Chapter 16
“I revealed the curse to you, risks be damned, because you deserve the truth. At the bare minimum, you ought to grasp why death nearly claimed you.”
His keen eyes flashed.
“You have to see the depths of the peril you’re facing.”
“Oh… so you’re telling me this out of concern for me?”
I pursed my lips in a faint pout.
“But a husband who schemed to evict his wife just a week after she arrived shouldn’t be lecturing like that.”
The Grand Duke fell silent for a beat, visibly caught off guard.
Is he mortified?
“You forced me to walk into our wedding hall on another man’s arm, and since I got here, you haven’t once shown your face.”
“Th-that’s…!”
“And now you’re shoving me aside with this danger nonsense, even after claiming my touch no longer affects you!”
The Grand Duke groped for a reply, but none came.
“Why? Is the curse just a convenient lie?”
I let my eyelids sag, crafting a look of pure woe.
“Do you simply want me gone, while I naively hang on?”
“That’s not it at all.”
“Or…”
I drew in a steadying breath and played my trump card.
“Are you let down that I showed up instead of my sister?”
“Your sister?”
“You said it plain as day.”
I dropped my gaze, feigning deepest sorrow.
“You declared you’d sooner perish than wed me—but for her, you’d consent.”
“I didn’t—that wasn’t…!”
Crimson flooded his neck in an instant.
“The capital’s elite circles buzzed with that scandal. It shamed me so thoroughly I skipped every ball and salon before the ceremony.”
“I never intended that fallout.”
The Grand Duke appeared sincerely rattled. He rose uncertainly, face etched with unease.
“My sister reveled in it, though.”
“I’ve never laid eyes on House Fasie’s elder daughter. I only…”
“If I slink back to the capital, what whispers do you imagine? ’Naturally, he cast her out—she’s no substitute for her sister.’ Isn’t that the verdict?”
“No, that’s not the case.”
The Grand Duke massaged the nape of his neck, adrift and defeated.
“I’m just concerned for your safety…”
Is it landing?
His pallor convinced me my ploy was striking home.
I bowed my head and let out a soft sniffle.
“…Are you weeping?”
“I… I don’t… know…”
I fished out a handkerchief and patted my bone-dry eyes. His voice trembled.
“P-please, no tears.”
He leaned in, fretful and at a loss, fingers twitching helplessly.
His boots scuffed restlessly before me, pacing to and fro.
I quivered my shoulders, milking the drama just a touch longer.
Time blurred.
“Ugh…”
At last, I released a sigh laced with feigned sobs.
“Do… as you please.”
The words rasped from him, thick with strain.
“What?”
I snapped my head up, doubting my ears. Resignation shadowed the Grand Duke’s features as he clarified.
“If you insist on remaining, then stay.”
“Truly?”
Joy lit my face before I could rein it in.
“But only a single year. And…”
Spotting my tearless cheeks, he whipped his head aside, irritation flaring.
“I’ve cautioned you plenty. If misfortune befalls you on my account, don’t hold me accountable.”
“Naturally. A single scratch or any hassle from me, and I’ll depart at once. Fair terms?”
I sprang from my chair, thrusting out my hand.
“Let’s make the best of it, Your Grace!”
He lingered motionless an age before clasping my hand, reluctant yet tender in his hold, face rigid.
That very afternoon, I drew up a contract and bore it to him.
“Is this truly required?”
“Absolutely! Clarity and formality are essential.”
Verbal pledges from patrons meant nothing sans ink.
A brutal truth etched in my past life’s scars.
Same story here. I claimed the title of Blenheim’s Grand Duchess—sans affection, sans proper rites—on the strength of one document: our marriage papers.
I passed him the meticulous draft.
He accepted with faint reluctance.
The stipulations were straightforward:
Loic Blenheim and Annette Fasie consent to divorce after one year.
In that span, Loic Blenheim shall accord Annette Fasie the dignities due a Grand Duchess; she shall execute her corresponding obligations.
Divorce timing post-year shall hinge on joint accord.
Premature dissolution demands unanimous willingness.
This pact supersedes wedding oaths; secrecy binds both parties.
“Any amendments? Speak freely,” I prompted.
Expression blank, the Grand Duke perused it and queried,
“’Treatment befitting a Grand Duchess’—elaborate.”
“Oh… nothing extravagant. But as Grand Duchess, I can’t tarnish your name or Blenheim’s, can I?”
“…?”
“Proper attire, no frumpish appearances, nods of gratitude to the retainers now and then…”
“You require a personal stipend,” he cut in.
“…Precisely.”
I’d couched it delicately, yet it boiled down to funds.
My reserves tallied a mere hundred Coins from emergencies and Fasie wedding trinkets. Future nest eggs aside, Blenheim’s coffers must sustain me here.
His unflinching stare heated my lobes, but he merely dipped his chin, as if self-evident.
“I’ll assign you a discretionary fund. Whitley oversees disbursements. If it falls short, tell me.”
“My thanks.”
The North’s Grand Duke lived up to his repute—generous to a fault.
I’d rehearsed defenses for the request; unneeded, I tucked the forms away.
“And ‘duties’—define them.”
An eyebrow arched, curiosity edging puzzlement.
“Grand Duchesses shoulder burdens: household oversight, staff direction, hosting visitors. I’d simply commit fully.”
“Uncalled for.”
Blunt and swift came his rebuff.
“Whitley and I manage seamlessly, as always.”
Message plain: the foe’s spawn wouldn’t helm his domain.
Yet I demurred.
“No—I crave the accountability.”
Power entwined with duty.
Duty absent, power hollowed.
A year idle here? Vassals and helpmates would dismiss me as transient chattel.
My Blenheim aim: utter obscurity.
An inert Grand Duchess? Tongues would wag.
Moreover, indolence for twelve moons? I’d rested aplenty; diligence beckoned anew.
“Don’t misconstrue. You bear no burdens.”
Chill laced his stare.
“For this year, you’re castle guest, nothing more.”
The edict rang like a boundary stone.
I gnawed my lip, irked.
Project orchestration, fiscal command, ledger mastery, vendor wrangling, honed diplomacy and barter craft—
A pinnacle performer!
Squandered for a year? Paid idleness, true, but galling!
To him, doubtless, I’m green nobility at best.
I wavered, then ventured,
“I’ll draw stipend, yes? Let me earn it through service.”
“Position merits the purse. Labor’s optional.”
“But I’m exceptional at it…”
Unyielding, the Grand Duke stood fast.
“Very well. Mull it. But one stipulation.”
“Which?”
“No more ‘Lady.’”
“…Then how shall I address you?”
“Grand Duchess.”
Reluctance creased his brow.
“If awkward, Annette suffices.”
“…”
“’Wife’ works too.”
“That’s…”
“’Wife’ your fancy?”
“…Grand Duchess it is.”
Sealed, we inscribed our assent.
For me, triumph.
His sudden weariness?
Fancy, surely.
