Ch#87
What could I possibly do?
Loic’s shoulders sagged in defeat.
Even if he confessed his emotions, what then? He wasn’t fit to be a true husband, much less a worthy father. Only Annette’s presence kept him from unraveling completely, holding him together in a semblance of normalcy. Without her, he’d shatter once more.
Their union was a mere one-year arrangement. Five months had already slipped away.
Time played cruel tricks—endless and agonizing in her absence, now hurtling past too swiftly to hold.
Loic pondered deeply. He understood she’d wed him to flee her family’s grasp. Yet she’d never revealed why she’d set the term at exactly one year.
Divorce would force her back to the Frais household.
“In truth, I chose one year for your benefit too, my lord.”
Did that imply she might linger longer, if he wished it?
A spark of hope ignited within him. Perhaps with skillful persuasion, he could convince her to renew for another year.
But what could he give in exchange that felt equitable?
Her staying in the north would transform his existence. Yet what did she gain?
Jewelry and lavish gowns held no appeal for her. Simple pleasures like strawberries brought her joy.
In frustration, Loic lashed out with his foot against the earth.
We never should have settled for one year. Three at minimum… or five… or ten!
Perhaps he ought to plead outright, beg her not to depart. Her tender heart wouldn’t let her turn away from his desperate grasp.
Meanwhile, he could redouble efforts to shatter his curse—a pursuit abandoned years prior, but now fueled by purpose.
Though honestly, a decade of searching had yielded not a single lead.
A presence drew near. Loic yanked his hood down snugly.
“Your Grace?”
A figure emerged along the lakeside trail—a noblewoman in an elaborate gown, jewels embroidered into her skirt chiming softly with each step.
“Oh my, it truly is you, Duke!” she cried, clasping her hands in apparent rapture.
Loic retreated instinctively behind a tree, eyeing her warily.
“…”
His scowl deepened.
The young woman cocked her head and offered a smile.
“I am Avoir Meisel. It’s been ages, Your Grace.”
The name Meisel darkened Loic’s expression further.
Wasn’t she the culprit behind Annette’s public humiliation with those eggs? He’d only barely contained his urge to haul her before Annette for an apology—thanks solely to Annette’s intervention.
He cared not if she was a count’s daughter or the emperor’s kin.
And “ages”? He had no recollection of ever exchanging words with her.
She must be alluding to that tea gathering…
Her presumptuous ease grated on him.
“How did you spot me?” Loic demanded, his tone icy.
This was the market’s dimmest, remotest corner. Coincidence seemed impossible.
“How could I fail to?” she murmured gently.
“What?”
“Don’t you… recall me?”
She brushed her cheek, feigning bashfulness.
“Do I know you?” he replied, genuinely puzzled.
Her smile widened as she edged nearer. Loic recoiled slightly, flinching. He wanted distance, but fleeing would look peculiar. Mistaking his unease for timidity, she let out a tinkling laugh.
“The greenhouse,” she breathed.
“Greenhouse?”
“Where we first encountered each other…”
Loic blinked. She meant his mother’s greenhouse, shuttered since her passing. If she’d visited, it was from his remote childhood.
No memory stirred.
Her cloying perfume churned his gut. He averted his gaze toward the market, anxiety rising.
If Annette witnesses this… her spirits will plummet again.
Eager to disengage, he gave a brusque nod.
“I might recall, vaguely. Either way, I must depart—”
“You do remember?”
Her eyes gleamed with an odd fervor.
“I knew it.”
“Wait!”
She surged forward abruptly. Jerked from surprise, Loic thrust up a hand to bar her.
“Keep your distance.”
“But it’s so shadowy here. Can you truly make out my features?”
She pressed in regardless. Tilting her head, a faint yellow shimmer caught at her throat.
The moment Loic glimpsed the glow, fire surged through his veins. His chest seared, breath snagged, perspiration slicked his spine. His legs buckled.
“Your Grace? Are you well?”
She stretched toward his arm.
No—don’t touch!
“Your Grace!”
Her fingers halted midway.
Annette stood frozen, eyes enormous. She dashed forward, swatting Meisel’s hand aside just before contact.
Shock flared across Meisel’s features, swiftly chased by irritation and fury.
Annette planted herself squarely between them, compelling Meisel to retreat.
“Show proper deference to your duchess,” Annette commanded, voice like a blade.
“…Your Grace,” Meisel replied through gritted teeth, offering a rigid curtsy.
“How dare you reach for the Duke,” Annette retorted.
“I wasn’t—I merely saw him falter—”
“Such audacity, laying hands on royalty uninvited.”
Meisel’s palm throbbed from the strike. Rage boiled within. Such overreaction—to a mere graze?
Without Annette’s interference, she’d have pressed on. But open conflict before the Duke was unwise.
Better to play the victim. Men craved shielding delicate women.
She willed a quiver into her tone.
“I only sought to offer greetings. Pardon me, Your Grace, I never intended offense…”
“You’ve offended me deeply,” Annette interrupted, glacial.
“And surely you’re aware of my temperament by now.”
“…Pardon?”
“Didn’t you claim to know all about me once?”
Meisel faltered, blinking. She flicked a glance at Loic, gauging his reaction. But Annette had maneuvered him into the gloom, his visage obscured.
“I brook no one touching my possessions,” Annette declared, voice arctic.
Loic twitched behind her, fabric whispering.
“No covert overtures toward my husband behind my back. Never.”
“Overtures? That’s unjust! I was simply—” Meisel objected, hand to her breast in feigned hurt.
“If so, then never seek him out alone again. What dealings does a lady like you have with the Duke?”
Annette pressed relentlessly.
“Not in my company, and especially not without it. Unless you crave further distrust.”
Moonlight slanted across Loic’s face then, and Meisel caught his strained look—lips compressed, features taut.
Is he… flustered? she wondered.
But Annette’s icy stare impaled her before certainty dawned.
“And what brings you here regardless? Were you even invited?”
Heat crept up Meisel’s neck.
“I won’t inquire how you gained entry,” Annette went on. “But heed my warning. Understood?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Meisel breathed.
“Excellent. You’re known for your sway among the debutantes. Let it be known: the Duchess guards her husband fiercely. Any who dare flirt with him will rue the day.”
“…”
“Leave. Now.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Meisel shot a final venomous look at Loic.
The Duchess had excoriated her without mercy, and the Duke uttered not a syllable. No defense, however mild.
Not even a murmur: Why torment an innocent girl?