Chapter 129
First Night
Word came to Johan that his wife intended to skip dinner and go straight to bed.
Respecting her wish, Johan prepared for bed. Through the loosely worn robe he could see the bandage wrapped tight across her solid chest.
“Can’t you stay the night? Stay the night, Johan.”
Johan walked down the long corridor toward his wife’s bedroom. The sound of his cane striking the marble floor echoed through Greathill under the night.
The bedrooms at the west and east ends of the manor — a mundane arrangement for a married couple — prompted a low curse to slip out of him anew.
Johan knocked on the door when he reached it. No answer came. He opened the door slowly.
The room inside was unnaturally quiet; the only light was the dim moonlight filtering in from the balcony window.
Johan’s gaze, sweeping the room, moved toward the bathroom from where the sound of water could be heard.
At that, he let out a small, hollow laugh, turned on the bedside lamp, leaned his cane against something at an angle, and rested against the headboard.
Though nothing particularly passionate was to be expected, the faint splashing sound made Johan sigh softly and close his eyes.
A short while later, at last, the bathroom door opened.
Olivia blinked slowly, trying to make sense of this awkward situation.
It was late; the intention of the man on her bed was blatant enough that such reasoning was hardly necessary.
“If the bedrooms haven’t been swapped, I think you’ve come to the wrong room. Which side are you on?”
As Olivia asked calmly, Johan’s gaze slid slowly from her face down along her neck and seemed to rest somewhere.
Coming out of the bathroom, her cheeks already flushed, Olivia gripped the front of her robe tightly.
At Olivia’s sharp, guarded reaction, Johan let out a hollow laugh.
He had intended to do, one by one, the things she had wanted in the days when he had ignored her indifferently — but now he wondered whether he had misread her.
“You wanted it,” he said.
“….”
“Is there a problem?”
His heavy voice pushed at the silence. In the deepening quiet, memories of Olivia Blanchett stirred.
“Can’t you stay the night? Stay the night, Johan.”
Her desperate plea, when she had begged him after their fierce union — when he left the bedroom looking as composed as if nothing had happened — burned hotly in his ears.
Her face went white and a blush spread across it.
As soon as he arrived at Lermon, Johan had sent a telegram to Raiden’s legal representative.
As a result, with the withdrawal of the divorce petition filed in Raiden Family Court yesterday taking effect, today they returned to being a married couple — as if they had never divorced.
It took only one day to nullify five months.
Olivia, suddenly forced to resume the role of wife, had no confidence she could pull it off.
Wouldn’t it be more natural, like ordinary people in love, to hold hands and kiss gradually from the start? Shouldn’t those things come first?
Olivia absentmindedly bit her lower lip, searching for a retort.
Johan watched his wife with steady eyes.
Having done all manner of things over three years, seeing her now blush white like a bride on her first night — fidgeting as if unsure — was both novel and strangely arousing.
“I’ve already said this. I don’t want to go back to the way we were. I owe my life to you and I’ll be grateful to you forever, but… I told you. It was horrible.”
“….”
“I’m not saying I’ve forgiven you. This kind of relationship — not yet—”
“It was good in bed, though.”
“….”
At that moment, memories of that violent first night — when the wrapper buttons of her wedding dress were torn off as they were undone — rose like mist from the surface of his mind.
The man’s relentless hands and heat that had claimed his wife’s body amid the thick scent of wine, and the tangled, disorderly sounds.
“I’m tired. Please go out.”
Olivia, unable to endure any longer, turned away. Her neck was still flushed deep red; she still felt the sharp, breathy moans ringing at her ears.
Having spent many nights together, his every action felt natural — of course he would be familiar with her.
Half-situated on the bed, leaning as if used to it, waiting for his wife to come out of the bathroom.
The clandestine act of spending the night together — natural between spouses — still made her chest ache as if pierced by an awl.
“Please. I’m begging you.”
Johan looked at Olivia’s retreating back with his eyes narrowed.
“If you hate it—”
“I’ll leave.”
Silence followed.
Let’s go to Anne’s room, Olivia thought. Just as she was about to turn away, Johan moved.
