“It’s already your wedding day, Baron,” Sebastian said, his tone brimming with amusement.
I couldn’t help but let out a sigh of mixed emotions.
Marrying Erika wasn’t the issue—I was happy about that.
She had the kind of beauty people would believe if you called her an idol, a graceful figure, and a warmth that felt as if she could generously fill a home with children.
On top of that, despite being a duke’s daughter, she never lorded her status over me. Instead, she treated me with respect, addressing me with formalities as her husband.
‘Even though, with her status, she could treat me however she pleased, and I wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.’
Honestly, even though it was a political marriage, getting to wed someone this perfect felt like a blessing. I ought to bow toward Duke Visconti’s direction at least two, if not three, times a day.
“Baron, why are you staring at me like that?” Erika asked softly.
“It feels like a dream to be marrying someone as beautiful as you,” I replied sincerely.
Erika’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson, her lips trembling slightly as she bit down on them.
Turning her gaze away, she muttered under her breath, “That’s not fair... catching me off guard like this when I’m not prepared.”
After proposing to Erika, our relationship had blossomed rapidly.
Before the proposal, there had been a hint of mutual fondness between us. But now, Erika’s affection for me was undeniable.
The day after I returned, she even visited our estate to bake me cookies.
Though the moment was perfect, her younger brother, the Viscount’s son, had to ruin it by whispering in my ear, “They’re good, right? You’d better enjoy them—Erika baked them with all her heart just for you.”
The memory sent a shiver down my spine.
“Erika, why don’t you stop calling me ‘Baron’? You’ve done so until now because of etiquette, but from now on, I’d like you to call me something more familiar—something like ‘dear.’”
Among noble families, it was customary for husbands to speak informally to their wives, regardless of age or rank, while wives spoke formally to their husbands.
This practice stemmed from the doctrines of the Deus Church: “Women must serve their husbands.”
Still, as a couple planning to rely on each other equally, I didn’t want the way we addressed each other to create unnecessary distance.
‘This might be a bit much for Erika to adjust to right away, so I’ll take it slow.’
Despite how far we’d come, we hadn’t even held hands yet, so even asking her to call me “dear” felt like a big step.
Erika fidgeted, avoiding my gaze. Finally, she murmured, “...Dear.”
Her head dropped immediately after.
Compared to how things progressed with Kris and Chloe, this felt slow as molasses.
‘But this kind of tender love has its charm too.’
Without waiting for permission, I took Erika’s hand firmly in mine.
It was a bold move, but on a wedding day, wasn’t it only natural for couples to hold hands like this?
Having come from a world accustomed to love marriages, this old-fashioned approach to love felt quaint but refreshing.
“Let’s go, Erika. There are so many people outside waiting to celebrate our marriage.”
The streets of Florence were alive with festivities celebrating our wedding.
Citizens thronged the streets, enjoying performances by entertainers, actors, and artists hired with funds from me and the Duke.
Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, were feasting on free food and drink provided for the occasion.
In a world with little entertainment and scarce food, who wouldn’t feel grateful for such a celebration?
“I’m ready, dear,” Erika replied, her voice soft but confident.
We walked hand in hand, exiting the waiting room in the grand cathedral.
Noble children greeted us, showering flower petals in our path.
I couldn’t help but marvel at the pomp and circumstance.
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‘So this is the power of the Duke’s household.’
At the altar stood the Archbishop of Florence, his face adorned with a genuine smile.
As a clergyman, he was likely trained to always wear a “benevolent smile,” but this one was unfeigned.
I’d contributed generously to the cathedral in preparation for this wedding and even slipped the Archbishop a hefty political donation under the guise of “supporting his clerical endeavors.”
Indeed, goodwill can often be bought—if not love.
“In the name of Deus, I bless the union of Baron Fabio de Rothschild and Lady Erika de Visconti,” the Archbishop proclaimed.
What followed was an impossibly long sermon.
In summary: marriage is Deus’s will, children are as precious as arrows in a quiver, so have as many as you can, donate generously to the church, attend Mass regularly, be loyal to the Emperor, and live as a model noble.
‘How long has this been going on?’
At this point, even the ramblings of senile school principals or the droning speeches of military commanders seemed concise in comparison.
If not for standing, Erika and I might have dozed off like the Visconti Duke and the other seated nobles.
“Baron de Rothschild, Lady de Visconti. I now pronounce you husband and wife in the name of Deus.”
The Archbishop’s smile grew playful as he added, “Seal your eternal love with a kiss before the gathered guests.”
The custom of having witnesses at weddings originally served a practical purpose: to prevent divorces.
If you wanted a divorce, you’d need the unanimous approval of all present guests, so better to live well together than even contemplate separation.
Decades ago, it was common for newlyweds to consummate their marriage immediately after the ceremony, often in front of key witnesses.
Thank Deus that times had changed, and now all that was required was a kiss.
“Erika, I love you,” I said, cupping her face and leaning in.
While I was confident in this moment, having kissed and embraced other women before, Erika was utterly overwhelmed.
Her entire face turned red, her body rigid.
Yet, she didn’t push me away or resist.
Instead, she shyly wrapped her arms around me, barely touching me as if afraid she might overstep.
“I love you too, dear,” she whispered.
With that, the highlight of the ceremony concluded.
The reception began immediately, but before anything else, I approached the Emperor.
Protocol dictated that I should greet Duke Visconti and my parents first, but with the Emperor present, he took precedence.
“Congratulations, Baron Rothschild. You’re a true noble now,” the Emperor said, offering a faint smile.
“All thanks to your grace, Your Majesty.”
He beckoned me closer with a subtle gesture, then sighed and whispered, “I must apologize for the delay in formally granting you land to accompany your title. A barony without land—it’s embarrassing.”
I had no complaints. Despite political resistance, the Emperor had elevated me to a baron within three or four years—a remarkable favor.
“You have my eternal gratitude, Your Majesty.”
“This is a debt I owe you,” the Emperor declared.
...So this was his way of reminding me that he planned to work me to the bone later.
And with Erika only fifteen, I couldn’t even use children as an excuse to avoid his demands.
‘What’s he planning to make me do?’
Given the timing, a declaration of war against the Grand Duchy of Milania wouldn’t be surprising.
The thought sent a chill down my spine.
The Emperor then spoke loudly for all to hear:
“On this occasion, I formally grant Baron Rothschild his title and lands.”
In the presence of all the nobles gathered in Florence, this was a monumental honor.
Somewhere among the crowd, my father was likely swelling with pride, ready to extol the Emperor and weep tears of joy.
Erika would patiently endure his gushing, proving herself a perfect wife.
Yes, this was a day of triumph—for both our marriage and my future.