Sweet Romance11 min read
“Yes—I Love Him.” (And the Emperor Decides)
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"Yes," I said, and my voice trembled. "I do love him."
"Lea," my mother—Isabelle Roux—squeezed my hand so hard I felt the bones. "Do you understand what this means?"
"I do." I kept my eyes low. The hall smelled of lacquer and tea. The emperor's decree still hung in the air like a storm cloud. Hudson De Santis sat opposite, face as calm as a carved statue. My heart pounded like a drum.
"Then tell me," Isabelle urged. "Do you want him to be your husband?"
"I want him," I said. "If he will have me."
A small laugh escaped her, half sob, half relief. "Good. Then speak plainly when he asks."
I had not expected the emperor to speak for me. I had not expected the whole court to turn and watch. I had not expected the fear that opened like a hollow in my chest. But I had expected to be quiet and obedient. I had not expected that voice under my ribs—my truth—to finally answer.
Hudson's eyes found mine. He lifted the cup of wine and put it down without drinking. "Lea," he said quietly later, when the hall had emptied and the guards had gone, "did the emperor—did he force you?"
"No," I said. "He offered. I did not refuse."
He walked to me then, the room narrowing to the space between us. "Do you want this because the emperor chose it, or because you want me?"
I swallowed. "Both feels wrong to say. But—" I stepped closer. "I want you."
Hudson's laugh was short, pressured. "I asked myself the same question a thousand times."
"You didn't ask me," I said. My hands trembled now. "You never asked me."
His jaw moved. "I thought I did. I was a fool."
"Then ask me now," I said.
He covered my hands with both of his. They were warm, callused from the saddle. "Lea," he said, very slowly, "do you love me enough to stand in front of my father, my house, my world?"
I pressed my forehead to his knuckles. "I will stand with you."
He let his head drop, as if a weight lifted. "Then I will stand with you too."
The next days were tight with ceremony. The emperor's favor made some smile and others scowl. Lord Francis Brady—Hudson's father—moved through the household like an ocean current; he welcomed the match in words, measured in tone. Claudia Farley—the marchioness who had raised Hudson—kept her face polite and distant.
"Good," Lord Francis said once, clapping his hands in the garden where servants still swept the paths. "A strong marriage for a strong lineage."
"But father," Hudson murmured when they thought no one else was listening, "Lea is new to titles. She has no house."
"You will give her one," Francis said. "A captain's wife must be provided for."
I tried to keep my hands busy. I still smelled of river water sometimes. I still slept poorly. I had a brother now—Cooper Griffin—who came and fussed like a man who had missed a decade with his sister. My mother spent hours arranging my sleeves and smoothing my hair. They were kind, too kind after all I had known. I owed them everything. I owed Hudson everything. The world felt slippery and sudden.
But small truths are sharp. Anna Ziegler—Hudson's concubine, the one who had lived in our house and turned the servants' heads—watched me as a hawk watches a mouse. She smiled to the family, leaned on wet-nurse Heidi Buchanan, accepted gifts, ate lavishly. Her smile never reached her eyes.
One night, after Hudson left for a council meeting, Anna found me alone in the corridor.
"You are going to be his wife," she said, voice syrupy. "How strange for a maid to wear his name."
"I am not a maid anymore," I replied. I kept my voice level. "I will be what the emperor names me."
She laughed and came close, too close. "You think the emperor's choice will shield you from truth? Do not pretend you know the house you claim. This family—my friends here—they remember what servitude looks like."
"You are cruel to your servants," I said. "And cruel to me."
Anna's smile sharpened. "Cruelty keeps things in order. You will learn."
I wished then to leave the room, to be anywhere but under that smile. But she would not let me go. She touched my sleeve. "You are lucky," she whispered. "Luck is something you must buy, if you wish to keep it."
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with weather.
Two weeks later the rumor unwound like a spool. A maid named Marta—small and honest and terrified—came to me while I was arranging a chest of linens.
"You must come," she whispered. "The kitchen girls say Anna paid the potter's boy to bring a box to the separate garden. They saw him at the tea room. He carried soil and wrapped roots. They said she wanted the plant inside Lea's room."
My hands tightened around the linen. "Why tell me?"
"Because I cannot watch it." Marta's eyes shone. "I heard her say she wanted a gift for 'the merciful maid who will never be more'. I thought it wrong."
We went together to the servant stair and listened at the hall outside Anna's room. Voices, muffled. Anna and Heidi Buchanan. The wet-nurse's voice was lower, greedy.
"And the girl will tend it," Heidi said. "Plant brings scent. She will leave it on bedside and the girl will sleep by it."
Anna sighed. "It will be simple. The scent will wash away the chance." Her laughter slid under the door like smoke.
I felt sick. This was what Anna had done before, I thought. She had not only smiled; she had schemed. The plant—the same type I had bought in the market, sold as a blessing—was dangerous inside a closed room for a pregnant body. Anna had known.
Cooper and I went to Hudson. I would not go alone. Cooper's face was a blade.
