I will be the perfect wife this time-Chapter 88: The Duchess’s Hidden Warmth

Olivia surveyed their bows with eyes of chipped ice, offering no acknowledgement. She could read the truth in their wary glances; she was an uninvited guest in their warmth, a figure of fear rather than affection.

Had it not been for the necessity of reaching Loris without casting a shadow of suspicion, she would never have stepped foot here. It was a tactical opportunity she refused to squander.

The groom approached, his bow so deep it was almost a plea. "Welcome, Your Grace, to my humble wedding. Had I known you would grace us, I would have prepared a setting more befitting of your station."

Olivia narrowed her eyes, the silence stretching uncomfortably. "You sent an invitation addressed to me, yet you admit you expected me to stay away?"

Beads of sweat broke across the man’s brow. He found no words to bridge the gap; he was utterly paralyzed by her presence. Trembling, he gestured toward two ornate chairs reserved for the couple of the hour. "You... you may sit here, if it pleases you."

Matthias leaned into the curve of her ear, his voice a low, warning rumble. "Olivia, cease the theatrics. This is no time for your razor-sharp tongue."

"I was merely asking a question in good faith," she whispered back, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips.

She clicked open the velvet box in her hands and withdrew the silver pin. "You. Come closer."

The man braced himself, half-expecting a reprimand or worse, but instead, he felt her steady fingers pinning the jewelry to his lapel with effortless grace.

"This is your gift," she said coolly. "My congratulations. Now, show me to the bride. I intend to present her with her gift as well."

The gesture sent a frantic ripple of murmurs through the crowd. Did the Duchess truly give Joffrey a gift? Her face is like stone, but she actually reached out to him...

"Thank you, Your Grace! Thank you!" Joffrey bowed again, relief washing over him. "This way, please... right this way."

Olivia released Matthias’s hand, offering him a brief, knowing look. "I shall return shortly."

The moment she turned her back, the atmosphere in the courtyard seemed to thaw instantly, the warmth returning as if a dark specter had finally ceased its haunting.

As the door clicked shut behind her, the stifling weight of the Duchess’s public persona seemed to dissolve. Olivia stood at the threshold of the bride’s sanctuary, where the raucous joy of the celebration was replaced by an intimate, heavy silence.

The room was a tableau of quiet desperation: a young girl in a cloud of white lace sat solitary before a vanity, surrounded by the wreckage of a failed transformation.

"Hello?" Olivia’s voice was a soft chime in the stillness.

The bride spun around, her face a tragic canvas of smudged kohl and blotchy pigments. Her eyelids were swollen and crimson—the telltale signs of a bride who had wept away her confidence. She stared at Olivia, mesmerized by the ethereal creature who had appeared in her doorway, a figure so radiant she seemed carved from moonlight.

"My Lady..." the girl whispered, breathless. "You are so beautiful. Are you... are you a noblewoman?"

"Congratulations on your marriage," Olivia replied, her tone dipping into a rare, gentle warmth. "And yes, I am a noble."

The girl scrambled to stand, her instincts driving her to offer a deep, reverent curtsy, but Olivia’s hand moved with surprising swiftness, resting lightly on the girl’s shoulder to hold her in place.

"Do not bow," Olivia commanded, her voice firm but kind. "This day belongs to you alone. You shall bow to no one today."

The bride settled back into her chair, her eyes wide with bewilderment. "Thank you, My Lady... but who are you?"

"Olivia," she answered simply. Her gaze shifted to the vanity, taking in the chaotic array of powders and brushes. "Your makeup... I mean no offense, but it seems you are in dire need of assistance with your preparations?"

A nervous, helpless laugh escaped the girl’s throat. "It’s that obvious, then? I was supposed to have a friend help me, but her mother fell ill at the last moment. I found myself quite alone, and I’ve only made a mess of things..."

Her voice trailed off into a hollow sigh of defeat. Olivia reached out and picked up a delicate cosmetic brush, rolling it between her fingers as she surveyed the scattered colors.

"In truth," Olivia admitted, catching the girl’s eyes in the glass, "I am not particularly skilled at this. I have never actually applied makeup to anyone but myself. However, I have spent a lifetime watching my maids perfect my reflection for hours on end. If you are willing to trust me, I could try to help you."

Tears suddenly welled in the bride’s eyes, shimmering with a vulnerability that touched something cold and dormant within Olivia. The girl reached out, clutching Olivia’s hand in a silent, trembling squeeze of gratitude.

