Chapter 49

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 49

Chapter Title: Fallen in the Folds of Her Skirt

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"You've come not as the Duchess, but as a spy."

Their marriage was tangled in a web of complications.

Valquiter's royal decree had come out of nowhere.

Even seeing the words stamped on the telegram—marry into House Vermonte—Kaiyan couldn't believe his eyes. He must have read it a dozen times over.

If Valquiter had given him even the slightest hint beforehand about his marriage prospects, Kaiyan wouldn't have been so thrown off balance.

From his perspective, the command to marry was absurd enough, but discovering the bride was from House Vermonte made it downright ridiculous.

Yet Clodel must have felt the same shock.

'Don't make me repeat myself. What's your name?'

'Clodel Queen... Vermonte.'

Lately, Kaiyan kept picturing her face from those nights they'd spent together in the countryside retreat—the flickering candlelight casting shadows that danced across her features.

Even after swearing their vows before the gods, Kaiyan had shown no interest in who his wife really was.

Upon receiving Valquiter's telegram, he'd stormed out of the castle straight to the royal palace, only to hear the king say, "You can head north and get married just like that." The whole way to Valmond, his mind had been a blank slate.

It wasn't until he returned to Rowen Castle that his senses finally came back to him.

And yet, thinking of the woman who'd trembled that first night stirred a mix of pity and irritation in him.

'Do you think everything's turned out fine now? What about my position? If word of this reaches Duke Vermonte...'

'Your position? Who's the one who doesn't get it?'

Clodel was no longer a Vermonte.

Clodel Queen Temneth.

She was Kaiyan's wife.

But Kaiyan still felt she hadn't fully submitted to him.

"I just can't understand it."

Why was she still so terrified of Duke Vermonte?

The duke was a cunning, vile fox.

House Temneth, at least, never stabbed you in the back—they struck openly and without hesitation.

The straightforward, bold ways of House Temneth clashed irreconcilably with Vermonte's habit of hiding treacherous schemes behind flattery and barbs. It wasn't some ancient grudge; their natures simply didn't align, leading to inevitable conflict.

"Surely I'm better than that old fox?"

Duke Vermonte had thrown Clodel to the wolves.

He'd sent her to Rowen to die, plain and simple.

There was no way the duke didn't know about the cure Kaiyan had obtained—or lacked the ability to get it himself.

The prescription Kaiyan had acquired through a bounty even bore the Vermonte family seal.

And he'd sent her off to her presumed death with nothing but the clothes on her back.

Most noblemen wouldn't notice such things.

They paid no mind to what their wives wore or carried until the bills came due—and even then, they only checked the numbers to judge extravagance.

Kaiyan, however, took a keen interest in Clodel. His sharper instincts had simply caught what others missed.

And he'd even cured her insomnia.

True, the solution was one he quite enjoyed, but he had fulfilled her deepest wish, hadn't he?

"And yet she's still under that trash heap of a duke's thumb."

Kaiyan, who had never bowed to anyone in his life, overlooked one thing.

Ordinary people fear those who choke and harm them far more than those who embrace and comfort them.

If he'd tried to understand Clodel's heart, he might have realized she wasn't unsettled by the peaceful life in House Temneth. No, her anxiety stemmed from the fear that the heartless man who'd sent her to die might summon her back to Valmond at any moment.

Their lives had been so vastly different that Kaiyan couldn't comprehend her feelings.

All he knew was that it irked him to see his woman acting as if she'd obey Duke Vermonte's orders behind his back.

Knock knock.

He rapped on the door, sensing hurried footsteps approaching from inside.

Why does she always rush to answer?

Every time Kaiyan knocked, Clodel would scamper over to open it—a habit he found utterly endearing.

"Kaiyan."

The woman greeted him warmly, and behind her, Hanna bowed her head.

"Shall I bring some tea?"

"No need. I'll just talk with her a bit and go."

The quick-witted maid closed the door and vanished. Kaiyan spread his arms toward Clodel.

She floated into them like a fairy alighting on a flower, nestling perfectly against his chest.

"What brings you here?"

Kaiyan usually saw Clodel twice a day.

He'd slip out of her bedroom at dawn, plunge into his busy schedule, and join her for lunch at noon.

After that, he'd handle territory affairs until nightfall, when he'd return to her bed.

But those nights were filled with wordless intimacy, leaving little room for talk.

During her bout with Herzol, she'd clenched her jaw against the searing pain in her lungs.

Now, her parted lips let out the sweetest sounds, delighting him endlessly.

With their nights consumed by passion, daytime chats were scarce, and lunch too brief. But the day Valquiter had stood him up—when he'd spent the entire time glued to Clodel—felt like paradise.

He finally understood the cliché of a lord corrupted in the folds of his lady's skirts.

After that, Kaiyan suffered pangs of longing for her every three hours.

Before, seeing her just twice—morning and night—had been enough.

Now, work lost its focus as his thoughts drifted to what she might be doing.

But I can't say that.

