Chapter 1
The beginning was deceptively simple.
“Hey, do you happen to know how to write?”
Late in the evening, Lady Sharte, with an expression full of annoyance, looked up from a piece of paper she was reading and directed her question at the maid, Betty.
At first, Betty didn’t even realize the noble lady was speaking to her.
But then, she became aware that they were the only two in the room and quickly nodded in response.
“Yes, I can write, my lady.”
“Good. Then write a letter for me.”
The lady tossed the paper carelessly onto the table. The short message written in elegant cursive caught Betty’s eye.
She also glimpsed the emblem of two crossed swords—a symbol representing the Grand Duchy.
It was immediately clear who the letter was from.
Fearing she might be accused of snooping into her mistress’s private matters, Betty quickly averted her gaze.
“What kind of letter…?”
“What else? A bothersome reply to the Grand Duke. Father, honestly. That lowborn should be grateful to be marrying me, yet now I’m expected to show sincerity in a letter?”
The disdain in her muttered words was clear.
She was referring to the Grand Duke’s background, born of illegitimacy.
He had earned his status through battle and was only recognized later.
Unlike the refined nobles of the capital, he behaved stiffly and formally.
Betty briefly recalled the dark-haired man she had seen at the duchy’s ball, then hurriedly replied.
“But I… how could I dare write to the Grand Duke…”
“Why do you trail off like that? So frustrating.”
The lady’s sharp tone felt almost like a death sentence. She clicked her tongue and turned her head sharply.
Her thick, glossy red hair shook with the movement, befitting someone called the most beautiful rose in the capital.
“Don’t shrink back. I won’t bite—so long as you do the task well.”
“Y-yes, understood.”
Betty noticed that the temperamental lady seemed to be in a rare generous mood. She knew she had to answer quickly before the opportunity passed.
The lady’s fiery temper was as famous as her hair.
Just recently, she had poured tea over a young noblewoman’s head for making an offhand comment.
Yet no one could criticize Vivian Sharte, the one and only precious daughter of the powerful House of Sharte.
“It’s not difficult. Just write a letter asking after his well-being. Anything will do.”
Lady Sharte pulled out a blank piece of high-quality paper—likely worth more than a week of Betty’s wages.
The head maid had assigned Betty to attend the lady’s evening tea service precisely because of her quiet demeanor.
Remembering this, Betty chose her words carefully.
“My writing is much inferior to yours, my lady… wouldn’t the Grand Duke notice?”
Her self-deprecating phrasing, while flattering the lady, seemed to please her. Vivian smirked.
“Of course your writing is worse than mine. But the Grand Duke doesn’t know my handwriting. And it’s just a formality letter—he won’t even read it.”
She handed Betty a quill pen that probably cost more than a month of her salary.
“Try writing it. I’ll check. If it’s good enough, I’ll make you my personal maid.”
Her silky voice implied this was the most coveted position in the house.
As if she had no idea why that role paid three times the wage of an ordinary maid—or why the head maid always struggled to replace those who left it.
Still, Betty couldn’t keep the lady waiting.
Reluctantly, she sat in the chair opposite and picked up the pen.
The contents of the Grand Duke’s letter came into view beside the blank sheet.
To Lady Sharte,
Details regarding the marriage will be settled upon my return to the capital after meeting with His Majesty.
Please do not concern yourself unnecessarily.
If there is anything you require, inform the Grand Duchy, and the steward will handle it accordingly.
No flowery greetings or pleasantries—just straightforward and concise.
Written in neat cursive, the message felt more like a one-sided notification than a letter.
For someone like Lady Vivian, who was used to flattery and placed great importance on appearances, it was easy to imagine why she found it distasteful.
“Just write something like, ‘Understood.’ I’m not eager to marry quickly either.”
The lady nodded irritably, her face showing clear annoyance.
Betty glanced at her, then carefully began the letter.
To His Grace, the Grand Duke of Dayban,
She had written the salutation easily enough, but the body of the letter stumped her.
As she hesitated, one memory did come to mind.
It was from the evening of the duchy’s ball. At the time, Betty, still inexperienced in her duties, had bumped into the Grand Duke and dropped a tray of glasses.
‘Your Grace, please forgive my rudeness. I’m truly sorry.’
‘Are you alright?’
Startled, she looked up, expecting to be scolded. But his calm tone caught her off guard.