He rose slowly from the bed, took up his cane, and straightened himself with its support.
The sound of the cane against the carpet stopped as Johan came to stand in front of Olivia.
“You told me not to die. You begged me with tears to open my eyes. That was you.”
“….”
“I thought you had forgiven me a little. Was I mistaken?”
Johan’s voice struck Olivia’s chest. The nightmare night of bloodshed came back. The knobby bones stood out on the back of the man’s hand gripping the cane. Staring at the whitened, protruding joints, Olivia opened her hesitating lips.
“….To forget what’s happened will take time.”
Olivia said plainly.
How long would it take for the memories of her husband, etched clearly in Olivia Blanchett’s heart, to fade? It felt as if they might never be erased.
“I’ll wait.”
Johan broke the awkward silence.
“If you forgive me, come to me.”
He inclined his head politely, as if apologizing for his discourtesy, then turned away. The clinging, pleading attitude he had displayed until now seemed suddenly chilled as if swept by a cold wind.
Maurice arrived at Greathill at his usual hour.
“You’re here?”
“Some good news, maybe, Benjamin?”
“There seems to be a spring in Greathill too.”
Rumors of the Duke and Duchess’s passionate night had spread quickly, bringing a spring breeze to the autumn-tinted manor.
Maurice merely smiled and passed through the porch into the house. The busy servants preparing breakfast met his gaze and offered morning greetings.
“The mistress is changing at the moment.”
“Thank you, Bess.”
Housekeeper Bess, accompanied by a maid, passed Maurice and headed toward the Duchess’s bedroom. The maid carried a tray with breakfast prepared.
Their footsteps carried their gaze up the central stairs and then halted at the landing. The place where the pair’s portrait had hung side by side still remained empty.
He’ll have to walk again, Maurice thought.
Humming, Maurice quickened his pause and knocked; he opened the bedroom door wide when called in.
“….”
A chill swept through as if the season had changed. The decision to have the Duke work in his study for a time had apparently been changed without his aide’s knowledge.
Maurice passed by Johan’s face, who was fastening his jacket, and exchanged a look with the butler. The butler, straightening Johan’s tie, likewise looked puzzled.
“Please don’t overdo it. You can handle business from home—”
“No. I’ll go to the office.”
Johan cut off Maurice’s remark decisively.
The butler, with quiet care, draped the black suit jacket over the shoulder that bore the bullet wound and finished dressing him for going out.
What on earth had happened overnight?
Maurice tilted his head, following Johan as he left the bedroom. It was clear there had been no passionate night.
They moved along the long corridor and entered the central hall; Johan stopped. Among the servants arrayed to see their master off, the Duchess was not to be seen.
“I’ve already said this. I don’t want to go back to the way we were. I owe my life to you and I’ll be grateful to you forever, but… I told you. It was horrible.”
Understanding the meaning clearly, Johan’s look sank deep.
“The mistress seems very fatigued.”
The housekeeper bowed on her behalf. Johan gave a brief nod and was about to look away from the landing when—
“Shall we hang the portrait again?”
At Maurice’s question, Johan looked back up at the landing of the central staircase.
Transparent sunlight from a side window slanted across the empty wall.
“The painting was done by that artist.”
“Andreya Nikolai. The one I mentioned before.”
Diane’s voice and the pale, feeble man she had been involved with came vividly to mind.
One of the men with whom his wife had had an affair.
Thinking of his wife, who had last night kept him at bay like a stranger, being alone in a closed room with that painter made the suppressed unpleasant feelings well up again.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed and turned immediately forward.
“Find out who the painter is. A woman.”
Johan said dryly and resumed walking.
‘If forgiveness comes, you come’ — he thought.
Fine.
He had been gravely mistaken. He felt like a fool made dizzy by the way she had made people confuse their feelings.
She had held him, then cast him off, and finally had those bright, almost running-away eyes.
Could it be revenge?
Reaching that absurd conclusion, Johan managed a cynical smile and climbed into the carriage.
If she won’t come on her own, he would find a way to make her have to come to him.
