Chapter 1

Duchess Orléans. As of today, that was Irene’s name.

After finally slipping out of the wedding dress, heavy as a crown with silk, diamonds, and pearls, Irene shivered, feeling as if she were completely exposed. Even the maids who dressed her in the nightgown blushed at how sensual she looked, her skin washed with rose water.

The maids let down her hair, which had been braided high, to rest over her shoulders, then bowed politely and left.

“Have a good night, Duchess Orléans.”

Irene stared blankly at herself in the massive vanity mirror. The flames from the silver candlesticks flickered throughout the bedroom, their light dancing on the mirror’s surface. She gazed at the reflection, lips dry. Beneath the thin white fabric, nearly as good as wearing nothing, her body’s outline was exposed. Though her figure was plain, under the veil of night and wavering candlelight, its curves and shadows stood out like the forbidden fruit. She bit her lower lip. She thought she’d be less embarrassed if she were simply n*ked. How could she, in this state, stand before the Duke?

The marriage ceremony sworn before the Archbishop, the lavish banquet that even made the King feel small—all still felt like a dream. This couldn’t be real.

Her bare feet slipped into silk slippers with a soft rustle. When she reached out to touch the mirror, a chill crept down her back. Pressing her hand against her reflection for a long while, she saw her bare face, washed of powder, looking plainer than usual. Brown hair, black eyes. Nowhere in her reflection was the grandeur befitting a Duchess—only simplicity. Overcome with shame, she bowed her head. Surely, the image on the other side did the same.

Somewhere beneath her ribs, a dull fire pressed down inside her.

‘Me, as the Duchess Orléans, by marrying the Duke?’

She felt nauseous, though she hadn’t eaten.

Irene knew her marriageable age had long passed. But her family had fallen long ago, and she alone survived, relying on the Duke of Orléans’s generosity. Who would propose to her in such circumstances? A noble maiden’s value was all in her family name and dowry. She had neither.

Though she lived as well as any noble lady, it was only thanks to her guardian, the Duke of Orléans. Like a dog eating scraps from its master’s table. But providing room and board was very different from giving a dowry.

She owed a lifetime of gratitude to the Duke, who had stepped forward as her guardian despite no bl＊＊d relation or prior acquaintance. At every party she attended on his arm, the noble ladies asked her age and slyly waved their fans. In a society where girls married at fourteen or sixteen, twenty-year-old Irene was like a flower wilting by the minute. She knew, but never dared ask the Duke about her prospects or future. She’d sooner enter a convent than burden the Duke further. She’d braced herself for that—yet, even with such resolve—

The ducal residence’s bedroom door opened as slowly as eternity. Someone was coming in. Irene darted to the window like a startled deer and hid behind the heavy satin curtains fixed to the high ceiling. 

‘Oh, please, please.’ 

Her prayer was drowned out by the sound of footsteps she knew all too well. She felt she might burst into tears.

“…I heard you’ve changed out of your dress.”

The sound of the door closing heavily and the low voice were unmistakably that of a man she knew: the Duke of Orléans. Now her husband. She breathed shallowly, as if guilty. Her hand gripping the curtain was as cold as ice. The Duke seemed to watch her hiding for a long moment.

“Well… if you were still in your dress, that curtain wouldn’t have been enough.”

Now what? Her body had fled before her mind could think, but she was a caged prize. Where could the Duchess Orléans run on her wedding night, especially now that the Duke himself had entered the bedroom?

If only she hadn’t hidden, she wouldn’t be laughed at like this. She felt tears prick her eyes. She hated showing the Duke such a foolish side, whether as his ward or now as his wife. Though, in truth, she was never enough for his eyes either way.

The Duke left her behind the curtain, moving toward the fireplace. She heard him open a crystal decanter and pour expensive liquor. The scent of spirits, flowing into a glass, made her dizzy even from afar. Then his voice came again.