"Truly? Oh, I would treasure any help you could give. I... I don’t know how to thank you."

"Now, now," Olivia chided, her voice softened by a rare, motherly edge. "Dry those eyes, little one. Tears are the enemy of beauty."

"Lillian," the girl whispered, her voice still hitching. "My name is Lillian."

"Then dry your tears, Lillian, and let us begin."

With a grace that seemed innate, guided by the phantom memories of a thousand mornings spent under the hands of her own maids, Olivia set to work. She moved with meticulous precision—lining the eyes to mask the redness of sorrow, painting the lips with a soft, blooming rose, and sculpting the girl’s features stroke by stroke.

When the transformation was complete, Olivia helped Lillian into the heavy silk of her wedding gown and draped the gossamer veil over her dark curls like a fallen cloud. Lillian turned to the mirror, her hand flying to her mouth in a gasp of pure disbelief.

"I can’t believe it," she breathed, her reflection glowing with a newfound light. "I look like... I look like a different person entirely."

Olivia reached for the velvet box she had brought, withdrawing the exquisite necklace she had purchased earlier. She fastened it around Lillian’s throat, the jewels cold and heavy against the girl’s skin.

"What is this, Miss?" Lillian asked, her fingers trembling as she touched the gems.

"First," Olivia corrected with a sharp but playful firmness, "it is My Lady, for I am a married woman. Second, this is quite simply a wedding gift. Accept it without a second thought."

Olivia stepped back, her head tilted as she performed a final, critical inspection. "There. We are finished. It suits you perfectly. And yet..." She paused, a small frown marring her brow. "I feel as though something is still missing."

Without hesitation, Olivia reached up and unclasped her own diamond earrings—masterpieces of light and gold—and gently threaded them into Lillian’s ears.

"My Lady, no!" Lillian protested, her face flushing with panic. "This is far too much. I cannot possibly take these."

"I have already told you—you are the bride!" Olivia’s tone brooked no argument, commanding the room with her natural authority. "Refusing gifts from your superiors is an act of utter impropriety. Therefore, you will accept what I offer, and not another word shall be spoken of it."

She smoothed a stray fold of the gown and took a half-step back. "Now, stand before me. I must ensure you are flawless before the world sees you."

Olivia’s gaze swept downward, coming to rest upon the girl’s feet. "And what of your shoes?" she asked, her voice carrying an imperious edge.

"What?" Lillian stammered, blinking in confusion.

"You know precisely what I mean," Olivia countered with a silken, knowing coolness. Before the bride could process the thought, the Duchess moved with her characteristic, predatory grace. She unbuckled her own designer stiletto heels and placed them before the girl’s feet.

"What is the value of a wedding day," she added poignantly, "without a proper pair of heels to elevate a beautiful bride?"

"But, My Lady—" Lillian began, her voice trembling at the sheer audacity of the gesture.

"No ’buts,’" Olivia cut her off, her tone leaving no room for dissent. "Simply put them on. You will look truly magnificent."

Overwhelmed, Lillian felt the sting of fresh tears, but Olivia immediately let out a sharp, warning cry. "The makeup! Don’t you dare cry and ruin my handiwork!"

Lillian erupted into a sudden, joyous laugh, the shadows of anxiety finally lifting from her face. Disregarding all protocol, she threw herself into Olivia’s arms, pulling the Duchess into a tight, frantic embrace.

"Thank you, My Lady. You don’t even know me, yet you’ve done all this for my sake. You truly are the kindest woman on the face of the earth."

Olivia stifled a dry, internal laugh; the word kindest felt like a foreign tongue against her cynical soul. If Isabella were here, she would surely faint from the sheer comedy of it, Olivia thought, a spark of dark irony dancing in her eyes.

"Enough, enough," she said, gently disentangling herself. "This hugging will only spoil the powder. Go now, and wait for your groom with pride. I shall satisfy myself with wearing your simple flats."

The two women sat together as a heavy, expectant silence settled over the room—a stillness finally shattered by the bride’s hesitant voice.

"I know this question is dreadfully embarrassing," Lillian began, her face flushing crimson, "but truly, no one has explained anything to me clearly. My Lady... could you offer me some counsel? Tonight... it will be my first experience."

Olivia froze in place. Her eyes widened, the usual mask of composed arrogance slipping to reveal a rare, genuine bewilderment. She, who was the queen of every calculated answer, found herself utterly speechless.

"Me?" she stammered, the shock vibrating in her voice. "You mean... you are asking me for advice regarding... the wedding night?"