What if he admitted he just missed her? Would her telegrams to Duke Vermonte read, "My husband's completely fallen for me. Awaiting your orders"?

Telegrams charged by the word.

People always compressed messages into code only the recipient would understand, rewriting and trimming to save coin.

Unaware that her omitted plea—"Please don't send Irena as duchess"—had twisted into "I'll do my best," Kaiyan refused to give her any reason to think she had him wrapped around her finger.

"I stopped by to check on your preparations for the festival."

Pretending it was official business, ensuring the lady of the house's schedule stayed on track.

"I've been practicing my dancing every day."

"Should I look forward to it?"

"Of course."

Her beaming smile captivated him.

She didn't seem human.

He'd seen countless women in his life, but none had ever stirred him like this.

Still, she was his wife now. As long as she didn't fall for the schemes of that frail old fox—who looked like he hadn't long to live anyway—everything would be fine.

"And how are your preparations for the festival coming?"

Clodel asked out of the blue.

"Me? What do I need to prepare?"

"This is our first festival together. It's different from when the lord hosts alone, isn't it? There's no joint dance in the usual order."

He hadn't given it a thought.

"You weren't unaware, were you?"

"Of course not. The Lord of Rowen wouldn't neglect such things. Not for the one festival of the year."

"Ah. The butler prepared a schedule. I was going to show you."

Kaiyan caressed her soft cheek and leaned down.

"You think I'd overlook something like that?"

He worked to maintain his image in front of his wife.

Though right now, kissing her felt more urgent.

Summoning the butler for the same documents the moment he left her room? That was his little secret.

Three days before the festival.

A grand caravan of ten carriages rolled up to Rowen Castle, bearing Madam Marcel.

"Greetings, Your Grace the Duchess."

Clodel blinked at the elegant, vibrant beauty before her.

"Pleased to meet you."

"I'm the new seamstress for Rowen Castle, here to serve you from now on."

"I've heard you're quite popular in the capital."

"Oh? You've heard of me?"

"Your work is so renowned, catalogs even circulate up north. Dresses so exclusive, you wait a year in the capital and still might not snag one."

Clodel had no real interest in dresses, but she'd overheard Irena mention it once or twice—enough for a safe response.

"The rumors are exaggerated, of course. But I can confidently say I have the skill to delight you, Madam."

"I look forward to it."

"Shall I show you the dress for the festival?"

"Won't you be tired?"

"Not at all."

The eager seamstress opened the bedroom door and called her assistant. Servants and the assistant placed a mannequin in the center of the room and draped it with the new gown.

"Wow. I've never seen a dress like this!"

Hanna exclaimed, returning from the kitchen with tea.

"The red one from before was lovely too."

"Thank you."

Even Clodel was speechless for a moment.

Rowen dresses, unlike the heavy northern styles, often bared the shoulders or upper chest.

A few such bold pieces hung in her wardrobe, but Clodel had never tried them on.

Exposing her neck felt awkward and embarrassing to her.

This gown's plunging V-neck promised even more exposure.

"Would something like this suit me?"

"Pardon? What do you mean?"

Hanna answered the puzzled Madam Marcel.

"Madam has only worn northern dresses until now. She's never tried a design like this."

"Really? Unbelievable. Of course it'll suit you perfectly."

Madam Marcel declared with confidence.

"This dress was made exclusively for Lady Clodel. The entire territory will fall head over heels for your beauty!"

Clodel appreciated the words, even if they felt a touch overblown.

It was a bit daring, but undeniably pretty.

"You must have worked hard, coming all this way and preparing a new dress."

"No trouble at all."

Madam Marcel nearly burst out laughing, thinking of the gold Kaiyan had paid her.

"Madam has a different allure from the capital ladies."

"Me?"

"Something that draws the eye."

If capital noblewomen were hothouse flowers, Clodel was one blooming wild in nature.

To Madam Marcel, she stood out like the brightest bloom in a field of a hundred—sparking endless inspiration for the new gown.

I'm glad I came to Rowen. Truly.

Applying for the job in remote Rowen had been half impulse.

Learning Kaiyan had rejected a string of prestigious seamstresses made it feel like a challenge she had to take.

But meeting Clodel made life here even more exciting.

After some pleasantries, they sat down to tea.

"Where's your hometown?"

"I was born and raised in the capital."

"I see. I've never been."

Madam Marcel knew the common rumors about Vermonte's daughter—the northern princess who never showed her face in capital society.

"I understand. Ask me anything you're curious about."

As they chatted idly, Madam Marcel blurted out her inner thoughts.

"Where there are people, there are rumors. Ugh, ever since the divorce, every guy thinks I'm easy game. Men I wouldn't have given the time of day to before are hounding me."

"Must be because you're so captivating."

"All show, no substance."

Clodel hesitated, then spoke up.

"May I ask something like this?"

"Anything at all."

But the question that followed nearly made Madam Marcel spit out her tea.

"Is there a secret to capturing a man's heart?"

...Pardon?