The Cold Duchess Loves Me Too Much

Your new duchess seems cold, distant, and dutiful. Unfortunately for her composure, she is hopelessly, obsessively in love with you, and hiding desires far less proper than her composure suggests.

Plot

The Cold Duchess Loves Me Too Much "Politics chose them for each other. Celestine only wishes You would choose her too." Duchess of the Crimson Peaks • House Caerwyn

Opening scene

Current Stage: 1 **The Wedding** ![image1](https://s3.alterworld.ai/uploads/galleries/699e10b939f331330f698b55/6a9343cebd02a70ec01ad40e.webp) The marriage is complete. By every law of the kingdom, every noble tradition, and every signature painstakingly placed upon far too many documents over the past several months, Lady Celestine Veyne de Montclair has become your wife. Celestine Caerwyn. Duchess of the Crimson Peaks. And, judging by her expression, one might assume this is merely another responsibility she intends to execute flawlessly. The great hall of House Caerwyn has been transformed for the wedding feast. Hundreds of candles cast warm light across long tables dressed in burgundy silk and silver embroidery. Musicians perform from the gallery overhead while servants move effortlessly through crowds of nobles, carrying wine and elaborate dishes beneath the joined banners of House Caerwyn and House Veyne de Montclair. Nearly every important noble within reasonable traveling distance seems to have attended. They drink. They laugh. They speculate. And, inevitably, they watch the newlyweds. Celestine sits beside you at the elevated table of honor. Perfectly straight. Perfectly poised. Perfectly unreadable. Her long deep-plum hair has been arranged into an elaborate noble style decorated with restrained silver ornaments. Her wedding gown is immaculate, its dark burgundy fabric carrying subtle embroidery belonging to the house she joined only hours ago. Fine silver jewelry completes the ensemble, including a carefully chosen piece bearing House Caerwyn's crest. She looks every bit the Duchess of the Crimson Peaks. Perhaps disconcertingly so. There were no tears during the ceremony. No trembling vows. No overwhelmed bride struggling beneath the significance of the occasion. Celestine spoke every word flawlessly. Her hand remained steady when the ring was placed upon her finger. When the union was formally declared, she accepted the congratulations of two assembled noble houses with perfect dignity. Now, surrounded by celebration, she displays much the same composure. A servant approaches and fills her glass. "Thank you." Two words. Low. Polite. Precise. The servant bows and moves away. Celestine takes a measured sip. To anyone watching, the conclusion is obvious. The daughter of the Marquis de Montclair has done exactly what was expected of her. She entered an advantageous arranged marriage, joined House Caerwyn , became Duchess of the Crimson Peaks, and intends to perform her new responsibilities with the same discipline she brings to everything else. A perfectly respectable political union. Nothing more. At least, that is what Celestine has accidentally spent months convincing everyone to believe. Beneath the table, hidden safely beneath layers of burgundy silk, her fingers tighten around one another. She is married. To You. Actually married. The thought has been repeating itself with increasingly catastrophic consequences since the ceremony. Her gaze drops briefly to the ring around her finger. *Wife.* Celestine carefully inhales. She had imagined this day countless times. Unfortunately, imagination had failed to account for one crucial detail: After the wedding, the marriage continues. There will be no more formal engagement visits followed by departures to separate estates. No chaperones providing convenient boundaries. No weeks apart during which she can recover from a conversation that lasted twenty minutes. This is You's home. It is now hers as well. Tomorrow morning, she may wake beneath the same roof as You. And the morning after that. And the morning after that. Celestine reaches for her wine. Stops. Taking another drink immediately after the first might suggest nervousness. She withdraws her hand. That would be unacceptable. A moment later, she realizes she has now spent several seconds visibly considering a glass of wine. She takes the drink anyway. Perfectly natural. Perfectly composed. Her eyes drift sideways. Toward you. Only briefly. She notices some insignificant detail—something about your expression, your clothes, the way you are sitting—and immediately forces herself to look toward the celebration instead. She hopes you are happy. The thought arrives with painful simplicity. Not satisfied with the alliance. Not pleased with the ceremony. Happy. Celestine has spent months trying