That’s How I Became a Villainess - Chapter 10

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 10

When Penelope learned that Isaac had released Bridget from confinement without so much as a word to her, she was livid.
“This is absurd! I haven’t even heard an apology from Bridget!”
She couldn’t believe that Bridget had been released not because she’d groveled to Isaac and promised to apologize to Penelope, but because of a Social Party invitation.
That night, the moment Isaac entered the bedroom, Penelope began to whine.
“Why did you just let Bridget go? I’m still not satisfied with this.”
“Two days is more than enough time for reflection. Let it go, Penelope.”
Isaac hummed to himself as he patted her shoulder a couple of times.
He’d been in a good mood all day, thrilled about attending the nobles’ party.
“If she’d truly reflected, she would have come to me right away and apologized! Bridget hasn’t even sought me out.”
Penelope folded her arms and fixed him with a sullen stare.
Isaac, scarcely glancing at her expression, lay down on the bed and offered some half-hearted consolation.
“She’ll apologize.”
His mind was occupied with thoughts of what gown to wear to the party.
Realizing that Isaac had little interest in her, Penelope wanted to press further and complain, but she clamped her lips shut in a pout.
She sensed that nagging him when he was this delighted about Bridget’s involvement would only hurt her own position.
Lying beside the humming Isaac, Penelope deliberately rolled over with a loud rustle, hoping he’d notice her displeasure.
But Isaac, oblivious to her sulk, continued to murmur to himself.
“I ought to get some proper Etiquette training while I’m at it. I wonder where I can hire a tutor…”
Penelope’s trembling hands gripped the bedsheet so hard her knuckles whitened.
‘My reputation! My pride…!’
Yet she couldn’t very well voice such things to Isaac.
Unable to say anything, she lay alone seething in silence—and then she heard Isaac’s snoring from beside her.
‘Ugh…!’
Penelope spent the night silently shredding her pillow.

* * *

For days afterward, Isaac was consumed with preparations to make a perfect impression at his first High Society party.
He paid the seamstress several times over to create gowns for both Bridget and himself, and hired an Etiquette tutor to take intensive lessons.
Since someone unacquainted with High Society circles couldn’t employ a nobleman as a tutor in propriety, the man he hired was someone who had once worked as a court attendant in the Royal Palace.
To Bridget’s eye, the arrangement seemed dubious, but she let it be—amused by how absurdly earnest Isaac appeared.
Meanwhile, Penelope remained quiet.
Whenever they passed in the corridor, she’d abruptly change direction and hurry down another hallway.
Yet even as she did, she lingered constantly within Bridget’s line of sight, as if hoping to make Bridget feel guilty and come apologize first.
Bridget left her to her own devices.
And so the day of the party arrived.
Bridget wore a Dress laden with jewels and excessive lace.
It was the gown Isaac had prepared for this party.
‘Like a pretty wrapped bouquet of candy—overdone in its fancy packaging.’
But many people did enjoy such ornate confections, so Isaac wasn’t entirely wrong in his judgment.
It would certainly impress upon everyone just how wealthy the Winston Family was.
In the carriage, Bridget and Isaac didn’t exchange a single word until they arrived at the Cavendish Marquis Residence.
As Isaac stepped down and offered Bridget his hand with apparent warmth.
“Take my hand, Bridget.”
For a moment, Bridget wondered if Isaac had confused her with Penelope.
He seemed so delighted to be attending this nobles’ party thanks to his nobly-born wife that he scarcely seemed in his right mind.
“I can manage on my own.”
“I said take it.”
Isaac’s brow furrowed.
He wanted to play the role of a devoted couple before everyone’s eyes.
Isaac still didn’t understand what this moment truly meant.
‘It’ll only make us a laughingstock anyway.’
Bridget took Isaac’s hand and descended from the carriage, linking her arm through his as he directed.
Since she’d come here to be humiliated anyway, there was nothing she wouldn’t do.
Satisfied that Bridget had complied so readily, Isaac smiled warmly once more.
As they stepped through the wide-open entrance, the middle-aged Cavendish Marchioness, who had been greeting guests, glanced at the names on the invitation and recognized them both.
“My goodness, the Countess of the Winston Family! And this gentleman must be the Count himself, surely?”
“Thank you for the invitation, Cavendish Marchioness.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Isaac brought her hand to his lips with practiced elegance.
The Cavendish Marchioness laughed heartily.
“Now I understand why the ladies favor you so, Count! How do you manage to win their hearts like that?”
“I… beg your pardon?”
Isaac’s bewildered expression flickered, but the Cavendish Marchioness only smiled with amusement.
‘A hand kiss has become something lovers exchange as a greeting these days.’
For the past thirty years, at least.
It seemed his Etiquette instructor was old-fashioned and had taught him the customs of another age.
The Cavendish Marchioness announced Bridget and Isaac’s arrival to the gathering in a loud voice.
At once, those who had been conversing among themselves turned their attention toward them, and a circle formed around the pair.
Someone posed a question to Isaac.
“The lady beside you — she must be the Countess of the Winston Family, yes? I’m a bit confused, you understand.”
“I’m sorry, what do you—”
“I was wondering if she might be some other lady who’s stolen the position of Countess! They say such things happen these days.”
It was a veiled jab at the household where wife and mistress lived under one roof, and at the whispers that had painted Penelope as a thief.
At the malicious jest, the gathered guests erupted into laughter.
“How wicked!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
In an instant, the lobby grew warm with mirth.
Though Isaac hadn’t fully grasped the situation, he recognized that people were mocking him, and his expression hardened.
Fearing the Count and Countess would flee too quickly, the Cavendish Marchioness hastened to lighten the mood.
“Please forgive their rudeness—I apologize on their behalf. Everyone’s being quite mischievous tonight; they must already be tipsy from the excellent wine I’ve brought out. Do try some yourselves.”
Yet despite these words, no one failed to notice that she was quite satisfied with the scene she had orchestrated.
She ushered Isaac and Bridget deeper into the reception hall.
“Do taste this wine. Among my holdings is the Broeune Territory, where the most exquisite grapes grow, and this was made from fruit harvested there.”
“Broeune wine is quite renowned. I’m familiar with it.”
Isaac, who had been rigid with tension, felt his spirits lift somewhat at the Cavendish Marchioness’s warm invitation.
The Cavendish Marchioness smiled winningly.
“Enjoy your evening, both of you. I must attend to other guests, so I’ll take my leave.”
“Ah, yes.”
And so Bridget and Isaac were left standing alone.
At gatherings of this sort, it was improper for a person of lower rank to initiate conversation with someone of higher standing unless they were already acquainted.
The host ought to introduce guests to one another to prevent awkward misunderstandings, but the Cavendish Marchioness had deliberately abandoned them—an intentional slight.
Yet Isaac genuinely believed her to be kind and well-disposed, impressed by her warm and smiling demeanor.
“They wouldn’t be joking about our circumstances, would they?”
Why wouldn’t they? Gossip here traveled faster than light.
But Bridget only shrugged, affecting indifference.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a Debut in High Society.”
Though she had never made her formal debut, she had tasted the aristocratic social culture in her previous life.
The noblewomen, having glimpsed gossip about her, had sought her out in private, and foolishly, Bridget had believed they would help her when they came laughing around her.
In the end, she had merely played the fool and been cast aside.
The memory of her past self, discovering too late that she had been used and feeling the sting of it, stirred something in Bridget now, and she laughed with bitter self-mockery.
‘How naive I was.’
Among those who had pretended to listen to her complaints while secretly scorning her was the Cavendish Marchioness.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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