I Have No Intention Of Loving You

Opening the door to the library and spotting a figure inside, Lucien widened his eyes for a moment—then immediately remembered.

His wife Marguerite’s bedroom had been assigned to the room beside the library, the one that had once housed a steward who lived on-site.

Marguerite showed no sign of noticing Lucien’s entrance. Naturally so—she was slumped over the table, breathing softly in peaceful sleep.

Spread out on the table before her was a natural history volume on oceanography.

“……”

Passing by Marguerite, Lucien approached the shelf holding the book he sought. It was a memoir written by his grandfather, explaining the rituals of the nobility—an indispensable reference for House de Broy, which had only recently risen from count to duke.

After some time spent researching, Lucien turned back toward Marguerite.

A full week had passed since their marriage, and yet he had not exchanged even a single word with his wife.

‘…Such an innocent sleeping face.’

When they had first met at the wedding, Marguerite’s expression had seemed hollow, as though all feeling had drained from it, and Lucien had felt anger boiling within him—was she truly so unwilling to marry into House de Broy?

But the Marguerite before him now showed no trace of misery, despite the harsh treatment she had received. If anything, she seemed more alive than before.

The servants, too, had been puzzled.

A faint smile rested on Marguerite’s lips.

Perhaps she was dreaming, for that smile occasionally deepened into one of clear contentment.

She was not beautiful enough to inspire admiration. Her clothing was shabby, and judged purely by appearance, her sister—whom he had seen at the wedding—had been far more lovely.

And yet, strangely, his gaze was drawn to her—perhaps because she lacked the peculiar malice so common among nobles.

;What on earth is she thinking…?;

As Lucien stared at Marguerite with a dazed expression, the memoir slipped from his hand.

The soft thud startled her awake.

Lifting her face, Marguerite saw Lucien standing on the other side of the table.

Jet-black hair tinged with blue, like the deep sea, and eyes of the same color. His narrow eyes and straight nose gave him an impression of keen intelligence.

“!?”

It seemed she had fallen asleep while reading. She had not noticed Lucien’s visit at all.

“I—I’m terribly sorry. I tend to be able to fall asleep anywhere.”

Unsure what exactly she was apologizing for, she bowed her head awkwardly.

Lucien gave no response. Rather than anger, he seemed taken aback.

At his feet lay a fallen book. It was solidly bound, though not ornate.

Marguerite picked it up and held it out to Lucien.

“Here you are.”

Even then, Lucien reacted slowly. After staring intently at Marguerite, he lowered his gaze to the book, yet made no move to take it.

Behind him, there was an empty space on the shelf where the book had been pulled out. Perhaps she was meant to return it there herself.

“Um, may I check the inside first?”

At her question, Lucien’s eyes sharpened.

“Why?”

“I thought it best to confirm it wasn’t damaged… It seems to be someone’s memoir, doesn’t it?”

She hesitated to look inside without permission and thought it better to ask.

Lucien’s eyes widened slightly.

“How did you know?”

“The books on that shelf appear to have been written by members of House de Broy.”

The imposing ebony bookcase, with its heavy construction, stood out distinctly from the others.

And yet the books it held were plainly bound, prioritizing practicality. Their covers bore nothing but signatures, dates, and serial numbers.

They were not meant to please the eye, but rather to conceal information from anyone outside the family.

Just like the documents Marguerite had given to Maurice—records that might contain details on territorial management or finances.

“That’s why I couldn’t look inside without permission—”

Her deduction seemed correct. Lucien’s gaze grew even sharper.

‘Did I say too much and anger him?’

“You don’t need to do anything unnecessary.”

Snatching the book roughly from Marguerite’s hands, Lucien checked it himself for damage and returned it to the shelf.

“Don’t misunderstand. If not for the royal family’s order, I would never have married you. No matter how much you try to curry favor, don’t think you can win me over.”

Facing Marguerite, Lucien cast her a cold stare.

“I’ll say this now. I have no intention of loving you.”

Ordinarily, such a declaration would be humiliating—a clear rejection.

—And yet, for some reason.

Marguerite’s expression brightened, glowing with cheer.

“Yes!”

Her energetic reply rang clearly through the room.