Ch#79
“Ah…”
An awkward smile tugged at the Duchess’s lips, yet Loic made no move to pull his hand away.
Without these occasional gestures, she might well overlook that he was her spouse.
He released her only after her scowl softened and color bloomed across her cheeks.
“Forgive me. You appeared distressed.”
The Duchess touched her brow self-consciously.
“It looks like the Merchants’ Guild meddled once more. They must have kept Goldrain’s clerks from submitting applications to the management office.”
“Had I realized it would burden you this way, I’d have sacked the Guildmaster on the spot.”
“That would stir up trouble.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“I can. Besides, handling things as they stand proves simpler than training a replacement.”
The Duchess halted his protest with resolve.
“…That’s why I’ve been considering the orphans for the roles.”
“The orphanage?”
“Precisely. Once they reach adulthood, lingering there grows difficult. Bringing them into the office with lodging and meals would ease their path to self-reliance.”
“Employment for those youngsters would be ideal. I’ll instruct Perel to manage it.”
“My thanks.”
Relief washed over the Duchess, who envisioned the literate orphans aiding illiterate shopkeepers as well.
“Incidentally, there’s a fellow named Jerome at the orphanage…”
Loic’s forehead creased at the unexpected mention.
“He’s sharp as a tack and full of wit.”
“…Indeed.”
“And remarkably handsome to boot. Even Cecilia found him irresistible!”
“…What about you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You mentioned the maid succumbed to his charms.”
Loic’s tone sharpened unwittingly.
The Duchess met his gaze and let out a soft laugh.
Perhaps he was acting juvenile. He inwardly scolded himself for voicing something so foolish.
“I nearly succumbed myself…” she said with a playful lilt.
“But how could I, with a husband as striking and debonair as mine?”
Such teasing often slipped from her when he drew near.
Even so, heat crept up his neck.
If I’m so exceptional, then why…
Loic compressed his lips.
“No need for my splendid husband to feel jealous,” she murmured, placating him like a sulky boy.
Her gentle words only constricted his chest further.
“…Could you… spare some attention for me as well?”
The words escaped him.
Fists balled beneath the table, nails biting into skin, Loic rued them at once.
“Eh?”
The Duchess’s eyes widened.
“A—attention?”
Bewilderment laced her stammer.
“I lavish attention on you already!” she protested.
“You offer the same to maids, knights, and even innkeepers.”
He recognized the whine in his voice, yet pressed on.
For him, their time was fleeting—a single year.
Why divide her valuable focus among so many?
And the crowd swelled endlessly.
Ever-present maids, day-long knight escorts, incessant administrators, approaching villagers…
“Even the mage,” he grumbled darkly.
Enolius—that recluse who shunned company for his distant tower. Yet he kept seeking her out.
“Enol? He merely came to talk about the fountain initiative.”
“That misses the mark entirely!”
Loic’s envy erupted.
“Why the nickname for him?”
“He requested it…”
The memory of the mage’s smug grin in the greenhouse set Loic’s blood aflame.
“You address me as ‘Duke.’”
“Because you hold the title?”
Puzzlement furrowed her brow, as if questioning the alternative.
“I wish… you would.”
“…?”
Drawing a steadying breath, he mustered the resolve rehearsed countless times.
“…Use my name.”
“Loic?”
She uttered it effortlessly.
“Would that please you?”
As though it cost her nothing.
Loic’s pulse thundered wildly.
“But calling you by name in public—might others deem it unseemly? Perhaps when we’re alone…”
Her concern scarcely penetrated his haze.
“I desire…”
His knuckles whitened on his knees as he compelled the confession.
“I want to use your name too.”
He shot her a timid glance.
“My name?”
She lifted her shoulders lightly.
“Naturally. I’ve always said you could.”
You resisted so fiercely before…
A faint pout formed on her lips. Face aflame, Loic at last pronounced it.
“Annette.”
The syllable melted sweetly on his tongue, like spun sugar.
A delicate blush tinged her cheeks.
“Hearing you say it aloud… it’s oddly mortifying.”
Her bashful grin flooded him with profound, wordless feeling.
Annette.
Did she grasp how her name alone gladdened him?
He regarded her in silence. She fidgeted with her documents, giggling under his fervent stare.
“Annette.”
He clasped her hand tenderly. Warmth bloomed at once from their joined palms.
“Annette, your stewardship has been exemplary. I’m truly thankful.”
He enfolded her delicate fingers in his.
“But though you relish the work, take care not to push yourself. Your constitution isn’t robust.”
“I’m perfectly well,” she murmured, eyes dropping.
“This is manageable. The administrators shoulder the true labor. I merely…”
“You’ve fainted twice since arriving here,” he reminded softly, remorse gnawing.
“Because it brings me joy,” she countered, tugging gently within his grasp.
“And I’m delighted to help. The townspeople strike me as kind and upright…”
“I’m not demanding you cease altogether.”
“Very well. I’ll limit myself to what I can manage and prioritize my health. Does that satisfy you?”
Her eyes gleamed as she met his.
“Swear it.”
“Promise!”
Out shot her pinky finger.
“…?”
“Don’t you know pinky swears?”
She coaxed his hand into position, leaving only the pinky extended, then linked it with hers.
“Like this—pinky promise!”
Laughter bubbled from her as she noted the length of his digit.
Loic willed his hammering heart to steady. Inwardly, he hoped this vow would endure forever.
Elsewhere
The Marquis rifled furiously through a tray of correspondence.
“Nothing again today?”
The butler remained silent, expression clouded.
Since her vow to ignore him, every missive dispatched north to Annette had vanished into silence.
Should I appeal straight to the Duke?
Yet if Loic intercepted her post, approaching him would paint the Marquis as a buffoon.
What to report to the Empress?
A recent dispatch from the Imperial Palace had politely probed her adjustment to northern life.
He recognized the veiled pressure.
Should the Empress learn of his waning influence over his own daughter…
I need to move swiftly.
Then another envelope snagged his notice.
“What’s that?”
“From Madam,” the butler ventured warily—the new Marchioness, his second wife.
Likely another plea for funds.
He tsked, ready to discard it, until the butler continued,
“With the holiday nearing, Madam and the young master intend to return.”
“…So soon?”
The Marquis pictured his youngest son, fourth child from the fresh union.
Perhaps the boy could serve some purpose…
Chin in hand, he began scheming.