“Are you planning to stay there all night? If you want me to come fetch you, I’ll gladly do so—”

Duchess.

No word he spoke was hotter or colder than that. It was like cold water poured over her, stealing her breath. There was no escape now. Irene was powerless before him.

Trembling like an animal with a collar at its throat, she emerged from behind the curtain. The Duke didn’t even look at her, just sat in the armchair before the fireplace, staring into the flames.

“I’d like you to undo my hair.”

He let her stand, hesitating on the marble floor, for a long moment before speaking.

“As always used to.”

His voice was so calm, it almost bewitched her again, even as she faced harsh reality. Drawn as if hypnotized, Irene approached, only coming to her senses two steps away and stopping abruptly.

“Go on…”

The Duke didn’t rise abruptly to frighten her. His dark eyes stayed on the flames, his voice—sweet enough to enchant any woman—tempting her.

With his tall stature, striking features, and a body honed by riding and fencing, the Duke was the opposite of the frail King. He was not only handsome but also possessed a magnificent voice that had stolen the hearts of countless noble ladies. The Duke of Orléans’s whispers were irresistibly alluring. Irene trembled as she moved closer, reaching out with hands frozen like a corpse to touch his thick, black hair.

Unlike the royal fashion, the Duke disliked covering his dark hair with powdered wigs. He simply tied and fastened his own hair, refusing anything more.

The privilege of touching the hair of the King’s brother, the richest man in the land, was extraordinary. Even the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting or the King’s ministers envied that honor. Its owner was the Duke’s little bird, his lone lamb.

Each morning, Irene carefully brushed the Duke’s curly black hair and clumsily pinned it up. Each night, she was the one to remove those pins, one by one.

Back then, she’d thought the Duke, her guardian, cared for her like a sister… But now, she was not his ward or his little girl, but his rightful wife. The only wife, recognized by God, the Pope, and the King. His rib.

While she trembled as if about to faint, undoing his hair, the Duke only sipped his drink. He, too, wore only a shirt and trousers—casual compared to his formal attire, yet somehow even more imposing. The flickering fire cast shadows over his sharp nose and fierce jaw, making him look like a demon of desire risen from h＊ll.

“Your hands are cold. Pitiful….”

When only the loosely tied ribbon remained after all the pins were removed, his large hand suddenly grabbed Irene and pulled her forward.

The warmth of the fireplace clung to her body like shame. She realized the Duke could see her nearly n*ked form. Instinctively, she tried to retreat, but the Duke had no intention of letting go of his wife. Against his strength, she was no more than a five-year-old child. He held her and offered her a glass.

“Here, this will warm you.”

In the end, Irene, blushing all over from embarrassment, took the glass from his hand. His sharp eyes watched to make sure she drank every last drop.

As she swallowed the amber liquid, the Duke wrapped his hand around her wrist and slowly stood. Each time he rose, his growing shadow seemed to swallow the frightened bride whole. He led her to the bed.

“Stay still….”

His firm hand cupped her chin, leaving her speechless. Her heart pounded, and fear rose at the unfamiliar touch.

To open her tightly closed lips, the Duke had to be patient. But the fact that no man had ever dared pluck the Duke’s flower was proof enough—biting her frozen lips was a victory crown for him.

The Duke kissed her slowly, so gently it was as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. Like birds touching beaks, the light contact repeated again and again. Tied to the stake, Irene finally let out her trapped breath by instinct. At that moment, the Duke pulled her close by her shoulders and waist.

The warmth of his mouth between her parted lips made him intoxicated. As he traced her palate and stubborn teeth, she felt her knees weaken. He held her tightly, deepening the kiss. Thus began the Duchess Orléans’s first night.

The lingering heat of the liquor made her dizzy. The sensation sweeping through her mouth dominated Irene like a viper’s venom. Embarrassment had already faded into the distance, and shame mixed with physiological resistance dripped like honey from her lips. Heat soaked her chest and belly.