How To Seduce A Man

Startled by Gareth’s incredibly sudden and blunt question regarding bathing the Duke, Oriana’s hand jerked in surprise. The unexpected inquiry about watching a man's bare body shattered her careful focus. The smooth wooden spoon tilted dangerously in her trembling grip, accidentally splashing a few drops of the dark, pungent medicine straight onto Gideon’s pale mouth. The bitter scent of the brewed herbs hung heavy in the quiet air of the massive bedchamber.

Panic flared sharp and hot in her chest at the messy mistake. She hurriedly pulled a soft cloth from her wide sleeve and leaned in closer over the edge of the mattress. As she carefully dabbed at the spill to wipe the dark liquid away, her warm fingertips lightly brushed against the icy chill of his pale cheek. The stark contrast between her living warmth and his deathly stillness was jarring.

Right at that exact second, Gideon’s thick eyelashes fluttered faintly against his skin. He blinked—exactly twice. It was a subtle, microscopic movement, a tiny physical response to her gentle touch after months of lying motionless under the endless care of royal doctors.

But Oriana had already snapped her head back around to look at Gareth, her pulse racing with anxiety over his question. She entirely missed the fragile sign of life in her frantic rush to clean the spill. Her focus was solely on the towering deputy commander standing nearby, waiting for her answer.

Noticing her sudden flush and the stiff tension locked in her small shoulders, Gareth thoughtfully cleared his throat. He understood the awkwardness of the situation for a new bride. He quickly offered to handle the heavy, intimate task of physically turning and cleaning the unconscious Duke himself.

"Washing him properly means we have to roll him over and strip him down," Gareth pointed out, rubbing his chin in a thoughtful manner. "You lack the physical strength to move a man his size, my lady. Leave these matters to us footmen."

Much to Oriana's immense, silent relief, she nodded her head. A massive weight lifted off her chest, saving her from the overwhelming prospect of handling her husband's bare form so soon. She steadied herself, setting the stained cloth onto a nearby side table and smoothing the front of her skirt to hide her shaking hands.

Composing herself after the near disaster with the medicine, she calmly looked up to address the deputy commander. "Once you are finished washing him, I want you to arrange a meeting with the courtyard staff. Aside from you and Lina, I haven't met the rest of the household."

Gareth readily agreed to gather the servants. But a moment later, his expression shifted into something far more severe. He took a serious tone as he warned her of the estate's highly unique and fractured division of power.

"There is something you need to know before you step outside," Gareth began, keeping his voice low to ensure no one was eavesdropping in the halls. "Grimwood Manor is strictly divided into two distinct sides. Everything outside the immediate walls of this place is ruthlessly managed by Lady Beatrix. Budgets, maids, footmen, and supply lines—she runs it all with an iron fist. But this specific inner courtyard has always been His Grace’s fiercely guarded personal domain."

Oriana frowned, processing the fractured setup of the household. "Why divide the manor like that? It seems like a recipe for constant infighting."

"His Grace ordered it the very day he brought Lady Beatrix into the manor to live. I never asked for the reason behind his command," Gareth revealed, shaking his head. "Since he fell into his coma, I stepped in to handle the courtyard. It hasn't been easy. Lady Beatrix has repeatedly and aggressively tried to seize total control of the inner courtyard. She insists she should run everything since she is family." Gareth squared his broad shoulders, his single eye flashing with fierce loyalty. "But I have stood like an iron wall. I firmly refused her every attempt to cross that threshold."

Hearing this crucial piece of intelligence, Oriana felt a massive wave of ease wash over her tight chest. She realized that within these sturdy walls, she would not be constrained by others. She held absolute authority here, free from external noble interference. This sanctuary belonged to her alone to command.

Stepping out of the cool bedchamber and into the highly oppressive afternoon heat, Oriana narrowed her eyes against the glaring sun. Gareth quickly fetched a heavy wooden chair, placing it in the deep shade of the covered walkway for her to sit in comfort.

Oriana sat down and stood tall in spirit, silently evaluating the gathered staff standing in neat rows before her. She took her time, looking into their faces one by one. There were six strong footmen with straight backs and calloused hands. Beside them stood six diligent maids, keeping their eyes respectfully lowered to the stone path. And standing near the very front were two deeply veteran women specifically sent by the Queen Dowager long ago.

She asked each person to step forward, state their background, and list their daily tasks. Listening to their solid, reliable backgrounds and observing their disciplined posture, a profound realization struck her. She realized with a sharp pang in her chest that Gideon had meticulously and lovingly prepared this specific household specifically for the woman he truly loved. He had curated a perfect, loyal staff to serve his future bride, ensuring she would never face hardship within these walls.

With a quiet, internal sigh for the borrowed life and immense privilege she had suddenly claimed, Oriana folded her hands in her lap. She was living a life meant for another woman. She had taken advantage of Gideon's deep devotion. But she would do her utmost to manage it well.

She addressed the waiting staff with clear authority, her voice cutting through the thick summer air. She stated plainly that she did not understand the endless twists, turns, and venomous schemes of noble households. "I only know one ultimate truth," she declared, making sure every single person heard her. "As long as each of you handles your duties flawlessly, there will be incredibly generous rewards. Do your jobs well, and you will never suffer under my roof."

