VIOLET 1

For nobles, a strategic marriage was a natural obligation.

As a woman of the distinguished Dufault family, a prestigious lineage in the upper echelons of the imperial capital, with royal blood from her maternal side, one could expect a groom of considerable standing in the marriage market. Ana followed this typical path.

She debuted in high society at sixteen, became engaged to a suitable noble gentleman at eighteen, and, just before her twentieth birthday, held her wedding, becoming the lady of a prominent household.

Her fiancé, now her husband, Garcia, who stood by her side without discord from their engagement to their wedding, was a refined and courteous man.

In truth, he was an exceptionally desirable husband, a rare gentleman in today’s world.

Even in an atmosphere where courtly love affairs and mistresses, while not openly condoned, were quietly accepted, he remained untainted by scandal, maintaining impeccable conduct. Throughout their five years together—from their engagement to their third year of marriage—he never once raised his voice or spoke informally to his wife. Whether in public or private, he consistently treated her with respect.

In fact, the couple had never quarreled or experienced significant friction.

Well, Ana thought, could this be merely a matter of propriety? Wouldn’t great passion be necessary for tempers to flare or conflicts to arise?

Between her and her husband, there existed only impeccable decorum and mutual respect. Yet, this did not mean their relationship was cold.

While there was no fiery passion, their conversations were not lacking, and unless their schedules prevented it, they diligently shared meals together. Quiet tea times and walks were not awkward but serene. Aside from the absence of children, their marital relationship was satisfactory.

In truth, maintaining such a calm and dignified relationship in an arranged marriage was more challenging than one might expect. Ana considered herself fortunate. She also recognized that, objectively, her husband was a man other women would envy.

Garcia von Tudor. This man of impeccable lineage, a direct heir of the honorable Tudor family, possessed not only striking good looks that would make anyone turn for a second glance but also a cool, bittersweet elegance, reminiscent of mint.

He was not overly verbose or flamboyant in speech. Yet, he carried a noble accent, refined conversational skills, and a cultured demeanor. No one in the entire capital would likely dispute that he was an intelligent and dignified man.

Older noblewomen would whisper approvingly that, despite his vast inheritance and power, there was no young man as humble as he.

In many ways, he was an exceptional man. The only thing missing between them was love. What should one call it? Perhaps words like friendship or respect would be more fitting.

As Ana approached her third year as a man’s wife, she occasionally found herself idly pondering. They were fond of each other, he was a devoted husband and a good man—so why had love not blossomed?

This was not to say that Ana was unattractive or lacking in any way. She was well aware of her own appearance. Nor did they differ greatly in values or perspectives.

Such an admirable gentleman and lady, a handsome couple as everyone in high society remarked—so why, then?

She didn’t know. Perhaps, when she first met him as a young girl, she had felt something akin to excitement. Garcia von Tudor was, after all, a splendid man. So why had that seed failed to sprout?

There could be many reasons. Perhaps because they were such proper and rational nobles, or because, in the unspoken customs of prestigious noble families, mixing emotions into an arranged marriage was considered foolish. Or maybe it was something Garcia had said shortly after their engagement.

“Anais.”

She recalled that it was around the time when Garcia, who had always addressed her as Lady Dufault, began calling her by her first name at her earnest request.

At the time, the still-youthful noble maiden felt a faint thrill as his low voice wrapped around her name, resonating sweetly in her ears.

A shiver ran through her, as if the fine hairs at her ears stood on end. Yet, to the elegant girl who appeared as graceful as a lily, he met her gaze courteously, paused for a breath, and continued calmly.

“I hope our relationship will be stable and a source of support for both of us. I intend to be such a husband to you. I swear I will never bring dishonor upon you.”

His pledge to uphold her honor meant he would never engage in the “vulgar games of gentlemen,” such as taking a mistress or consorting with courtesans. This was highly advantageous and pleasing, a sadly rare consideration.

Then, the kind fiancé continued, addressing his slightly flustered yet touched fiancée.

“I will never impose anything upon you. And I humbly ask that you treat me with the same regard.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we should not emotionally bind each other.”

In other words, they would care for and support each other to the fullest, but love would not be an obligation. He was indeed a man who would faithfully fulfill all the expectations of a typical marriage—except for love.

Bathed in the spring sunlight, filled with the fragrance of flowers, this elegant yet composed, courteous, and kind man stood out vividly. The amber bolo tie he wore, the radiant golden hue of his eyes, remained clear in her memory even now.

But she could not recall her emotions from that moment.

Was she disappointed? Hurt? Or perhaps intrigued by his rationality?

In any case, Ana nodded and agreed to his proposal. It seemed reasonable to her. She was already sufficiently content.

Even now, Ana was not one for excessive desires and was satisfied with what was appropriate. She had enough discernment to recognize that, in the marriage market of high society, she had succeeded.

Though young enough to feel a faint attraction to her handsome fiancé, she was, after all, a noblewoman. Thus, when Garcia began calling her by her nickname, Ana, after their marriage, it stirred little emotion in her.

They were excellent and compatible partners. The Tudor family’s new ventures in shipping and railways were greatly supported by the Dufault family’s wealth and connections, and Ana’s role as a supportive wife was flawless.

Garcia, too, actively supported her social engagements as a husband and took care to provide her with small, thoughtful gestures without her needing to ask.

He never allowed his wife, as the lady of a great house, the marchioness of Tudor, and a woman, to suffer any loss of dignity or pride. In the subtle rivalries among noblewomen, the greatest trophy was a husband’s unwavering support, consideration, and respect.

Thus, it was a satisfying marriage. Even without vivid excitement or passion, it was gentle and sufficient. On a bright, pleasant day, Ana had the leisure to sip tea and enjoy peace at her own pace.

So how had things gone so awry?

She took a step back from a man who shone with the passion of a midsummer day, a fervor she had lost long ago. Fortunately or unfortunately, the man gazing at her so tenderly was not her husband.

Ah. Ana realized with a dull pang. Perhaps the reason she hadn’t loved Garcia in her youth was that she had already suffered an overwhelming fever before him.

The name of that incurable heat was first love.

The unripe affection that had once swept through the calm, book-loving girl stirred faintly, clouding her mind. Like shaking a dried sachet and being hit with a rush of musk, her heart pounded. It truly felt like an illness.

But it was a youthful indiscretion, permissible only in childhood. Now, Ana neither desired nor could tolerate it. She was a woman who valued stability and fidelity over fleeting passion.

Glancing at the man, whose lingering attachment and yearning seemed to drip beneath his composed facade, she turned away.

“Ana. Anais!”

She didn’t respond. Despite her racing heart and a twinge of anguish, her pale face remained the epitome of an elegant noblewoman, her expression unreadable. Hurrying at first, her steps soon slowed. She longed to return home, to her place, to the mansion where her husband awaited.

If she could change and have tea as usual… if she could engage in routine, unremarkable conversation with her husband after he returned from his work, perhaps her tangled emotions would settle back into place.

Or so she hoped.

But when she arrived at the mansion in haste and faced her husband, who, for some reason, had been waiting for her, she instinctively sensed something was wrong.

“Ana.”

His usually gentle face, with its faint smile and thoughtful eyes, was different today. No, he shouldn’t even be home at this hour. His expressionless, sunken gaze slowly swept over his wife, who stood frozen.

When her eyes met his golden ones, rising from the hem of her dress, stained with mud from her hurried steps, Ana nearly bit her tongue.

“Where have you been in such a rush?”

Her husband had noticed.