Patrick slumped back into his chair, the colorful etiquette book feeling more and more heavy by the passing seconds that occur. He felt like he was playing an ultra difficult questline that needed a lot of studying.
"So, if Valeria calls my shoes quaint, she's actually saying I look like a peasant," he muttered, rubbing his temples, he didn't even know what the word quaint meant.
"And if I tell her the weather is 'unusually stagnant,' I'm basically calling her boring." Patrick added a gesture that pointed at the sky while his eyes looked at the invisible person in front of him to show his emphasis.
He spent the next hour practicing his indirect deflections. He stood before the wall on the right side of the room, trying to look cool while delivering insults that sounded like compliments.
"Your contribution to this conversation is as significant as a single drop of rain in the ocean," he practiced, tilting his chin upward.
He paused, then winced. "No, that's too poetic. It needs more... arrogance."
He tried again, channeling every snobbish movie villain he could remember from his past life.
"I admire your courage in choosing such a... unique perspective."
There it is, he thought. The 'Bless your heart' of the medieval world. Nailed it.
A sudden chime echoed through the room.
He looked over the service bell on his desk if some cat had jumped over it and made it fell down. The service bell was there, he looked confused since the bell sounded way louder than just a chime.
He looked up at the ceiling, then to the window. He realized it was the larger, more resonant bell ringing from the manor's courtyard.
Patrick froze. According to the 'Daily Schedule' page at the back of the etiquette book, that bell signified only one thing.
"The arrival of guests." Panic flared in his chest.
Reidward! I need that drunkard right now!
He scrambled to the window and peered down. A carriage that was painted in deep emerald with gold leaf accents, pulled into the driveway. The crest on the door was a stylized mechanical gear entwined with lilies.
"The mechanical gadget empire meets the floral arrangements," Patrick whispered, his heart hammering. "Valeria."
Patrick remembered how this symbol meant the when two family's crest combined and the noble puts the combined symbols on a carriage would mean they are in favor of the marriage. Basically saying to others that she chose this one.
He watched as a footman opened the door. A woman stepped out, her movements so fluid and precise they looked choreographed.
Even from the second floor, Patrick could see the predatory elegance of her posture.
"Okay, Patrick. Focus," he hissed to himself, backing away from the window. "Smile. Interest. Purpose. Read between the lines. Don't let her see you're a fraud who spent his morning reading smut."
He checked his clothes to fix any invisible ruffles. He already looked handsome, cool, and intimidating. If only the brain inside matched the packaging.
There was a frantic thumping of boots in the hallway, and Reidward burst in without knocking, smelling like a brewery.
"Young Master!" the butler wheezed, straightening his collar.
"She's here! Lady Valeria is in the foyer! She's asking for an audience to discuss the logistical synergies of the upcoming merger."
Patrick blinked. "Logistical synergies? You mean the wedding?"
"In noble talk, yes!" Reidward hissed, grabbing a bottle of cologne from a shelf and spraying Patrick so aggressively it nearly blinded him.
"Now, remember: keep your back straight, your words few, and for the love of the gods, don't choke her again!"
Patrick took a deep breath, the scent of expensive sandalwood and Reidward's gin filling his lungs. He stepped toward the door, his face settling into that devastating, practiced mask.
"Let's go," Patrick said, his voice surprisingly steady. "I have some lines I need to read."
In the foyer below, the atmosphere was thick enough to choke a horse, much like the Vitch a day ago but she wasn't a horse.
Lady Valeria stood in the center of the marble floor, her crimson hair cascading down her back. Her ethereal beauty was undeniable, but her eyes had that sharp as a master crafted scalpel, were currently dissecting the estate's staff.
"Is the air in this province always so... laden with the scent of failure?" Valeria asked, her voice like silk draped over a blade.
She directed the question to a maid who was simply trying to offer her a refreshment tray. "And this tea. It's quite fascinating how your kitchen managed to find leaves that taste exactly like lukewarm dishwater. It must take a truly remarkable lack of effort."
The maids remained silent, heads bowed, though their knuckles were white as they gripped their trays.
Valeria sighed, tapping a gloved finger against her chin. "I suppose one shouldn't expect the help to possess a palate. After all, simplicity is a virtue for those with limited horizons."
Above them, Patrick took a final, steadying breath. "Alright, let's make an entrance."
He stepped onto the grand staircase, projecting every ounce of "Young Master" energy he could muster. He kept his back straight, his gaze forward, and his jaw set. He looked like a god descending from Olympus.
Then, he hit the fourth step.
Whether it was a stray drop of Reidward's spilled gin or a bit of wax from Mina's earlier cleaning, Patrick's foot found zero traction.
His world tilted. With a distinctly un-noble yelp, he went airborne, tumbled down the remaining stairs, and slid across the polished floor.
The momentum carried him right out the open front door, where he landed face-first in a fresh patch of mud churned up by the carriage wheels.
"Young Master!" Reidward shrieked, scrambling down after him.
The butler tried to grab Patrick's arm to hoist him up, but his own drunken balance betrayed him. Reidward slipped, his boots losing purchase in the muck, and he fell directly onto Patrick's back with a wet squelch.
Valeria watched from the doorway, her expression shifting from bored disdain to a look of pure, horrified fascination.
"I was not aware," she said, her voice dripping with venomous amusement, "that the heir to a mechanical empire practiced the 'earth worm' style of greeting. How... rustic."
"Bathroom! Now!" Patrick hissed, pushing Reidward off and scrambling to his feet. He didn't look back at Valeria as he bolted toward the nearest washroom, leaving a trail of brown sludge behind him.
In the dressing room connected to the bath, a mess ensued. Reidward was frantically tossing clothes out of a mahogany wardrobe, but the butler was so panicked he kept picking out mismatched socks.
"Out of the way!" a firm voice commanded. The changing maids, led by a surprisingly bold woman named Elara, pushed the butler aside.
Patrick stood there, half naked and shivering as they began to scrub the mud from his skin with hot towels.
Despite the rush, the maids' movements slowed down significantly as they reached his torso. Their eyes lingered on his defined abs and the "massive upgrade" he now possessed. One maid took an unusually long time "checking for dirt" near his waistband, while another whispered something to her colleague that made them both flush a deep pink.
"Faster!" Patrick urged, glancing at the clock. "She's going to leave!"
"We must ensure the Young Master is... thoroughly presentable," Elara murmured, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw while she slowly buttoned his new silk shirt.
Finally dressed in a fresh, midnight-blue waistcoat and crisp trousers, Patrick stepped out. He and Reidward began to walk toward the foyer again, this time with slow, deliberate steps to avoid another disaster. They learned their lesson that going faster would ussually make untimely accidents to occur.