"She came as a spy, not as a Duchess."
Kaian's marriage was complicated.
King Valquiterre's sudden telegram ordering him to marry Vermont had seemed incomprehensible. How many times had Kaian reread it, certain he'd misunderstood?
If Valquiterre had only hinted at the marriage beforehand, Kaian wouldn't have been caught so off-guard. From his perspective, the order itself was absurd—Vermont as a bride was even more absurd.
But if he'd known, so would Claudel.
*"Don't make me repeat myself. What is your name?"*
*"Claudel Quinn... Vermont."*
These days, Kaian found himself replaying her face from that first night—the shadows cast by flickering candlelight as she trembled before him. Even after speaking marriage vows before God, he'd felt nothing for this stranger.
When Valquiterre's telegram arrived, he'd rushed to the royal castle. The King had simply said, "Go north and marry," then dismissed him to Valmonde.
Kaian's mind had been blank throughout. Only upon returning to Rowen Castle did he feel he'd truly awakened.
Yet thinking of how she'd shaken that night stirred something in him—sadness mixed with irritation.
---
*"So do you believe I've treated you well?"* Kaian thought bitterly. *"What is your position if word reaches the Duke of Vermont?"*
*"My position? Which one of us is in the wrong?"*
Claudel was no longer Vermont. She was Claudel Quinn Temnes—his wife. Yet he sensed she wasn't truly his, that some part of her remained loyal to her uncle.
*"I don't understand,"* he'd said coldly. *"Why does the Duke of Vermont anger me so?"*
The Duke was cunning and cruel. At least Temnes didn't betray from behind. Even without their ancestral animosity, Temnes—straightforward and outspoken—would clash with Vermont's duplicitous nature.
*"Aren't I far superior to that old fox?"*
The Duke had sent Claudel to die. Literally. And he'd done so knowing—there was no way he hadn't known. The very prescription bearing Vermont's seal proved it. He'd married her off with nothing, fully expecting her death.
Most noblemen remained ignorant of such details. They didn't notice their wives' expenses until bills arrived. But Kaian paid attention to Claudel. He'd noticed everything because his interest was absolute.
He'd even solved her insomnia—a solution he enjoyed, though it meant granting her wishes regardless.
*"Yet you remain swayed by this scum?"*
Kaian, who'd never bowed to anyone, overlooked this contradiction.
Most people feared those who hurt them more than those who showed kindness. If Claudel truly understood, she'd fear the heartless man who'd sent her to her death more than her peaceful life in Temnes—a life that could end at any moment if he commanded her return.
Could she know he suffered from anxiety over this?
Their lives were so different. He couldn't comprehend her feelings. He only resented that his wife secretly acted as though she'd obey the Duke of Vermont.
---
When Kaian knocked on her door, he felt the light, hurried footsteps of someone rushing toward it.
*What's she running toward?* he wondered. She always did this, and it was endearing.
"Kaian," she greeted him, breathless.
Hannah bowed behind her. "Shall I bring tea?"
"No. Leave us. I'll speak with the Lady for a while."
As the perceptive maid departed, Kaian opened his arms. Claudel flew into them like a small fairy, embracing him gently.
"What brings you here?" she asked, surprised. "It's still afternoon."
Kaian had always seen her twice daily: leaving her bedroom at dawn, lunch together at noon, and night when he came to bed. But he'd been busy with "physical communication" at night—no time for conversation. And lunch was too brief.
Since Valquiterre had discovered his distraction, Kaian had stayed with Claudel all day, abandoning his duties. It had been paradise. He now understood why fallen monarchs wore that exhausted expression—corrupted, wrapped in a woman's skirt.
After that day, Kaian suffered an affliction: he wanted to see her every three hours. Before, he'd endured seeing her only twice daily. Now distraction consumed him.
*But I can't tell her that.*
If he admitted he'd come because he missed her, what would she do? Would she send another telegram to the Duke of Vermont?
*"My husband has completely fallen for me. I'm waiting for you."*
Telegrams charged per character. Claudel had written and rewritten her messages to shorten them, paying careful attention to brevity.
