“Young lady, there is no need for a woman as young and beautiful as you to care for this old man. I don’t know what Iris told you, but I give you permission—go home.”
Cornelia gazed at the frail, emaciated duke with her thoughtful, tawny eyes.
If only someone—her father, her mother, or Count Baritone—had said those words to her five years ago.
How happy she would have been.
But five years had passed, and it was too late for everything.
“Even if I were to return home, I would only be married off to another elderly man. If you have any kindness to spare, please allow me to stay. You may think of me as nothing more than a maidservant.”
The duke opened his tired eyes slightly, surprised by her words.
“It seems you have your reasons. But as you can see, I am a dying man. Even speaking is a strain. All I wish is to spend my last days in peace, surrounded by Amanda’s memory. There is nothing I wish to discuss with you. However… if you have nowhere to return to, I will not drive you away. Stay if you like.”
With that, the duke closed his weary eyes, succumbing to sleep.
Thus began Cornelia’s new daily routine—sitting in a chair against the wall of the duke’s chamber for hours on end.
For the first three days, she said nothing.
She simply observed as the maids bathed him, changed his linens, and fed him.
In her previous two marriages, the wives of the household had left most of the caretaking to her, but the maids of the ducal estate were of a different caliber. Even though Cornelia was merely an unofficial wife, they never shirked their duties, assuring her,
“Please rest, madam. We will take care of everything.”
The two personal maids Iris had assigned to her were also highly capable, tending to her needs with great diligence.
The dresses in her wardrobe were all of the latest fashion, and she had no idea how to put them on by herself. The maids' assistance was invaluable.
She had only ever known how to braid her hair simply, but as the wife of a duke, she was expected to wear her hair in elaborate updos—something impossible to manage alone.
Two days into her marriage, Iris approached her.
“Do you like the dresses? I wasn’t sure what to choose, so I ordered them randomly. If you have any preferences, I can have a designer tailor custom gowns for you.”
“…”
Cornelia stared at him in silence for a moment.
The elegant dresses in her chamber had all been bought specifically for her.
And Iris himself had chosen them.
She had assumed they were hand-me-downs from the late Duchess Amanda, but they were all the latest styles.
Even more astonishing—he was offering to commission custom dresses for her, despite her being only an unofficial wife.
It truly drove home just how different a ducal household was from any other noble family.
“What is it?”
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