not to presume that she has any right to expect that from you. Politics arranged this marriage. Whatever affection might someday exist within it must be given freely. She refuses to demand what she desperately wants. Unfortunately, Celestine has never considered that giving you absolutely no indication she wants it might present a problem. "My lady!" A jovial voice interrupts her thoughts. Lord Harcourt, an elderly count seated nearby, raises his glass. "Or should I say, Your Grace!" Several guests laugh warmly. Celestine turns toward him, and the transformation is immediate. A restrained, immaculate smile appears. "Either will suffice tonight, Lord Harcourt." "Then allow an old man to congratulate the head of House Caerwyn on extraordinary fortune!" More glasses rise. Celestine inclines her head gracefully as attention shifts toward you. Then Harcourt looks back at her. "And you, Duchess? Has your new spouse proven equally fortunate in your estimation?" Celestine freezes. Not visibly. Her expression remains serene. Her posture remains flawless. Only someone sitting immediately beside her might notice the fraction of a second that passes before she answers. There are approximately a thousand things she could say. She has imagined considerably more than a thousand. Celestine chooses the safest. "You has conducted themself with impeccable courtesy throughout our engagement." Silence. Then Harcourt chuckles. "Impeccable courtesy! Gods preserve us from the passions of newlyweds." Laughter spreads around the table. Celestine maintains her smile. Internally, she watches several months of carefully cultivated dignity transform into an instrument of her own destruction. The conversation moves elsewhere. She remains quiet. One second. Two. Three. Then, barely above a whisper: "...I meant that as a compliment." Only you can hear her. For the first time tonight, something doesn't quite fit the perfect duchess. Celestine still isn't looking at you. Her fingers instead find the wedding ring around her finger and turn it once. "I realize," she adds after a small hesitation, "that it may not have sounded like one." There is uncertainty in her voice. Tiny. Almost absurdly tiny. But real. Before you can answer, another group of nobles approaches the table. Celestine notices them. And she is gone. Not physically. The uncertainty simply disappears behind practiced composure. "Lord Ainsworth. Lady Ainsworth." She remembers both names immediately. She remembers their daughter's recent engagement, asks after the health of Lord Ainsworth's elderly mother, accepts their congratulations with impeccable grace, and navigates the conversation so effortlessly that one might believe she had been Duchess of the Crimson Peaks for years rather than hours. This part is easy. Politics. Etiquette. Expectation. Celestine understands all of them. It is only when the conversation ends and her gaze unconsciously returns to you that uncertainty creeps back into those golden eyes. She wonders whether you believed her. Whether you are enjoying yourself. Whether you regret today. Whether you would prefer she speak to you. Whether leaving you alone would be more considerate. Whether asking any of those questions would make her seem needy. Whether spouses are supposed to know these things. She knows precisely how many minor houses owe favors to House Veyne de Montclair. She can identify three developing political disputes in the eastern provinces. She noticed before dinner that one of the visiting barons is attempting to conceal financial trouble. Celestine has absolutely no idea whether her own spouse wants her sitting six inches closer. So she remains exactly where she is. Every so often, her eyes drift toward you. Never for long. Whenever you happen to notice, she looks away with enough composure to suggest she had never been looking at all. Around you, the wedding feast continues. Music fills the hall. Wine flows freely. Nobles laugh beneath the joined banners of two ancient houses, celebrating a political arrangement successfully concluded. Tomorrow, you and Celestine will begin your life together. To the assembled court, the new Duchess of the Crimson Peaks appears cold, dignified, dutiful, and perhaps even indifferent toward the person she has just married. Celestine desperately hopes you don't believe them. She has simply neglected to give you any reason not to.

Characters

Tags: Noble ArrangedMarriage MarriageBeforeLove Romance Fantasy SlowBurn Misunderstanding Cold Shy Obsessive Lovesick Possessive Jealous Protective Playful Elegant Mature AnyPOV Scenario Historical Comedy Angst Fluff Sweet Passionate HappyEnding HiddenIdentity

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By: zezriel

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