Remarriage (1v1, H) - 8
Lady Qin’s feelings toward Wang Chong were a tangled knot: in her later years, he alone was her staff to lean on; yet a layer of womb always stood between them—he was no true bl00d of hers.
Had he wed a niece from her own clan, all would have been well. But no—he had insisted on this Lu chit. Lu Yuexiang was twenty already; even three years ago she had been no blushing girl. Surely the dying words of that second-branch foster-mother had poisoned his mind, turning him stubborn as stone.
A curse, plain and simple.
Lady Qin’s face drooped like wilted willow. When Wang Chong and his bride had kowtowed and offered tea, she bestowed on the new madam a jade hairpin carved in lotus form, then waved them away on grounds of illness.
The Anguo ducal house was barren of heirs. Lu Xiniang knew the tally well: by Chong-ge’er’s generation, the main branch boasted only Shunu (long married out) and the two boys—Chong-ge’er and the former heir.
The late duke had kept a handful of concubines, true, but their rank was dust; no newcomer needed to greet them today.
Lu Xiniang’s legs had turned to water from standing so long and double-kneeling. She steadied herself with a secret grip on Wang Chong’s sleeve; he frowned, glanced down, but did not shake her off.
After paying respects to the dowager, they returned to Linhui Courtyard. Wang Chong summoned Shi-mammy, the courtyard maids and nurses, and even a few front-yard lads to kneel before Lu Xiniang.
She stood at his side, gazing at the sparse dozen below. A quiet sigh escaped her. Chong-ge’er scorned excess, she knew—yet a duke served by so few? Tongues would wag. Lady Qin’s compound alone crawled with thirty or forty servants.
When the household staff withdrew, the ache between Lu Xiniang’s thighs flared. She signaled Chunmei and Chuntao to support her back to the chamber.
A little maid brought tea. Lu Xiniang sank into a chair, sipped once, and set it aside—the brew too bitter for her tongue.
By custom, Chong-ge’er’s concubines should come pay morning respects. She had never met them. When he had taken up his post in Xiangcheng, worry had gnawed her: who would tend him? She had planned to select a sweet girl from the capital and send her south. Then his letter arrived: Two tongfang already in my bed. She had let the matter drop.
These two at her side—Yuexiang’s dowry maids—likely knew less of the mansion’s secrets than Lu Xiniang herself.
Moments later, Wang Chong strode in from outside.
Lu Xiniang ached from crown to sole. All she craved was a quiet nap. After a moment’s thought she turned to Wang Chong.
“Your Grace, I am new to the mansion. Tomorrow I can skip morning greetings, but today is the first day. Shouldn’t the women in your quarters come pay their respects?”
She wondered whether Chong-ge’er had sired any children yet. The thought stung: at her true age she should be bouncing grandchildren on her knee, not blushing like a bride.
Wang Chong blinked, then answered flatly, “There is no one else in my quarters.”
Lu Xiniang stared.
Had he dismissed both tongfang the moment he returned to the capital? That was unkind. Once a girl had warmed his bed, she deserved security.
He met her eyes, seemed about to speak, then simply left.
At last the fuss was over.
She sent Chunmei and Chuntao away, changed into a loose shift, and crawled beneath the heavy brocade quilt. The bed-curtains and screen swallowed the world; no servant would enter without summons. She exhaled.
Slowly she untied her drawers.
Cool air kissed her thighs.
Purple fingerprints ringed the tender skin where leg met body. Gingerly she parted the swollen folds. The little seam was angry red, puffed shut, unrecognizable. She bit her lip and brushed a fingertip across the sore flesh—fire answered.
A soft creak on the footboard.
A blade of light slipped between the curtains.