To My First Love, With Regret (Libenia) Chapter 5

It seemed they were going hunting.

“Well, if it isn’t our ‘not vulgar’ little artist.”

Harry had clearly come looking to continue the argument from lunch.

Evelyn refused to indulge him.

After giving his friends a brief nod, she pointedly ignored her brother and continued toward the cliffside. Behind her, the roar of the engine tore violently through the wind.

Strange.

Did he really back off without even trying to provoke me?

Watching the car disappear beyond the hill, Evelyn muttered a curse under her breath.

“If they drove straight off a cliff like that, the average intelligence and morality of humanity would improve considerably.”

Normally Becky adored Evelyn’s vicious remarks.

This time, she didn’t laugh.

After all, both their mothers had died that way.

“My greatest mistake in life was not strangling that bastard with his own umbilical cord before he was born.”

“It sounds like the Sherwood siblings’ reunion was even more explosive than I expected.”

“He somehow became even more disgusting while we were apart. What exactly do they teach at that university?”

Maybe she should stop talking about Harry altogether if she wanted her anger to settle.

Evelyn changed the subject.

“So how did the Fairchild siblings’ reunion go?”

The moment she asked, Becky’s face bloomed into a smile so bright she couldn’t hide it even if she tried.

The answer was obvious.

While Evelyn wanted to flee the house her brother had invaded, Becky’s thoughts were entirely occupied with the home her brother had finally returned to.

“Did Ethan bring you gifts from Richmond?”

She only asked once they’d made their way down the narrow winding trail along the white cliff and stepped onto the hidden beach tucked between the rocks.

“How did you know he brought presents?”

“Because your brother is Ethan, not Harry.”

The relationship between the Fairchild siblings was special.

Their maternal grandfather was still alive, yet perhaps because they’d lost their mother so early, they cared for one another as though the two of them alone existed in the world.

It was exactly the kind of sibling bond Evelyn had always dreamed of.

She had long since moved past envy.

Now she simply found comfort in witnessing the warmth other siblings shared.

“Go on,” Evelyn said quietly. “Brag about him. Make me jealous.”

Becky studied her carefully for a moment before finally giving in to her excitement.

“He brought me a scarf that perfectly matches my eyes! Real silk, too! I’m terrified it’ll snag, so I can’t even bring myself to touch it properly. Oh—and he said scented soap is fashionable among noble ladies in the capital these days, so he bought me some, but it feels far too precious to actually use…”

A silk scarf. Scented soap.

To Evelyn, those were ordinary little luxuries she’d never once worried about damaging or running out of.

And yet she still felt jealous.

Because the love behind those gifts was something she herself had never possessed.

Suppressing a sigh, Evelyn helped Becky set up the easel and unpack the painting supplies.

Bang! Bang!

Gunshots shattered the peaceful silence of the summer afternoon.

That crude noise suited Harry perfectly.

Why is he still the same?

Ethan had once been just as mischievous as Harry, yet he’d grown into a man capable of caring for his family.

But perhaps they’d only appeared similar on the surface. Even as a child, Ethan had possessed a sensitivity and seriousness far beyond his years.

Suddenly, Evelyn found herself wondering—

What kind of man had that boy become?

“You’re the beautiful one, my lady. I’m handsome. I’ll be your model, and in return you have to call me ‘handsome’ every time we meet. Not ‘pretty.’”

From Becky’s stories, Evelyn already knew about Ethan’s character.

What interested her now was his appearance.

That “beautiful” face he’d stubbornly insisted was merely handsome.

Perfect symmetry. Perfect proportions. Beautiful from every angle.

Ethan Fairchild’s face had once awakened two contradictory desires inside the young Evelyn: the urge to conquer it as an artist… and the shamefully inappropriate desire to possess it herself.

That was why, as a child, she’d painted Ethan Fairchild’s face over and over again.

Maybe I should see him.

Trying to sound casual, Evelyn asked from afar about his well-being instead.

“Did Ethan say he’s doing well? Does he have enough money?”

Before she could even finish speaking, Becky shook her head vigorously.

“O-Of course he does! Why are you asking?”

Because of that disgusting rumor about your brother selling his body as a model.

“Ah, your hair’s in the way.”

Becky pulled out the scarf and tied it around Evelyn’s head like a ribbon while continuing to chatter cheerfully.

“How could he possibly struggle? The duke sponsors him so generously.”