The staff remained perfectly still, the heat shimmering off the paving stones around them. Sweat dripped down the footmen's necks, yet no one dared to wipe it away.

Masterfully balancing her strict authority with sudden kindness, Oriana shifted her tone to something far softer. "It is far too warm today, and I have kept you standing in this blistering sun for too long. From today onward, I officially decree that every single afternoon, to combat the sweltering heat, the staff will receive endless bowls of sweet, cooling barley soup. If you finish your bowl, go straight back to the kitchen for more."

The strict, disciplined silence instantly broke as dry throats swallowed hard. The staff exchanged surprised, deeply grateful glances, bowing low to thank their new Duchess for her unexpected mercy.

Returning inside the cool chambers, Oriana sat at a heavy desk. She completely lost herself in Gareth's disastrously messy, chaotic account books. The ledgers were a nightmare of spilled ink blots, jagged handwriting, and confusing tallies. She worked tirelessly, tracing sums, categorizing expenses, and forcing the chaotic numbers to make sense on a fresh sheet of parchment. The numbers danced before her eyes, but she refused to stop until the inner courtyard's finances were sorted.

The hours slipped away in a blur of intense focus.

It was nearly ten at night when her maid, Talia, finally steps into the study. The young maid carried a fresh candle, casting a warm, flickering glow across the dark wood of the desk.

"My lady, you need to step away and rest," Talia urged, her voice laced with concern as she looked at the exhausted young Duchess. "If you keep staring at those pages in the dark, you will ruin your eyes."

Oriana blinked, the numerical figures swimming in her vision. Rubbing her stiff, aching neck, she leaned back in the chair. Her muscles popped in loud protest after hours of hunching over the desk. She looked out the tall window into the pitch-black night. The estate grounds outside were completely swallowed by shadows.

A sudden realization hit her, making her freeze mid-stretch. She had been so consumed by the messy ledgers and securing the loyalty of the courtyard that she completely skipped going to see Lady Beatrix today. She had not even sent a polite messenger to offer a basic greeting to her aunt-in-law.

Meanwhile, in another lavishly decorated room far across the sprawling manor, the atmosphere was thick with venom and fury.

Lady Beatrix violently slammed her palm against a heavy wooden table. The loud smack echoed through Briar Hall, rattling the delicate porcelain teacups sitting on a silver tray.

"That Oriana girl does not put me, an elder, in her eyes at all!" she fiercely spat, her face twisting into an ugly, furious sneer. "Not a single word from her courtyard all day! Who does she think she is?"

Sitting nearby beneath the warm, steady glow of an oil lamp, her youngest daughter, Camilla, kept her head bowed. She continued her delicate embroidery, weaving bright colored threads through a piece of fine silk stretched over a wooden hoop.

Camilla softly muttered a defense for the new Duchess, never looking up from her needlework. "Mother, she just arrived. And technically, you don't even control Oriana's inner courtyard anyway. It isn't our place to demand her presence."

Absolutely furious at the unexpected backtalk from her own blood, Beatrix lunged forward. She snatched the embroidery fabric away from her daughter with such violence that the sharp needle slipped. It deeply sliced a long, bright streak of blood across Camilla's index finger.

Camilla gasped in pain, dropping the wooden hoop as she grabbed her injured hand. The metallic scent of blood filled the space between them.

"You heartless thing!" Beatrix spat, looming over her weeping daughter like a dark cloud. She screamed that the incredibly powerful position of Duchess of Grimwood should have been hers. "You should be sitting in that courtyard, commanding those servants, not that little upstart!"

Clutching her bleeding, throbbing finger to her chest, Camilla broke down crying. The stress, fear, and silent pressure of the past months finally spilled over. She confessed the heavy burden she had carried in silence. She cried that she never actually wanted to marry Gideon in the first place.

"He never cared for me either!" she cried out, asserting the painful truth through her sobs. "He only saw me as a relative! He never looked at me with desire!"

Beatrix raged, kicking a velvet footstool across the floor. Her voice echoed off the lavish walls. She called her daughter a naive fool, aggressively demanding to know the brutal truth of the matter. "If he didn't care, didn't you know how to properly seduce a man? If you had simply climbed into his bed, he would have had to marry you to save face!"

Beatrix stepped closer, pointing a shaking, manic finger at Camilla's tear-stained face. She warned darkly that if Camilla could not become Duchess, the entire manor would inevitably fall into someone else's hands. "We will be thrown out onto the streets! We will be left with nothing!"

Tears aggressively pooled in Camilla's eyes, hot and fast. She looked up at her furious mother and whispered the forbidden truth out loud, the words hanging heavy in the opulent room. "Grimwood was never ours to begin with. Cousin only took us in out of sheer kindness. We have no right to demand his title or his home."

A sharp, stinging slap immediately cut her off. The loud crack of flesh striking flesh silenced her completely. Camilla’s head snapped to the side from the brutal force, her cheek burning fiery red.

Enraged beyond reason, Beatrix endlessly and viciously scolded her daughter's perceived weakness. She paced the room like a caged animal, her chest heaving as she bitterly and loudly lamented her own miserable fate. She glared down at the crying girl on the floor, her voice dripping with venomous regret. "If your beautiful older sister hadn't been married off so early, she would have claimed the Duke long ago. She wouldn't have been a weak fool like you!"