Marry Me, Duke Tyrone

He was the one who had reserved the place and summoned me. Surely he would not be so petty as to make me pay for the tea course on top of that.

I took the seat they showed me with perfect composure. The hall, done up in mint and white, had none of the savor of old-world grandeur, but it looked bright and clean all the same.

The moment I sat, a young woman in uniform came over beaming and asked what I would like. Curiosity toward me glittered in her eyes.

"The first tea we'll be serving is Queen Annie, a black tea exclusive to this house. For the accompaniments, would you prefer something sweet, or something savory?"

"Savory. I don't much care for finger foods, so bring only a little."

"Yes, my lady."

Even after she had her answer, she lingered a moment in front of me. She was probably dying to ask about Duke Ian Tyrone. But when I lowered my eyes and refused to give her so much as a glance, she finally slunk away.

Only once she was gone did I let out a small sigh.

How on earth do they train their staff?

Did they truly believe that people who came to drink tea far more expensive than a meal were paying that sum for the quality of the leaves alone? A beautiful interior, service that treated you as someone precious—those, too, had a price, and it was a steep one.

And here you are, so lost in gossip you're stealing glances at the customer?

Still, if I chose to take it kindly, it also meant the rumor had spread just that far. After a short wait, everything arrived exactly as ordered: a two-tiered tray of savory little desserts, a pot of hot water, and a teacup.

"If you wish to change to another tea, please call for a member of staff. We'll replenish the hot water whenever you need it."

"Lovely."

A fragrant breath of black tea rose from the pot she set down. Leaves that have already been fired once, like black tea, turn bitter and astringent if you steep them in water that is too hot. Even so, the brewing itself seemed well trained, and my temper eased a little.

Yes. This is tea.

How long had it been since I'd allowed myself a luxury like this? Once I held the reins of the household, a quiet cup of leisure had been nothing more than an ordinary part of the day, and I had never imagined I would come to miss it so fiercely.

I killed time savoring the tea. Every cup that followed was just as satisfying—the fruit tea, the petal tea, even the pu-erh they said had been brought in from the East.

The man in question appeared just as I was about to order my fifth.

Step. Step.

It was a strange thing. I was hardly the only person in the room, and neither was he, and yet those footsteps alone rang out with perfect clarity.

I set down the cup I had been drinking. The moment porcelain met saucer with a soft click, the man who had strode up to me drew out the chair across the table with his own hand and dropped into it.

Well, well.

I hadn't offered him the seat. He hadn't even greeted me. And he sat down exactly as he pleased?

"I thought I knew a great deal about you. I didn't realize you were rude."

I lifted my eyes to the man seated opposite me.

"Duke Tyrone."

At that, the man who had swept his soft golden hair neatly back raised his eyes to mine. Blue irises, sharp enough to cut, glittered as they took me in.

It was him. The man I had waited for all day.

The handsomest man in the country. The Emperor's only cousin. And yet better known by that disgraceful nickname—the National Impotent.

Duke Ian Tyrone.

Ian swept me with a cold look, then slowly parted his lips.

"Are you the Duchess of Parnel?"

The face was splendid, and so was the build. Even the voice that slipped from those apricot-colored lips was perfect. For an instant my heart seemed to thud against my ribs, but I put on an air of perfect calm.

"No. You're mistaken. I am Olivia Florence. You ought to address me as Lady Florence."

At my answer, his straight brows arched high. He frowned and asked, "And yet, did you not marry the Duke of Parnel?"

"That husband who marched off to war and won't be back for the next ten years?"

The moment James entered the conversation, my voice cooled of its own accord. I twisted the corner of my mouth and delivered, faithfully, the answer I had already prepared.

"Under imperial law, any marriage that has not been consummated is void. I never so much as saw my husband's face. I am still a Florence."

"A rather bold thing to say. Well. The form of address hardly matters, so..."

A faint smile spread over Ian's face. His blue eyes glittered with a strange light, different from before. Interest. Directed at me.

"So, Lady Florence. Why did you ask to see me?"

At that, I smiled inwardly—the smile of a hand already won.

Now I make him accept my terms, whatever it takes. Even if I have to seize him by the scruff of the neck.

"Has Your Grace heard the song going around the streets?"

"Ah. That song. The one about you and me tangled up together every night."

I lowered my eyes and arranged my face into something pitiful, then spoke to him in a voice gone weak.

"That song has put me in a very difficult position. So I would like you to take responsibility."

"Responsibility? And how, precisely, am I meant to take responsibility?"

Ian's brow twisted hard. Before I stated the purpose that had brought me here, I drew a breath. Perhaps because I paused, my field of vision widened all at once, and the room came into focus.

Every last person was craning their neck, straining with all their might to overhear us. Watching the elegant patrons of Aramir behave that way, I nearly laughed.