“I’m glad to hear that…”

Enough distractions.

Evelyn turned her attention toward the sea spread endlessly before her.

That dazzling color of the water… If the greatest painter alive tried to capture it on canvas, he would probably break his brush in despair.

To Evelyn, the sea only felt complete when it existed alongside the land and sky around it. She never painted water alone.

Water and light.

Trying to portray something transparent using thick oil paints so fundamentally opposed to transparency.

She had painted water ever since first picking up a brush, but never like this—never this closely, never this boldly.

The challenge exhilarated her.

Evelyn stared for a long time at the constantly shifting waves, engraving every changing reflection into her heart. Gradually, the ocean she’d gathered inside herself began overflowing.

She closed her eyes.

Water, whose very nature was eternal change, settled within her heart into something complete and everlasting.

Her pulse quickened with the desperate urge to pour that feeling onto the canvas immediately.

You have no talent for painting.

Sometimes children needed to judge their parents coldly.

Old fox.

She wouldn’t fall for such shameless lies meant to break her spirit.

She would prove herself through skill alone.

Evelyn opened her eyes sharply.

No sketch needed.

Without hesitation, she reached for her paints and oil jar—only to freeze.

The jar felt far too light.

“This won’t be enough.”

“Oh no, I forgot to refill it! I’ll be right back, my lady.”

Becky hurried up toward the cliff path.

Evelyn stared coldly at the parasol Becky had shoved into her hands before leaving.

Tap.

She folded it and tossed it aside.

Tilting her head upward, she let the sunlight pour over her freely for the first time in ages. The warmth softened the frozen expression that perpetually lingered on her face.

Then she opened her eyes again and began mixing colors.

The familiar scent of oil paint filled the air.

To her, it smelled sweet.

Breathing suddenly felt easier.

Once she found the perfect shade, Evelyn picked up a broad brush. Her lips—always tightly restrained around others—curved gently alongside the movement of her hand.

Some people looked at a blank canvas and felt overwhelmed by the long journey toward a perfect painting.

Evelyn was different.

If a painting failed, she could simply learn more, correct it, improve it.

But her family wasn’t like that.

They were the only thing that ever left her helpless.

She was nearly finished laying down the background in broad sweeping strokes when—

Crunch.

Footsteps over pebbles.

Someone was approaching.

Too heavy to be Becky’s.

Evelyn turned sharply toward the cliff path, and her heart dropped.

A man.

One of Harry’s friends. The crown prince of some tiny kingdom wedged between greater powers.

“A landscape that practically demands someone become an artist,” he said smoothly.

He walked toward her with the kind of gentle smile that made his intentions painfully obvious.

Was he truly so lacking in decency—or common sense—that he would approach a woman alone like this?

Then again, he was Harry’s friend.

She was isolated with a man in a secluded place.

If Evelyn were a cat, every hair on her body would be standing upright right now.

Did people honestly think being a duke’s daughter protected her from danger?

Men with power committed crimes just as easily as men with nothing to lose. Sometimes even more easily—because power placed them above consequences.

Regretting that she’d thrown aside the parasol with its sharp metal tip that could’ve served as a weapon, Evelyn instead grabbed the palette knife she’d been using to mix paint and rose to her feet.

“What do you want?”

“Would you allow me to watch you paint, my lady?”

“Do I look like entertainment to you?”

“That isn’t what I meant. Forgive me if I offended you.”

“If you’re truly sorry, then leave me alone so I can focus on my painting.”

The Crown Prince of Rosenholm obediently turned away.

For a moment, Evelyn actually felt relieved. Perhaps he wasn’t as uncivilized as Harry after all.

Then, instead of climbing the stairs back up the cliff, he casually sat down on the rocky ledge at the entrance.

Blocking her only exit.

Right.

Birds flock only with their own kind.

Humans were no different.

Pretending not to have heard her rejection, the prince continued speaking.

“My lady, even the sight of you concentrating on your painting feels like a masterpiece. I paint a little myself, you see, and I’ve never regretted forgetting my supplies this much before. Would you continue painting for the sake of this unfortunate man, who must preserve your beauty only within his heart instead of on canvas?”

Evelyn answered him quietly, careful not to provoke him further, while cold sweat slid down her back.

Why isn’t Becky back yet?

Desperate, she glanced upward toward the cliff.

And met another man’s eyes.

…Ethan?