Try Begging Novel - Chapter 9

If Winston attacks me, will there be a way to escape?

There were many ways to escape. Few ways to escape without revealing she was a specially trained spy.

She stood respectfully beside Winston, hands clasped, and he turned towards Sally. As his straight leg crossed over the other knee, the sleek black toe of his shoe lifted, catching the hem of Sally’s skirt.

The moment she took a step back, Winston extended his empty hand to Sally. His foot, like a mischievous boy’s, lifted the hem of her skirt, while his hand was that of a gentleman.

“…Yes?”

Unsure of what he wanted, she tilted her head, and he pointed to the ceiling with the hand holding the cigar. Following his hand, her eyes fell upon a black chandelier. She lowered her gaze again, and he pointed to the chandelier with his eyes, extending his hand once more.

“If you’d wait on the sofa for a moment…”

“Just do it.”

“Dust will fall.”

“Cleaning that up is also your job.”

What kind of trick was this? His posture, deeply reclined in the leather backrest, showed a firm resolve to endure any dust that might fall from the chandelier.

Fine. If I can beat your head freely with the duster, I’ll gladly clean it.

Sally reluctantly put down the bucket and picked up the duster inside.

She hesitated, about to take the hand he stubbornly extended, as if he were collecting a debt. If she stepped onto the desk with her shoes, cleaning the footprints would also be her responsibility.

Leaning on the desk, she lifted one foot behind her. She pulled the thin shoelace, letting it slide loose, then gripped the heel of the shoe with her hand and gently pulled it down.

Even as her foot, encased in a white stocking, slipped out of the black shoe, Winston never took his eyes off her, as if removing a shoe was a fascinating spectacle.

His eyes scrutinized even such a mundane act as if interrogating it.

The quickest way to escape his uncomfortable gaze was to do as he asked and leave swiftly. Sally unhesitatingly took his hand and placed her knee on the desk.

“Ah…”

Winston’s hand let go just as she was about to step onto the desk with one foot. Her left foot, which had been dangling off the edge of the desk, was caught. Her body swayed, and Sally quickly braced herself with both hands on the desk.

She looked over her shoulder, sprawled in an awkward position like a runner at the starting line. Would he lift her skirt? She reached one hand behind her to press down the hem, but missed.

His gaze was elsewhere entirely.

“Captain?”

Winston snickered, his eyes still fixed on Sally’s toes. His thick thumb stroked the soft flesh through the thin stocking, gently tracing the gentle curve. Goosebumps rose from Sally’s toes to the back of her neck.

His touch, deliberately ticklish, made her feel like a groan would escape. That would surely lead to a messy misunderstanding. She bit her lip firmly.

When she pulled her foot back, signaling him to let go, his gentle touch changed. Winston cupped Sally’s foot with his long fingers and asked,

“What are you doing with the money I gave you?”

Sally’s resistance ceased at the unexpected topic. What was his intention in suddenly bringing up money?

“My mother’s hospital bills…”

“Did you send it?”

“No, not yet.”

If he asked for it back, she could give it. That wouldn’t be a problem. It seemed petty for a great landowner, but the wealthy were often the most greedy.

But what if he wasn’t? If this discerning man were to pry into the private details of a woman named Sally Bristol, he might notice a weakness.

Sally moistened her dry lips and asked,

“…Why do you ask?”

“Send it, but keep enough to buy a pair of stockings.”

“Ah!”

There was no time to ask what he meant. A sharp cry immediately escaped Sally’s startled lips. His thick thumb had burrowed into her stocking, rubbing the plump flesh.

“There’s a hole.”

A hint of laughter was mixed in Winston’s voice. It was a relief that it was just mischievousness, not his sharp intuition, but Sally couldn’t relax.

He put his thumb into the hole in the sole of her stocking and wiggled it. His finger went deep into the hole, bothering her pinky toe.

Rip. As the hole tore further, Sally’s cheeks flushed crimson.

“Just how grand a hospital is it, huh? Am I paying you too little? That can’t be it, so you don’t have enough money to buy a pair of stockings and you’re wearing one with a hole? Sally, how do you think that makes me feel?”