‘Pardon?’
‘The glass shattered—are you hurt?’
In that moment of surprise, she accidentally locked eyes with his deep navy gaze.
While she stood there frozen, he knelt and began picking up the shards.
He didn’t care that wine had stained his dark coat.
‘Your Grace, I should clean this. How can you possibly—’
But even when she tried to kneel and help, the Grand Duke stopped her.
Through his gloves, she felt the gentle warmth of his hand as he helped her up.
‘It’s fine. I won’t blame you. Go now.’
‘But—’
‘I’ll have someone from the cleaning staff handle the rest.’
He resumed his posture as if nothing had happened, his tone indifferent yet strangely kind.
In a world of cold, aristocratic formality, Betty had thought then:
If someone like him were to die in war, perhaps the world would lose a bit of its light.
‘Thinking of that time…’
She didn’t need to embellish anything—the letter would naturally carry warmth.
The quill in Betty’s hand began to move again.
The capital’s weather has turned into the sweltering heat of summer. I wonder how things are where Your Grace is.
His Majesty has announced plans to retreat to the summer villa, so our duchy’s household may accompany him.
You may send your next letter to the Mere Villa.
As for the marriage, I trust Your Grace will handle things appropriately.
I await your return with great anticipation.
I hope you are well and safe.
Vivian Sharte
It was a short letter, with polite greetings and a brief update.
It didn’t sound like something Vivian Sharte would write—but it was an ideal letter for a noble lady, proper and respectful.
Though Betty had thought over the contents, the writing itself wasn’t difficult.
She had learned to read and write from her mother, who had scraped together money to buy writing materials despite their poverty.
And writing while thinking of the Grand Duke made it even easier.
“Hmm… not bad.”
Vivian snatched the paper so quickly that her sharp fingernail grazed the back of Betty’s hand.
Betty remembered a maid who had run out crying after being scratched on the cheek.
Back then, the lady had slapped her personal maid just because she believed the girl had poorly manicured nails.
“I like it. Especially this part—‘Vivian Sharte.’ That man needs to be reminded exactly who I am.”
She always signed even her letters to her closest friends with her full name and title.
And she never forgot to stamp her seal with the family crest.
Betty had learned this from quietly watching the lady sort through her own mail at this hour.
“If more letters come from the Grand Duke, respond like this.”
Vivian folded the letter without hesitation and sealed it in an envelope.
“Now leave. Make sure no one disturbs me.”
Waving her hand dismissively, she sent Betty away, clearly having lost all interest in the matter.
At the time, Betty had no idea she’d end up writing regular letters to the Grand Duke.
“Your Grace. A letter has arrived from the duchy.”
Ian looked up at his aide’s unexpected words.
He had been deep in thought, studying a map in the middle of the tent.
“From the duchy?”
“Yes. It’s addressed… from Lady Vivian Sharte.”
Ian frowned slightly but opened the envelope.
The neat, calm handwriting caught his attention first.
It didn’t match the image of the fiery red-haired lady he had briefly met.
‘It’s not like either of us really want this marriage. Let’s just keep things polite.’
Her irritation had been clear, and her arrogance exceeded the rumors.
Not that it had bothered him—but that was his first impression of her.
‘But this letter… is unexpected.’
His fingers brushed over the precisely punctuated sentences.
Though the content was trivial, it lingered strangely in his mind.
It was surprising to receive such a courteous reply from the sharp-tongued Lady Sharte.
“What’s the matter?”
“The handwriting—it’s nothing like mine.”
As a man of low birth, Ian had only learned to write properly later in life, and his messy handwriting had long been considered a weakness—one people pointed to as proof of his origins.
“For someone like you, Your Grace, handwriting isn’t a flaw. What does it matter?”
Ian chuckled faintly at his aide’s eager defense.
“Are you truly going to marry Lady Sharte?”
“If that’s what His Majesty wishes, then yes.”
He gave a soft sigh and placed the letter on the corner of the table.
But when he returned to the map, he found it difficult to concentrate.
I hope you are well and safe.
He knew it was just a polite closing—but that final sentence lingered in his thoughts the next day, and the day after that.
Perhaps it was because so few people had ever sincerely wished for his well-being.
He dismissed the feeling as unfamiliar sentiment.
And he forgot about the letter soon after.
At least, until a much longer letter arrived unexpectedly—even though he hadn’t replied.
