Chapter 17
Knock, knock.
Dawn had barely broken when I rapped on the Grand Duke’s door.
“Your Grace?”
Silence greeted me.
I raised my hand to knock once more, only to hear a heavy thud from within—thump!—followed by the door flying open.
There stood the Grand Duke, a touch discomposed. He wore a shirt and vest, his cravat dangling untied about his throat.
“Lady?”
“Good morning, Your Grace. Oh, and aren’t you supposed to use my new title from now on?”
I leaned in closer, prompting his swift retreat.
“What brings you here?” he inquired.
“I figured we might share breakfast.”
“I rarely take breakfast.”
“Oh… right.”
Peering past him into the room, I caught his quiet exhale as he moved aside.
“Enter, then.”
“Thank you.”
I slipped inside without pause. The space held no one but him—no valet in sight to assist with his attire.
“Were you dressing? Did I arrive too soon?”
“…It’s all right.”
He seemed on the verge of reprimand yet held his tongue with courtesy.
“Struggling with your cravat?”
Spotting the limp silk at his neck, my face lit up. Here was the ideal excuse to draw near.
“May I assist?”
“No need,” he declined.
He lifted a hand protectively to his collar.
“I’m quite skilled at it.”
“I’ll manage alone.”
“But truly, I excel.”
This wasn’t idle boast—I truly possessed the knack.
I’d picked it up on a medieval-fantasy game promo shoot. The client griped about the model’s messy cravat, forcing me to study knots on the fly and practice relentlessly.
By wrap, I’d surpassed the stylist, handling all the ties myself.
The Grand Duke’s haphazard attempt offended my eye.
‘That simply won’t do. Style hinges on precision!’
In my old job, I’d obsessed over perfecting models’ looks, and now such flaws leaped out even in casual moments.
“Let me fix it right. It’ll look splendid, I swear.”
He released a long, weary breath.
“Lady.”
“Duchess.”
“…I’m accustomed to handling my own affairs. I like it solitary.”
“Still, I want to. Opportunities like this are rare, and I can’t very well knot cravats for random gentlemen, can I?”
His brow flickered at the notion of rivals.
Sigh.
Resigned, he bent toward me.
“Thus?”
Ha. All bark, no bite—this man had a tender core.
I seized the cravat’s ends.
The instant I tugged, his frame went rigid as a statue. His torso tensed so fiercely, a careless nudge might’ve sent me rebounding.
“No need for such tension. It’ll be quick.”
With care, I smoothed the silk and shaped the knot.
“…”
“…”
“…Still not finished?”
“One second. Now fold it so…”
Theory was solid, but my last tying felt ages ago—my fingers slipped, fumbling the weave.
“…Perhaps I should take over.”
Glancing up, I saw his throat flushed crimson.
“Oh dear, sorry. Too rough?”
“…No. Just… make haste.”
He averted his gaze sharply. Soon, his ears glowed rosy too.
‘Goodness, adorable!’
Hadn’t the Grand Duke been about ten when the curse struck?
Since, no woman’s touch had graced him properly… Yesterday marked his first, in fact. Such purity in his responses.
“Wait. Twist here… There! Mirror check.”
Over five minutes, perhaps, but the result gleamed elegant.
A light shove toward the glass made him startle.
“Enough prodding.”
He muttered, yet complied, facing his reflection.
“Well? Sharper now, isn’t it?”
The front loops and cascading tails lent undeniable polish.
“…Deft touch.”
“So I’m told.”
I preened with a shrug.
“Next time, a fresh knot.”
“Once suffices.”
His tone dripped reluctance, irked by my brazen familiarity.
‘He probably sees me as shameless, a marquis’s daughter with no decorum.’
It fazed me not.
To me, he was fresh clientele—my anchor.
‘I must forge a bond, come what may.’
“Winning Over the Timid Client.”
Goal set, resolve ignited.
I’d navigated endless patrons over years.
Pride? Poise?
Eroded by endless people-pleasing.
‘So long as he clings to me even if Father revolts, I’m secure.’
This realm’s pace crawled.
Back home, I’d have logged meetings, client chats, reports, boss chew-outs, vendor crises—three at least.
Here? Strolls. Tea.
Ample hours to shadow the Grand Duke.
Thrice daily visits: dawn, midday, dusk.
‘I’ll drain his mana till he’s loath to see me quit Blenheim!’
Eyes alight, I pressed,
“Passing the stairs, I caught a heavenly aroma. Tempted to discover breakfast’s delights?”
“As said, breakfast isn’t my habit.”
“Pity. I falter without it. You should fuel up too—duties demand vigor.”
“Lady—or rather, Grand Duchess.”
Massaging his temples in fatigue, he yielded under my stare.
“The castle staff prize discretion. No call to mimic true spouses.”
“Mimic spouses? What do you mean?”
I cocked my head.
“I simply wish breakfast together.”
My guileless gaze silenced him.
“Yesterday’s clam chowder was divine. Repeat today? I’d welcome duplicates.”
Teeth gritted at last, he conceded,
“Very well. Let’s dine. I’ll partake.”
“Wise. Meals matter.”
Beholding his drained air, I raised my palm.
“Escort me, then?”
“…To breakfast?”
“Heels today.”
I displayed a foot.
“Stumbles en route…”
“…Understood. Cease prattling.”
Still, he dawdled before offering his elbow.
My hand upon it met unyielding muscle—I jolted.
“Oh!”
“Injured?”
He withdrew in alarm.
“No, startled. Such iron strength.”
Fresh color surged to his cheeks, cravat composure shattered.
“Shall we?”
Thus arm-in-arm, we proceeded to the dining hall.
Servants prepped for the meal gaped in astonishment.
Whitley alone stayed composed, directing with crisp efficiency.
Evidently, the Grand Duke shunned maids at table; they withdrew, footmen assuming posts.
My inaugural breakfast alongside him proved delightful.
He appeared invigorated by companionship in the grand chamber.
‘I pegged him for a lone diner.’
Formerly, pre-solo living, family suppers crammed six at a speck table—utter mayhem.
Independent at last, solitude thrilled. Work lunches? Solo, uninterrupted.
Here, aloneness soured.
Perhaps company whetted hunger; I savored two strawberry cake helpings for sweets.
“Cake fan?”
His inaugural query came as he’d paused eating.
“Not especially—the berries shine. Fruit’s my weakness.”
I chased plate remnants.
“Curious why Blenheim strawberries excel?”
“Likely Rondoris imports.”
“Ah. Rondoris calls—I hear it’s stunning. Real marriage might afford a trip?”
Mid-sip, he sputtered on water.
“Kidding.”
His jaw locked, teeth at risk.
His blush drew my merry chuckle.
Teasing this Grand Duke? Pure delight.
