The Touch of Ice
Not exactly her taste, but the kind of looks that would have the maids in tears, Ibel thought as she arched an eyebrow.
It meant bikini.
Of course, Gaspar had no such intentions.
He was quite intrigued by this icy marble statue of a noblewoman.
Back home, his nickname was chien de chasse—hunting dog.
He never let go of his prey, and once he sank his teeth in, he held on tight.
He was determined to hear her voice, clinging persistently.
Just as he steeled his resolve—
“I despise people who are quick on the uptake yet pretend to be dense.”
“Quick on the uptake? Surely you mean me, Leo.”
“Aunt Genevieve's lover?”
Oh, what a voice.
Gaspar liked that cold tone.
It was an annoying thought, but women flocked to him even when he did nothing. Men, too, occasionally.
His ideal woman was always one he couldn't conquer, and Ibel, faced directly, fit perfectly.
I thought she was a butterfly, but she's a demon.
“A pitiful, pathetic sculptor sponsored by Lady Genevieve. Not quite a lover.”
She drew a subtle line, but Ibel's face remained impassive, as if it were none of her concern.
Feeling an inexplicable regret, Gaspar licked his lips and slipped in a remark.
“If you're wondering why I'm watering the flowerbeds here... I was flattering the gardener, who's scarier than a grizzly bear.”
For a split second, Not curious at all flashed across Ibel's face. Undeterred, Gaspar prattled on, driven by his burning desire to hear her voice once more.
It was utterly bizarre for him.
He was never the one chasing.
“I need space to sculpt, but I'm not so shameless as to demand a room. With the garden so vast, I thought I'd claim a patch of earth.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“Hm.”
“If you need the implication spelled out to understand... then there's no point in continuing this conversation.”
Ibel cut him off sharply, not bothering to hide her disappointment. In the end, it was Gaspar who felt the sting.
Even after prodding several times, there was no opening. This was like a fortress shield even a cannon couldn't breach.
Abandoning the futile effort, Gaspar decided on honesty.
“Asking if I'm her lover was your way of inquiring how I entered the estate. Precisely when, where, and who let me in. Right?”
Ibel waited in silence.
This sleek man was the type who naturally drew people's favor—and exploited it without a shred of guilt.
Narcissist.
The way to avoid getting tangled with such a man was simple.
Don't give him an inch.
Silence could be a fine weapon at times.
Only those desperate for something would wag their tongues.
“Truth be told, I'm a poor sculptor who came to the sponsored exhibition to sell my work. But lo and behold, she took a liking to this humble face and summoned me personally.”
“……”
“I didn't enter through the grand front gate... She opened the side door on the west wing for me. Lady Genevieve herself welcomed me in. It was around nighttime, I suppose?”
“I see.”
She had all the information she needed.
More than his words, Ibel read his body language, eyes, expression, and the flow of his energy.
With what she wanted obtained, there was no reason to prolong the talk.
“Regrettably, I can't permit sculpting in the garden. If you're her lover, act like one and leave.”
After marriage, even garden strolls required a maid's escort. That was the household rule.
Her current ambiguous status allowed solitary walks, but now that was ruined.
Not in the best mood from the interruption, Ibel ended it decisively and turned away.
Whatever the man called after her, she ignored him completely and entered the mansion.
“Madam.”
“Butler. There was a stranger in the garden.”
“Pardon?”
“Claims to be Aunt's new lover. Roaming far too freely.”
The butler would handle the rest.
Walking without a parasol had clearly been a mistake—her head burned.
“I'll rest a bit. Don't let anyone in.”
“Yes, Madam...! Um, what about the master?”
“Victor is the exception.”
Heading to the bedroom, Ibel collapsed onto the sofa.
She hadn't voiced it to anyone, but for days she'd been grinding herbs, making powders, simmering slowly, and so on.
Skimping on sleep to make medicine had taken its toll.
Ah, so refreshing.
How much time passed?
Ibel's consciousness was pulled back from slumber by a cool sensation.
Hating to lose it, she nuzzled unconsciously, and a low chuckle sounded.
But the coolness soon lifted, and as Ibel frowned, the chill returned to her forehead.
Hm? A hand...?
She'd been so hot, yet it felt wonderful.
Grinning broadly, Ibel suddenly—truly suddenly—realized what she shouldn't.
...Victor?
Good lord!
Who would barge into a duchess's bedroom while she rested, if not her husband-to-be!
“!!!”
Startled near to fainting, she bolted upright, only for strong arms to steady her promptly.
“Rising so abruptly will worsen your dizziness. Looks like heatstroke—lie back down for a moment.”
“Ah... you're back?”
“Yes. A certain bug was buzzing about quite persistently. Surely you didn't stand in the sun too long because of it.”
Clutching her foggy head and peering, the double Victor finally merged into one.
A large block of ice on the table beside the sofa caught her eye first. Then, the conspicuously reddened large hand.
Ibel gaped, unable to answer his question.
“Don't tell me... don't tell me you held the ice in your hand and then pressed that hand to my forehead?”
“Direct ice would damage the skin.”
“No...”
What in the world.
Such unimaginable tenderness left her speechless.
“How long... were you doing that?”
“About an hour. There was pleasure in watching my sleeping wife.”
Victor smiled handsomely on his striking face.
An hour of alternating hands on the ice, cooling it to apply to her—yet he spoke as if it were nothing.
“You could have wrapped it in cloth. Handkerchiefs exist for that purpose.”
“Even that might have been too cold and startled you awake.”
“……”
This was what it meant to be breathless from kindness.
Not in a bad way, but truly... she couldn't find words.
Her chest fluttered deep within, her nose tingled and stung.
A profound emotion she'd never received from anyone in her life welled up, nearly bringing tears.
“...Give me your hand. What if you get frostbite? Frostbite in summer, of all things.”
“It would be a mark of my love for my wife.”
“It might look that way, but never do it again. These are hands for important work.”
Wife. Love.
The words didn't suit her, but Ibel brushed it off convincingly.
Victor watched her fuss over ointment and a handkerchief bandage like a lost soul finally found.
“Hands that save lives suit the title of precious hands far better than those that take them.”
“I'm no surgeon. Anyway... have you seen Lucas?”
“Yes. He came with me, so he's resting in the guest room. I told him to join for dinner, so you'll see him then.”
Stopping there meant Lucas had no memories from before the regression either.
Ibel bit her lower lip in regret.
“Yesterday, with the colonel present, he might not have spoken freely. We've arranged a private drink tonight, so I'll ask in detail.”