But the message Kaian didn't know she'd edited—*"Please don't let Irena become a Duchess"*—had been condensed to *"I'll do my best."* He interpreted this as confidence in her mission. He couldn't allow her to think she had him wrapped around her finger.
"I stopped by to check on festival preparations," he said, pretending to inspect official arrangements. "How are your dancing lessons progressing?"
"I practice every day," she replied happily.
"Can I look forward to it?"
"You should."
Her smile captivated him. She didn't seem entirely human.
In his life, he'd encountered many women. But Claudel was the first to affect him like this. Yet she was his wife and Vermont's daughter. He had to guard against falling for the tricks of a dying fox.
"Are you prepared for the festival?" she asked suddenly.
"Prepared? For what?"
"This is your first festival with a wife. The ceremony order is different. We'll dance together—something never done before."
He hadn't been thinking about it at all.
"You didn't know?" She tilted her head innocently.
"Of course I knew. The Lord of Rowen doesn't neglect such matters. It's our only annual festival."
"I was going to show you the schedule the butler prepared."
Kaian stroked her soft cheek and lowered his head toward hers. "You think I don't know?"
He maintained his image in front of her, though he desperately wanted to kiss her. It was a secret that immediately after leaving her room, he'd summoned the butler asking for those same materials.
---
## Three days before the festival
Madame Marcel arrived at Rowen Castle in a grand procession of ten carriages.
"Greetings, my Lady," she said, presenting herself to Claudel with sophistication and warmth.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Claudel replied.
"I'm Madame Marcel, your new seamstress. I heard your skills are legendary in the capital?"
"Oh, you've heard the rumors?"
"Your catalog circulates even to the North. I've heard your dresses are nearly impossible to obtain, even for those willing to wait a year."
Claudel, uninterested in fashion, had absorbed this information from Irena's conversations. She answered smoothly, "I've heard rumors of your fame."
"Exaggerated, I assure you," Madame Marcel laughed. "Though I'm confident in my ability to please you. Would you like to see your festival gown?"
Claudel hesitated. "You must be exhausted from your journey?"
"Not at all."
The seamstress opened Claudel's bedroom door and instructed an assistant to display the dress on a dress form in the center of the room.
Hannah gasped when she returned with tea. "I've never seen a dress like this!"
"The last red gown I created was also beautiful," Madame Marcel noted.
"Thank you for the compliment," Claudel replied, momentarily speechless.
Unlike Northern dresses, Rowen fashion often exposed shoulders and upper chest. Though Claudel possessed several such bold designs, she'd never worn them. Exposing her bare neck felt awkward, embarrassing.
This dress featured a deep V-neckline that revealed considerably more of her body.
"Does this suit me?" she asked uncertainly.
Hannah answered before Madame Marcel could respond. "What do you mean? Of course it does!"
"I've only worn Northern dresses," Claudel explained. "I've never experienced a design like this."
"Nonsense," Madame Marcel declared confidently. "This gown was created specifically for you. The entire territory will fall in love with your beauty!"
Claudel felt grateful despite the obvious flattery. After consideration, the dress was genuinely beautiful—daring, but exquisite.
"I traveled far and worked tirelessly on this creation," Madame Marcel said.
"Was it very difficult?" Claudel asked.
Madame Marcel simply laughed, thinking of the substantial gold coins Kaian had paid her. "My Lady, you carry a different presence than capital ladies."
"I do?"
"A certain charm that captures attention. Capital ladies are like greenhouse flowers—carefully cultivated. But you bloom naturally. Among a hundred flowers, you're the most striking."
Madame Marcel had made the decision to come to distant Rowen impulsively. Realizing Kaian had eliminated competing seamstresses intensified her competitive spirit. But meeting Claudel transformed everything. Now she felt genuinely excited about her life in Rowen.
After exchanging pleasantries over tea, Madame Marcel grew candid.
"In the capital, there's endless gossip among so many people. After my divorce, men who previously ignored me became insufferable."
"I imagine that's because you're very attractive," Claudel offered.
"It's meaningless," Madame Marcel sighed. Then, hesitantly, she asked, "May I ask you something?"
"Of course. Ask anything."
The question that escaped Claudel's lips almost made Madame Marcel spit out her tea:
"Is there a secret to capturing a man's heart?"
---