Ch#51
A woman had breached the Grand Duke’s castle—a domain long off-limits to females—and now the men were behaving as if reason had fled them entirely.
The servant signaling to the Grand Duchess from the shadows was none other than Territo’s second daughter, exactly as Meisel had described.
Tiern shot the maid a scorching glare; she averted her eyes at once. The Grand Duchess, however, met his stare with unruffled poise.
So this is the notorious vixen from the capital? She’s got nerve, I’ll give her that.
Tiern’s hostility was plain as day, yet the Grand Duchess held her ground and extended a token of goodwill.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir Tiern. I anticipate a fruitful collaboration.”
Her vivid blue gaze locked onto his, forcing Tiern to break contact first.
He couldn’t say why, but the defeat stoked his ire. After drills, he ambled along a secluded trail by the castle ramparts, seeking to simmer down.
Clutched in his fist was a kerchief bearing a golden emblem—the shade of her tresses. He suspected she’d selected it deliberately, a notion that only deepened his irritation.
As he skirted the path by the turret, Tiern hurled the handkerchief into the underbrush. It fluttered down onto the soil, gradually staining with grime.
A personal offering from the Grand Duchess. Discovery here would brand it an egregious insult.
Yet who ventured this far? Even servants seldom tread these grounds.
Savoring a childish triumph, Tiern strode off—oblivious to the figure who soon after retrieved the discarded cloth.
Meanwhile…
“Good morning, Your Grace!”
My routine visit to the Grand Duke’s chambers caught me utterly by surprise.
“Y-Your Grace?”
Our mornings typically unfolded predictably.
I’d slip inside, where the Grand Duke—impeccably attired, shirt fastened to the neck—awaited by the cravat stand.
He’d incline his head for easy access as I selected a tie to complement his ensemble.
But today, he appeared preoccupied.
One cuff dangled loose.
“Your Grace, hold on. Your cuff’s come undone. Allow me.”
“Thank you.”
He observed in silence as I secured it. Come the next morning, both cuffs hung open.
Forgot again? I mused, remedying them nonetheless.
The day after, his collar button gaped… and now, three front buttons stood ajar.
Tomorrow he’ll arrive shirtless!
A subtle shift revealed the sculpted planes of his chest through the gap.
Eyes up! I berated myself, whipping my gaze to the cabinet. The mirror betrayed my image: cheeks aflame, expression unnervingly rapt.
I willed my features into neutrality.
“Am I too early?”
“Perfect timing.”
His voice remained even.
Then why the undone buttons?
No—I must be punctual. The etiquette-obsessed Grand Duke had likely cracked the door early to spare me a wait, overlooking his dishevelment.
“Your buttons are open.”
I mentioned it lightly, sparing his dignity, while stealing a peek at his face.
“……My apologies.”
His tone stayed steady, but his neck bloomed scarlet.
“Apologize? For what! You’re doing this on purpose!”
Even the dimmest soul could spot the ploy.
Had he truly left them unfastened deliberately?
Hoping I’d tend to them?
Why?
Flustered, my gaze skittered, but his faintly crestfallen look cracked the puzzle.
Is contact easing his pain?
Lately, cravat-tying had heightened my awareness of our proximity.
For unspoken reasons.
Am I some deviant? Why does touching him spark pleasure?
Initially dismissive, I’d grown convinced.
Contact ignited an odd warmth.
Not mere coziness—a shimmering thrill coursed through me.
Edged with allure.
Mana’s effect?
Perhaps absorbing another’s essence provoked this?
I studied his responses, but his inevitable flushes obscured truth.
He’d sometimes twitch as if tickled, yet…
If unnatural, was I simply lust-driven?
Confront him?
“Your Grace, does my touch feel good… because of mana?”
No—that’d paint me deranged.
“You enjoy touching me? So you’ve been fastening my cravats with impure motives? Unhand me! I can’t parade a wanton like you!”
…Silence seemed wiser.
Is his agony so fierce he’s scheming for proximity?
He’d never confessed my role as balm.
Given his reticence, desperation wouldn’t prompt hand-holding pleas.
Now, shirt agape for mere brushes?
If he craves it, why refuse?
It pleased me too, so I’d minimized contact lately…
“Please, a moment,” he murmured, cheeks burning in surrender.
“No need. I’ve got it.”
My fingers found his shirt before protest.
Loic trapped his lower lip between his teeth.
She knows. She has to know.
Humiliation scorched his features.
The duchess might be clueless, but Loic had vowed restraint.
He’d never exploit her purity for relief.
Yet since her arrival, vitality surged unduly.
Her touch began as solace… then evolved.
Contact zapped like lightning. His core ignited.
He yearned to clasp her hand, graze her skin, enfold her…
As she fastened his shirt, Loic’s gaze drifted to her lips.
Filthy cur.
He snapped upright, cords straining in his neck.
She offered innocent aid, sharing dawn’s ritual—while he harbored depraved fancies.
Her chill fingertips seared through cloth against his chest, her ignorance of his fever stark.
Each graze hammered his pulse.
Mere buttons, yet he flushed furiously.
Breaths grew labored.
She smoothed the fabric, tied his cravat, and beamed. “There.”
“Thank you,” Loic managed, dipping his chin with a cleared throat.
Shirt ploy’s mortification ebbed, yielding to hollow regret at the interlude’s end.
Should’ve stripped bare…
Retreating, adrift in reverie, he startled as she seized his hand.
“Your Grace?”
“Hold still. Let me savor my husband’s hand awhile.”
Loic yielded without a fight. Thought evaporated.
Her digits kneaded his tenderly.
My hands…?
He angled his flushed face aside. “Why?”
A guileless smile lit hers.
“Warm palms summon fortune.”
“I… understand.”
Fortune be damned—this was bliss.
“With your hand in mine, your day’s assured smooth. Plans today?”
Composure fraying, Loic answered, “Official briefings.”
“More? You’ve been swamped.”
“Prepping for Rondoris delegation.”
“Rondoris?” She halted.
“Why?” he pressed, noting her pallor.
She eyed his hand, then ventured,
“The princess? Betrothal talks?”
“What? No!”
Loic’s stare bulged.
“No harm. Early diplomacy for a year-hence wedding.”
“No marriage discussions with Rondoris since then.”
He met her eyes, rattled.
“Purely trade pacts.”
“…Right.”
“Truly. With a wife, I’d scorn alternatives. I’m no cad.”
“Got it.”
Her smile faltered, strained.
Wrong.
Misapprehension clear.
Loic opened his mouth, but her petulant edge cut in:
“No need for guilt toward me. Honor the pact, and your affairs are yours.”
Warmth iced over in his skull.
“…You don’t care?”
“Hmm?”
His pitch had plunged unwittingly.
He, frantic for nearness, baring like a smitten brute…
While she eyed a twelvemonth hence, all transactional.
Yes, the contract—that’s her anchor.
His grip slackened.
She released, gauging him warily, as if fearing offense.
She’s correct.
Loic wouldn’t burden her with unease.
He clasped her wrists gently, guiding them down.
“Early sessions mean no breakfast. But I’ll escort you.”
“Thank you.”
Arm proffered, she linked as ever; relief softened her.
Her yielding warmth clenched his fist as they set forth.
