Your lord husband is not a very talkative man.

You get the feeling that he does not like you. You don’t hold it against him. It hurts, but you understand. This is not a marriage of love, but rather of convenience.

Your father, a wealthy earl, had arranged it to strengthen illustrious trade opportunities within his own province. The Ackerman bloodline and its riches can be traced back centuries ago. You hit the jackpot, you suppose. You live in luxury and comfort—though you would not go so far to call yourself comfortable with it.

You are a woman. It is in your nature to want a man. To want love. There is something so special in a marriage, you think, an intimacy—a closeness—that cannot be achieved in any other relationship. He doesn’t talk but you want him to. You want him to whisper sweet nothings into your ear, to call your name with fondness and invite you into his lap. You want him to say he loves you, more than anything—because you love him. So so much.

Little things: the crease between his brows when he frowns, the silver glint of his eyes when he takes the first sip of his tea every morning, the soft rasp of his voice when he can bear to greet you.

Perhaps, he is just shy, you tell yourself. Not all men are so outspoken. They need some coaxing and a good wife has little pride. You make small efforts. You try to talk to him during breakfast, ask him if he should like to accompany you on walks, wear your prettiest dresses to seduce him.

You get the feeling he has another woman in his heart. Someone else who has taken hold of his heart and so, you cannot reach it.

And it isn’t until you see his eyes land upon the Lady Petra of Trost, during her father’s annual ball, that your suspicions are confirmed.

What a fool you have been.