Hudson did not shout. He closed his eyes for a long moment and then spoke in a voice so low I feared it would not carry.
"Bring her before the house," he said. "Bring everyone. Leave nothing untold."
The house hummed with the summons. Word spread like wild sparrows: Anna had plotted. The servants gathered, the cooks, the steward, all of them in a thousand small knots of gossip. The marchioness sat like a statue. Lord Francis read the matter with a cold eye.
Hudson stood and said, "Anna, you will answer here, now."
Anna walked forward like a queen. She did not tremble. She wore silk that week, red like the rumor of flame.
"Do you deny that you asked someone to bring that plant?" Hudson asked.
"I do not deny that I asked for a plant," Anna said. "It was a gift. The boy brought it innocently."
"Who paid?" Hudson's voice sharpened.
Heidi's hand was on the table. Her face had gone pale. "She gave me coin."
"Did you know the plant's effect?" Cooper demanded.
Heidi wavered. "They said it was for scent. I did not know—"
"Enough." Hudson's head turned slowly to Anna. "Did you know?"
Anna's eyes flashed. "I—no. Yes. I wanted Lea away. I wanted what I have. I left the rest to chance."
The room made a single, collective sound. I felt the world tilt.
"Why?" I whispered.
Anna's voice went small. "Because he would have me. I wanted him to choose me. He looked at you like a poor sister—"
"You would endanger my child?" Hudson's voice cracked. "You would endanger mine."
Anna's face finally lost composure. She began to cry—not the polished tears of court but real, ragged sobs. "I loved him!" she cried. "I loved him and he did not look at me. I wanted only what was mine."
"Then you did this for love?" Hudson's tone was hollow. "You used danger and lies for love? You poisoned a household."
Heidi's knees buckled. "I only took silver," she said, and it sounded like a prayer. "I did not—"
The servants shifted. A maid who had been Anna's ally stepped forward, trembling, and laid out a small bundle: the potter's boy's receipt, a coin, a note with Anna's hand. The steward had found it during a count.
Lord Francis rose. His voice was slow, deadly calm. "Anna, for a house that feeds your vanity by your own choice, treachery must be met with house law. You will be stripped of your privileges. You will not appear in the main house for a year. Your garments will be removed. You will be sent to the north wing as a ward's guest. You will have no place at our table."
Anna slumped without dignity. The servants snapped pictures with surprised fingers, but their faces were not mocking—they were relieved. A tiny chorus of applause rose from the back. It felt wrong to clap over someone's shame. But Anna's fall was solid.
Hudson looked at me—really looked—and I felt exposed. "Lea," he said, softer than I had ever heard him, "are you hurt? Are you sure you are well?"
"No," I said. "I am shaking. I am fine." I could not think. Cooper was too close, mother too near. My throat felt raw.
Hudson moved like someone who had rehearsed exactly this gesture: he took my hand and kissed the back of it. "I am sorry," he said. "I did not see. I did not protect you."
"You did," I said. "You stood here."
He smiled, and the smallest thing in the world—an inch of brightness—broke inside me. "Then we'll go home," he said. "We will fix it."
We did not fix everything. Anna was moved; she was disgraced before the household. Heidi's coin was returned in full. The potter's boy had his work taken away. The world was smaller for a woman who had thought a smile could win a house.
And Hudson began to change. He fetched wood for my fire one evening himself. He stood in the garden while I planted a small pot of herbs. He would come to the laundry and argue with the steward to make sure the servants had sugar and extra soup. He did not parade me like a prize. He kept his hand near mine in public.
"Do you remember," I said one night as we sat under the old tree that had once been bare stumps and now was a green silhouette, "how you used to teach me to string beads? You were clumsy, but you spent hours."
He laughed. "You were better. You hid it."
"You hid my name," I said. "You called me 'Little March'."
"Hiding keeps things safe," he murmured. "Until it does not."
"Do you regret it?" I asked.
He looked up. The moon carved his profile in silver. "No. I regret not telling you sooner."
"Tell me now," I demanded. My voice was small, but it felt huge.
"I love you," he said. That sound landed inside me like bread and tea. "I have loved you since you were a girl who laughed at my clumsy jokes and stole pears. I loved the way you would braid a sash for me without being asked. I loved you when I did not even know I could love another."
My hands closed over his. "Then love me now," I said.
"I will find a way," he promised. "We will have our life."
We did not move toward a grand, public declaration the next day. Hudson had duties. I had lessons in cortesies and how to walk the line between noble and daughter. But in stolen moments we learned each other's small rhythms.
"How do you like your tea?" he asked, once, as he handed me a cup balanced on a small plate.
"With sugar," I said. "And cinnamon if it is cold."
He smiled. "I will remember."
I loved the way he looked at me when I cooked. I loved the way his fingers twitched when he worried. He told me about battle plans and weather and men he had lost in the north. He told me about the time he had eaten a raw pear in rain and regretted it. I told him about a market stall in my old life, about a baby swallow that had slept in my hair when I was small. He learned the small details as if they were maps.
