had. His arrogance, his terrible temper, his disdain for people beneath his standards.

Knowing of it and standing in front of it were very different experiences.

Heat rushed into her face.

How dare he speak of her like that?!

She clutched the fabric of her gown so tightly that the embroidery creased beneath her fingers. Hermione had humiliated her earlier. Airam had looked at her as though she were beneath notice. Now Ulrich had dismissed her with even less effort.

Why did none of them treat her as Duke Gravenberg’s daughter?

Astrid followed him again.

"I know your plans for Her Highness!" She called, her voice lowered but sharp enough to reach him.

Ulrich did not turn.

Astrid’s lips pressed into a thin line.

If he had known what kind of absurd plan she thought he had, he might have stopped to give her a freezing stare. Instead, he assumed she was speaking nonsense born from wounded pride and kept his attention on the people ahead.

That was worse.

Being ignored after speaking made Astrid feel as though she did not exist.

She hurried forward, prepared to force him to listen whether he wished to or not. A man crossing the passage stepped into her path at the same instant. Astrid caught sight of him too late. Her shoulder struck his arm, and she slipped slightly.

She pitched sideways.

The musician recoiled with a startled cry, clutching his violin against his chest. Astrid managed to catch herself before falling, though her skirts twisted around her ankles and left her standing in a thoroughly undignified position.

"M—My apologies, my lady!" The man blurted.

Astrid straightened quickly.

Her anger needed somewhere to go.

She fixed the musician with a glare. He was perhaps in his late twenties, thin-faced and plainly dressed in the formal black attire required of palace performers. His collar had been hastily fastened, and a loose strand of dark hair had fallen across his forehead from the force of their collision.

"Why are you even walking through the middle of the hall?" Astrid asked, or rather spat it out. "Entertainers should remain at the corners where they belong. You nearly knocked me to the floor."

The man’s face lost its color.

"My deepest apologies, my lady," he said, bowing so quickly that the violin’s neck struck lightly against his knee. "I was looking for a place among the musicians. I did not mean to disturb anyone."

"You should have thought of that before wandering around like a lost servant."

"M-My lady, all the quartets were already formed. I found myself without a place, and I thought perhaps—"

"I do not care."

Astrid cut him off and spun around, intending to leave, choosing to forget about the irritating Ulrich.

However, her nose struck the solid front of his coat.

"Haah!"

She staggered back, both hands flying to her face. Tears sprang to her eyes from the sharp pain, and she glared upward through them.

Ulrich had stopped.

He did not look at her.

His attention was on the musician, who had gone frozen at the daunting sight of Ulrich standing before him.

The poor man swallowed a mouthful of saliva.

"M—My apologies, my lord," he stammered. "I did not mean to hurt your daughter."

"W-What?!" Astrid snapped, her hand still pressed to her nose. "Whose daughter am I supposed to be? I am Astrid Van Gravenberg!"

The musician flinched so hard that his bow slipped from his fingers. It struck the marble with a faint clatter.

Astrid’s outrage rose further.

Surprisingly so, the perfect image she had maintained until now had collapsed altogether as her real self started slipping out from her mask of excellence and exemplary young lady, showing a more assertive and haughty girl.

Not something Ulrich wasn’t aware of, having read the novel, reason why he wanted to avoid this girl’s attention. She was very petty and grudgeful.

However, right now she was very noisy for his ears. She wasn’t especially shouting, but she was raising her voice, something Ulrich didn’t much appreciate, especially for such stupid reasons.

He looked down at her.

"Silence."

The word was quiet.

Astrid shut her mouth.

She hated that she had obeyed him immediately. Her fingers closed around the sides of her gown as she lowered her teary gaze, cheeks burning with a new humiliation. She had meant to confront him. She had meant to expose whatever disgraceful design he had toward Camellia.

Instead, she stood beside him, rubbing her nose while he adressed a terrified violinist.

Ulrich turned back to the man.

"What did you say?"

The musician blinked.

"My lord?"

"You said every quartet had been formed."

"Y—Yes." The man bowed again, though his eyes kept flicking toward the fallen bow near his shoes. "The master of ceremonies assigned all the places before I arrived. I should have come earlier, but the carriage carrying our group was delayed at the lower gate. By the time I reached the hall, every set of four had already been arranged."

"And no one dismissed you?"

"No, my lord."

"No one told you to leave?"

The musician hesitated.

"No, my lord. I was told there might be a change later in the evening. I was waiting near the side passage in case another performer became ill or needed replacing."

Ulrich said nothing.

A faint curve touched one corner of his mouth.

Astrid noticed it and stared at him, confused despite herself.

His eyes had moved beyond the musician. He surveyed the hall from beneath the shadow of the pillar, seeing the performers positioned around its edges. There was one quartet near the musicians’ platform, another close to the eastern wall, and a third stationed nearer the royal dais. Each group held four instruments. Two violins, a viola, and a cello. Flute, harp, and accompanying strings. Every arrangement appeared complete.

Exactly as the musician had said.

There should not have been an extra performer.

Not at an event organized for the royal princess, not when the palace staff had prepared every guest list, every meal, every guard rotation, and every musical arrangement with obsessive care.

Yet this man had entered the palace carrying a violin, claiming he belonged to the evening’s musicians.

Here he wondered in which guest they might have disguised on...

He had to admit it.

"Smart."

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