“Oh, that, no… Captain, I’ll definitely buy new ones tomorrow, so please let go. Look, the cleaning…”

Leon smiled and withdrew his hand. Even though it was still on his desk, the maid quickly got up and fled to the corner. For a woman whose expression didn’t change even at the sight of blood to blush so crimson over something like this was amusing.

“Interesting.”

Lunatic.

Sally inwardly cursed him with every vulgar word she knew as she swiftly dusted the chandelier.

Bastard. Eat dust.

She deliberately shook the ostrich feathers at the end of the duster over Winston’s golden crown. But no matter how hard she looked, no dust fell. It hadn’t been long since the chandelier was cleaned.

There was nothing to do but finish quickly and leave. She gave up on her timid retaliation and turned her back to dust the front of the chandelier.

“That’s right.”

A low murmur brushed against her calf, encased in the thin stocking.

“What?”

The moment she turned in surprise, she heard a creak. She looked down to see Winston leaning back in his chair, far away, as if he hadn’t done anything.

The cigar in his hand wasn’t being smoked, only burned, and a short stub of gray ash dangled from its tip.

“No, just talking to myself.”

“Oh, yes…”

The maid offered a polite smile. But the moment she turned her head, her teal eyes screamed, I despise you.

Leon flicked the ash from his cigar into the ashtray, a crooked smile on his face.

White.

His imagination from dinner with the Grand Duchess had been correct. Sally’s bloomers were white.

Now that he had confirmed the color of her underwear, it was only natural to want to confirm the color within.

Would it be the same color as in his imagination?

He wanted to reach under that black skirt and white petticoat, rip open the tightly sewn seam of her bloomers, and thrust his pistol into her.

Leon traced his smooth lower lip with the tip of his tongue, then suddenly bit it with sharp teeth.

Had any man seen it already?

He ground the tip of his cigar into the ashtray, as if searing the eyes of a man whose existence he didn’t even know.

“I’m finished, Captain. I’ll clean the carpet now.”

The pretense of dusting the chandelier was roughly over. Sally quickly got down from the desk before Winston could say anything else.

Filthy lecher. It was disgusting that he held her hand like a gentleman, despite having just peeked under her skirt.

It was fortunate, at least, that Winston didn’t bother her any further. Sally knelt on the carpet and began to clean the black stain.

She was so focused on cleaning quickly and leaving that she didn’t realize how much time had passed. In the meantime, Winston was as quiet as if he had evaporated.

She heard no rustling of paper, no click of a lighter. Unfortunately, she confirmed he hadn’t evaporated by the occasional deep breaths he took.

Since the ink had only recently spilled, it wasn’t difficult to clean before it dried. The stained area was slightly darker than the rest, but he would probably let that pass.

She stood up. Patting her wrinkled skirt, she turned to face Winston. He was leaning his chin on a lightly clenched fist, looking at her.

Was he not smoking his cigar anymore? His right hand was beneath the desk, out of sight.

What was so amusing about a common maid commonly cleaning a carpet stain? The corner of his mouth curved slightly upwards.

Where had his usual sharpness gone? His gaze, strangely soft and sticky, dropped from Sally’s face to her respectfully clasped hands.

Had he had a drink? But there was no alcohol on the desk, not even water.

“I’m finished. Do you need anything else?”

Winston nodded lightly.

Did that mean he had something more for her to do, or nothing?

As Sally tilted her head slightly, his gaze pointed to the ashtray beneath his chin. The black marble ashtray held the remains of the expensive cigar Winston had wasted earlier, buried in ash.

I can use emptying the ashtray as an excuse to leave.

Sally approached Winston with light steps and reached for the ashtray, then froze like stone.

From beneath the desk, a hand, thick with smoothly defined veins and sinews, slowly emerged. And the bronze-colored object held in that hand also had smoothly defined veins and sinews.

“Gasp!”

Clang. The ashtray slipped from Sally’s hand and crashed against the edge of the desk.