The emperor's decree stood, and the wedding date was set quietly by Lord Francis and the court. I did not know if the emperor's choice pleased Hudson—some nights he seemed pleased; others, remote. I did not know how politics wound around him. I only knew my hands found his in the dark and that when he bent, the curve of his voice said my name like a promise.
On the eve of the wedding, Christoph Huber—son of the powerful chancellor—came to the yard where I sat on the stone steps, and he bowed.
"Miss Lea," he said. "May I speak?"
"Yes," I said.
He did not sit. He stood and looked at the moon. "My father asked me to thank you," Christoph said. "He says your gift to the emperor's household has eased many tensions. He says he admires the courage of a woman who learns a trade to honor another."
"Thank him," I said. "And tell him I do not deserve praise. I only did what was needed."
He smiled, gentle and distant. "You deserve more than needed. You deserve choice."
"You say that like a man who can buy choices," I laughed.
"Perhaps," he said. "But I meant it. And I wanted to say—if ever you need an ally in the court, you may call on me."
"Thank you," I said. His name in the house was a shadow: Christoph Huber could change fates with a whisper. I was grateful for his words.
The wedding was small and radiant. The emperor's seal sat on the mantle like a verdict that had become mercy. I walked to the dais with my mother's hand in one of mine and Hudson's waiting at the end. Lord Francis read words about duty and strength. The emperor's envoy gave us the seal and a small jewel removed from the imperial treasury.
Hudson's fingers brushed mine under the veil. "Are you cold?" he asked.
"No," I said. My cheeks were wet. I would not have it said that I cried for fear; I cried because my heart had been heavy and now felt like light.
"Then smile," he whispered.
The congregation parted and the house sang their small, private thrum of congratulations. Anna was absent; the north wing's shutters were shut. I felt no victory in her absence. Only relief. Only the soft, trembling certainty of a new life.
That night, our bed was a simple, splendid thing. Hudson folded the covers around me like a shield.
"Married without parades," he said, and I laughed.
"You cooked me a stew once," I told him. "You did not like it then."
"I do now," he said. "Because you made it."
We spoke into the late hours. We spoke of things the court would not allow—of little children we might raise, of kitchens and foxes and the tree where he taught me sword steps. He promised to write to my mother in her own hand and to keep Cooper's place close.
"Will you still go to the markets?" he asked.
"Only if you come with me," I said.
"I will come," he promised.
Our marriage was not the end of trouble. Lord politics braided with family ties turned sharp. Christoph Huber's father pressed for ties and for favor. Some merchants came to whisper; some noblewomen smiled thinly at me in the court. But inside the walls between Hudson and me, life was simple and fierce and honest.
Months later, when spring smoothed the air, I walked with Hudson under the old tree. He took my hand and pulled me to the edge where the grass smelled of rain.
"Do you remember," he said, "when you cried by the laundry well and I came?"
"I remember," I said.
He looked small then, and brave. "I was a boy who swore to keep you safe."
"You kept me," I said.
"No," he said. "You kept me. You taught me to keep something other than honor. You taught me how to love."
His forehead rested against mine. "We have a long life," he said. "We will have small fights and large laughter. We will have children or not. That will be our choice."
"I will choose with you," I said.
He smiled like a man who had finally met a map that made sense. "I will choose with you."
People ask how a servant could become a lady, how a foundling could become a wife of a prince. People want the ending to be loud and perfect. But my ending was a thousand small things. It was Hudson bringing me tea with sugar and cinnamon when my hands shook. It was Cooper stealing my coat and teasing me until I laughed. It was my mother's hand steady on my sleeve when I walked into the echoing dining hall. It was a letter from the emperor that said only, "May your house hold peace."
Years later, when we had a daughter who liked to steal pears and squint at the sky, Hudson would take her to the old tree and teach her how to hold a wooden sword correctly.
"Don't be afraid to laugh at a general," he would say.
"And do not be afraid to steal the best pear," I would whisper.
One night, after a rain, I stood by the window and watched Hudson sleep. Moonlight made a silver line on his wrist. I slipped off the ring that he had given me—the plain band he had chosen with clumsy hands—and tucked it under his palm.
He woke, half-smile, and pressed my hand.
"Lea," he said, voice thick with sleep and certainty, "did you ever think you'd have a life like this?"
I brushed his hair back. "Yes," I said. "Mostly because you did not wait for me to be perfect."
He grinned. "Perfect is boring."
"I know." I kissed him then. It was small, and long. Outside, the old tree caught the last of the rain and glittered like a promise.
We had both been found in different ways. The emperor had chosen the shape of our beginning. We chose the shape of everything after.
And every time I pass the laundry room where I once slept and the old well where I once sat, I remember Marta's small courage, and Anna's fall, and the day Hudson asked me if I liked him.
I say his name like a prayer.
"Hudson," I say into the dark, and that is our ending—and our start.
The End
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