And so, with the tension gone out of me, I was able to say it in a more leisurely tone—and a little more loudly.

That was the business for which I had come to meet this man today.

"......"

Ian pressed his lips shut. A face of perfect symmetry wearing an expression like that looked thoroughly put out. I, who had been facing him with a bright smile, shrugged.

"Well? Say something. How far do you intend to embarrass a lady?"

"......Ah. Pardon me."

At my prickly words, Ian belatedly parted his lips. Then, with a look that was not the least bit sorry, he fixed me with a glare.

"It is exceedingly rare for me to be left speechless......"

"I'm sure it is."

Wasn't this the same man who, when a young lady he had never met in his life clung to him and begged him to hold her as hotly as he had the night before, didn't so much as blink before answering that he didn't get hard?

When I replied with perfect indifference, Ian's brows drew together. He was plainly baffled.

"Are you deaf to rumor?"

"Not so deaf that Your Grace needs to worry. I know you don't rise, where women are concerned."

"......"

Ian's words failed him a second time. I had answered with my usual sharp tongue out of habit, and only afterward did I think, oh.

Ah. Even if the whole nation knows the rumor, it seems no one has ever thrown it in his face quite so bluntly.

Perhaps I ought to have behaved a little more demurely, for the sake of a successful marriage. But I wiped that thought away almost at once. If he was the sort who couldn't endure even this much, there was no need to marry him at all.

Better to live with James, then. Bastard though he was, he did listen to me well enough.

For all his frightening, fierce looks, James had always handled me as if I were a feather. His head was as hard as a brick, true, but once a thing could be reasoned through, he generally came around.

Twenty years is a frightening span of time. To think his good points were quietly surfacing like this. I, who had been defending my husband without even meaning to, shook my head.

No. Even so, not James. I'll just say I received a divine revelation and go to a convent. That's better.

I knew the future, and there were still moves left to me with that knowledge in hand. I looked again, eyes clear, at the handsome man sitting there with his mouth firmly shut.

So hurry up and speak. Otherwise how am I supposed to draw up Plan B?

Ian stared at me for a long while, as if he meant to pry me open and see what I was made of, then finally gave up and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he asked point-blank.

"You mean you don't mind, even if I am impotent?"

His voice trembled, just slightly, on the word. I let out a short laugh.

So. Being called the National Impotent hasn't left him entirely without psychological damage after all.

That he could look at his own weakness with clear eyes was a good sign. The negotiating table would tilt my way, at least. I folded my arms at my ease, smiled, and answered.

"Rather, I prefer it. I dislike sharing a bed. Insects or otherwise."

"Kindly put away the pointless wordplay."

"My. I didn't realize you had no sense of humor, either."

At my needling, Ian closed his mouth for a moment.

The blue eyes fixed on me shone a cold, honed blue, like a ceremonial sword with its edge set. My sarcasm seemed to have touched his temper.

Go on, then. Throw a fit.

What tantrum of his could possibly outdo our own ignorant piece of work?

While I was at it, I crossed my arms with every intention of seeing this man all the way down to the bottom, and I met that gaze head-on.

"......"

How much time passed? He glared at me for quite a while, and even then he did not shove the table aside and stand.

Fortunately, he seems to have more patience than I expected.

That, too, was a good sign. Even if he was the one to haul me out of the rubbish heap, it would mean nothing if he only dropped me into another.

The man who had swallowed his anger spoke in a voice a little stiffer than before.

"I am a man of few words. I am not amusing, and I am, by nature, indifferent to other people. I don't know what you expect of me, but whatever it is, I should tell you that you will be disappointed."

He seemed to think I was like the other young ladies who had hurled themselves bodily at him—that I had mistaken him for a prince on a white horse. I shrugged.

This lady is a good deal too old to be harboring fantasies like that.

I smiled a smile with no soul in it and thought back on my first marriage.

Come to think of it, James was truly a man of few words himself. If I counted the words this one has just spoken, wouldn't they come to a week's worth of James?

I had no illusions about Ian. I didn't expect a husband to keep me entertained. And I had already lived with a man even more taciturn than this, so there was no problem at all.

I shrugged again.

"My. If it's a man of few words, I'm something of a specialist. I lived with a brick."

"I asked you to stop the wordplay."

He brushed aside even an answer that sat infinitely close to the truth, as if it were a joke. I straightened from where I had been leaning into the sofa and sat forward, as though resting against the table. The distance between our eyes narrowed of its own accord.

"Duke Ian Tyrone."

He rolled only his eyes toward me, as if to ask why I was calling him. I held that gaze and asked. If a look could be seized, his was being dragged to me this very moment, caught by the collar.

"You don't have parents, do you?"

"No. Both of them have passed away."

"Then marry me."

The mere fact that I would not be acquiring three mothers-in-law was already more than enough to please me.