Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 43

"The Arrogant Lord Robain"tells the story of a girl named Tracy who, after an unfortunate childhood, drifts into the Duke's household and becomes entangled with the nobleman Robain.

As a fictional character, Lord Robain lacks realism—he's closer to an idealized male archetype.

Broad-shouldered with sharp eyes, every movement steeped in antique grace, always carrying roses—a gentlemanly yet aristocratic figure.

While ruthlessly rational in work matters, he's warm toward his woman—bathing in rose-petal-filled tubs, sipping wine while admiring night views, inexplicably favoring deeply plunging necklines, and when smitten, he'd cup a woman's chin with a smug smile. Despite such impropriety, the women whose chins he grabbed would inevitably blush.

Particularly around protagonist Tracy, this normally composed man often grew emotional.

Pinning her against walls to whisper in corners (usually saying nothing particularly important), unnecessarily stroking her hair to smell that day's scented candles... Acts that would get any ordinary man arrested immediately, Lord Robain performed without hesitation.

One leisurely afternoon, Derek found himself repeatedly tilting his head as he read through the elegantly penned manuscript.

Though initially bewildering, the narrative's depth and contemplative themes grew unexpectedly engaging. Even a literary novice like Derek got drawn in—clear evidence of serious craftsmanship.

The revelation of family secrets, the trials of Robain and Tracy's love, culminating in the sublime image of Robain abandoning all authority to chase through storms calling Tracy's name—

Their tearful reunion in the downpour, embracing fiercely before retreating to a log cabin (why a ducal estate's front yard had a log cabin remained unexplained) to dry off. As Tracy caught cold from being drenched, Robain sat by her bedside until she fell asleep by the fireplace.

The story ended on Robain tucking in the sleep-talking Tracy as she murmured about missing her departed family, the nobleman wrestling with complex emotions while his lonely silhouette spoke of a life never knowing familial love... Then the text abruptly cut off.

"Probably because Lord Robain's family background wasn't fully established yet... What a fascinating scene..."

"..."

"Now I understand why even the mansion maids secretly devour these. Lady Denise, your talent is genuinely impressive—no empty flattery."

"Enough... I admit defeat... I'm sorry... Just... please stop..."

It was after daily lessons, during a visit to Denise's chambers before returning to his quarters.

Denise lay sprawled across her bed as if every bone ached.

Gone was her usual languid laziness—today she'd pushed herself relentlessly per Derek's demands.

Her pitiable state bordered on tragic, prompting Bella to tearfully massage her shoulders.

"..."

Derek wore a complicated expression.

Seeing the normally indolent noblewoman train so diligently, one might think he'd weaponized her shame over that embarrassing manuscript.

A misunderstanding lingered—Derek had repeatedly stated his genuine admiration for Denise's writing.

While he understood the cringing humiliation, as someone emotionally reserved, he couldn't fathom why she'd make such a fuss.

Unfortunately, Derek's rationality made him ill-equipped to handle an adolescent girl's turbulent sensibilities.

Thus his earnest attempts to analytically praise specific aspects of her work only compounded Denise's mortification.

The victim lay corpse-like on her bed while the perpetrator—completely oblivious—remained at large.

This paradox only deepened Denise's despair.

About ten days into Derek's tutelage, Lady Elente paid a formal visit bearing fine tea.

Unlike salon encounters, a house call from someone of Elente's status carried significant weight—private meetings required proper justification for nobles of Belmierd's standing.

The pretext of fostering inter-house relations barely masked what was clearly reconnaissance. Servants remained tense—such meetings always carried unspoken political implications.

In truth, Elente simply wanted to check on Derek and Denise's progress.

'Bold perhaps... but better than sitting idle.'

Lady Denise wasn't someone even empty flattery could easily instruct.

An enigmatic figure who instantly erected defenses when her boundaries were probed.

Though she exchanged elegant pleasantries at Rosea Salon, it was all perfunctory etiquette. Elente had long recognized Denise's natural indifference.

A stark contrast to Elente's own forthrightness.

Derek must be struggling. If he found the Beltus household incompatible, Elente considered making another offer.

'Though without Grand Duke Beltus's approval, it's hopeless.'

Under the guise of camaraderie (not espionage), Elente made her move.

First, she'd sound out the inscrutable Lady Denise.

"...Lady Elente's visit means I can finally rest..."

But the woman who entered the parlor bore little resemblance to her Rosea Salon persona—ghastly pale.

"Pale"might be inaccurate. While exhausted, her posture appeared more athletic, movements crisper—as if intensive outdoor training had reshaped her in mere days.

Yet her expression betrayed utter depletion. Despite meticulous makeup and lovely accessories, bone-deep fatigue radiated through.

The maids'frantic primping had reached its limits.

"...You look exhausted. Lady Denise has been training relentlessly."

"...Y-yes... That instructor Derek is... remarkably enthusiastic."

With a salon luminary visiting, Denise mustered her most polished smile.

"H-he teaches differently than expected. Physically demanding... and emotionally... somewhat oppressive..."

The ever-graceful Denise, who never trailed off mid-sentence, now wore a world-weary expression.

Seeing this, Elente suddenly recalled Derek's training.

-"Now begins true hell."

"Eep."

A shiver raced down Elente's spine.

As with most hardships, memory softens edges—only achievements and joys remain.

But Derek's relentless training sprints, exhaustion-inducing mana drills, sleep-deprived theory sessions—remembering them still made her mouth go dry. He remained the most hardcore instructor she'd known.

Their eyes met.

Denise seemed to read Elente's thoughts.

Elente considered:

Evelstain's social circles often formed factions around shared mentors—every connection was leverage.

'Perhaps bonding over our shared instructor? Though factions might form... How would others perceive it?'

'Still... it could create relationships beyond the salon's stifling formalities...'

Meanwhile, Denise set down her teacup with different thoughts.

'Lady Elente suffered under that instructor too... This victim solidarity feels complicated...'

Denise had watched Elente deteriorate under Derek's tutelage. Now it was her turn.

Yet hope remained.

Denise instantly discerned Elente's purpose—to assess Derek's status and probe her willingness to continue. Meaning House Belmierd hadn't abandoned recruiting Derek.

Music to Denise's ears—she desperately wanted rid of him. But this instructor came with no return policy.

Beyond Grand Duke Beltus's insistence, Derek himself was hellbent on making Denise a great mage.

With countless noble daughters in Evelstain's social circles—even Aiselin herself eager to learn—why torment Denise?

Her frustration had surpassed exasperation, reaching awestruck horror at his manic dedication.

Somehow, this socialized monster had seamlessly infiltrated the household, endearing himself to staff.

'Ugh... headache returning...'

But others might see this as spoiled whining—the cruelest part.

Why Aiselin, Elente, and that mad instructor were so obsessed with each other baffled her.

Did refined noblewomen secretly enjoy torture?

Studying Elente's cautious expression, Denise could only marvel at life's diversity.

"How fares Lady Aiselin? My magical training has made me neglect Rosea Salon duties—only attending key events without proper greetings. I hope she isn't offended."

Denise swiftly changed topics.

Derek's handling required more thought, as did navigating Elente's intentions.

"Lady Aiselin returned to her family seat. She must attend her brothers'deployment ceremony and help prepare her sister's debutante ball. Having experienced it herself, she's best suited to assist."

"Her sister's debut? Is Lady Diela coming to Evelstain?"

"Yes. Rumor says her magical achievements surpass expectations..."

Aiselin's sister—bearing Duplein blood and having reached 2-Star rank.

Another Aiselin-level talent would quake Evelstain's social landscape.

"She's visiting before the next gathering to make introductions... If she attends the regular meeting next week, you'll meet her. I'm nervous too—my first time meeting her."

'Now social politics too? Ugh... migraine...'

Denise longed to collapse. But after Elente left, hellish training would resume.

This conversation was her only respite.

Downstairs, Derek undoubtedly awaited with that satisfied smile, training preparations complete.

Lately, his face had started resembling a demon's.

"Lady Diela. The Rosea Salon gathering schedule—it's next week."

Duplein Family's guesthouse.

Diela's spacious private chamber contained surprisingly sparse furnishings. One wall was crowded with easels bearing various landscapes, while her lace-canopied bed overflowed with spellbooks.

At the center, a golden-haired girl silently manipulated mana while staring at the ceiling—a noble-born mage of the Wild School.

Voluminous wavy locks framed her doll-like frame, the ruffles of her ever-present dress draping over her knees like a blanket.

Even in stillness, the mana swirling around her radiated extraordinary talent.

Her progress dwarfed anything achieved under Derek. She'd mastered Wild School fundamentals, finding most 1-Star magic trivial now.

Though her appearance hadn't changed, her magical growth threatened to surpass everyone except Derek.

"Rosea Salon? Why suddenly?"

The girl was already walking the path of mastery.

After listening to the butler's report with disinterest, she finally spoke, cold eyes lowering.

"Why would I go there?"

Though nearly qualified to make waves in Evelstain's social scene, such honors held no appeal.

Born of the loftiest lineage yet resisting all constraints—the mark of true genius.