The Villainess Enjoys a Carefree Married Life in a Former Enemy Country in Her Seventh Loop

That night.
When Rishe knocked at the door to Arnold’s office, Oliver stepped out—and she held out a basket big enough to fill both arms.

“—Sir Oliver. Please give this to His Highness Arnold.”
“Er… Lady Rishe. And what might this be…?”
Oliver was smiling, but clearly at a loss. It seemed Arnold, who should be inside, had told him the rough outlines.

With a slightly sulky face, Rishe explained the basket’s contents.
“I made sandwiches for His Highness’s late-night meal.”
“A night snack…”

Still wearing that baffled smile, Oliver tilted his head gently.
“…If I may be forward. Aren’t the two of you presently having a quarrel…?”
“Yes, exactly as you say.”
She nodded firmly, then replayed the past few hours.

She had proclaimed a husband-and-wife quarrel with Arnold at dusk—and immediately run into a wall.
She had no idea what one does to carry out a husband-and-wife quarrel.
Shut in her room, she dredged up memories from past lives, but not a single useful example came to mind.

(The Captain got kicked out of the house, but I don’t want to do that to His Highness. And Rosa’s ‘I’m going back to my parents’ is impossible—my family home is far too far. I once saw ‘turn all your husband’s shirts inside out when you put them away,’ but I can’t sabotage his morning routine, and the one who’d suffer would be Sir Oliver…)
She turned it over and over. She ate the evening meal with the maids and, in any case, thought and thought again.
Of course the maids were perplexed, but when Rishe said, “I quarreled with His Highness Arnold,” they understood everything at once and fussed [N O V E L I G H T] over her with devoted care.

At last, this plan occurred to her.
“The sandwiches inside have insults written in sauce across the bread.”
“…On the bread. In sauce. Insults.”

“Yes. I wrote, His Highness is a dummy!”
This, at least, she could hold up as a respectable husband-and-wife quarrel.
There were other things she wanted to say, but writing in sauce was hard work, and this would be enough to remind Arnold of her stance.

“Er—”
Oliver’s expression went complicated; he cleared his throat as if to cover something.
Then, rearranging his face into an awkward smile, he asked:

“In other words… Lady Rishe, you specially cooked in order to have a husband-and-wife quarrel with my lord?”
“…”
Pouting just a little, Rishe looked down and explained:

“Even if I make the late-night meal myself—if it’s only sandwich fillings—there shouldn’t be any major disasters…”
“Mm—mm—!”
Oliver pressed his right hand to his mouth, shoulders trembling.
“Sir Oliver?”

“No, forgive me. …My lord did say he would be working late tonight—so I’m sure he’ll be pleased by a night snack.”
(Even though there are insults written in sauce…!!)
Her conscience twinged; her face drooped.

She wanted him to eat something tastier than food made by a poor cook like her—but they were in the middle of a quarrel.
As she lectured herself, Oliver spoke up.
“By the way. Regarding this so-called husband-and-wife quarrel—what did my lord say?”

“…He only said, ‘Understood.’”
Then he had gently lowered his eyes and patted her head.
He had turned on his heel and gone straight back into the office, but she left out the detail about being patted.

Hand to his chin, Oliver murmured, sounding satisfied.
“I see, I see…”
“Sir Oliver?”

“Ah, pay it no mind. I was just thinking through the arrangements—what time we ought to have you return to your room tonight.”
A retainer’s duties were many. This quarrel might even affect Oliver’s schedule.
“I’m sorry. My selfishness is troubling you as well, Sir Oliver.”

“Perish the thought. This is not a mere ‘quarrel,’ but a ‘husband-and-wife quarrel,’ is it not? In that case, there is no problem at all.”
“…?”
She had no idea what logic that was, but Oliver seemed to mean it sincerely.

Relieved, Rishe cast a glance at the closed door. Noticing, Oliver asked:
“Are you concerned about my lord’s condition?”
“…Yes.”

“Then, let us deliberately keep it a secret.”
“!!”
The blow landed with a thud; Oliver only looked amused.

“Rest easy. To preserve fairness in the husband-and-wife quarrel, I shall remain equally silent about Lady Rishe’s condition as well.”
“S–Sir Oliver…!”
“Look, Lady Rishe. It seems your escort has arrived?”

She knew the direction he indicated—her maids were there.
They held the items Rishe had ordered prepared and peered this way, waiting on her signal.
“Uu… Then, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Yes. Thank you for bringing the night snack.”
With a bow from Oliver seeing her off, she walked toward the maids.
They had waited at a distance; worry colored their faces as they looked at her.

“Lady Rishe, are you all right?”
“I’m sorry—I’m fine… You two, could you come with me to Lady Harriet’s room as you are?”
With their ready nods, Rishe headed for one of the guest suites.

At the door, she took the items back from the maid, thanked them, and sent them on to the maids’ quarters.
Left alone in the corridor, she set aside the “husband-and-wife quarrel” for now and knocked.
“Pardon me, Lady Harriet.”

“Y-yes…!”
After a thin voice from within, the door opened softly.
The face peeking out was not Harriet’s, but Elsie’s.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Lady Rishe…!”
“Thank you, Elsie.”
Elsie had been with Harriet for about an hour now.

Rishe was about to ask for a status report when she realized there was no need. Looking up at her, Elsie practically quivered with Please look quickly!
The reason became clear the instant Rishe looked to the center of the room.
“Wow…!”

There stood Harriet, dressed in an adorable nightdress.
“W-welcome, Lady Rishe…”
Standing before the chaise, fidgeting with her sleeves, Harriet held her back straight.

The nightdress, a faint mint hue to mid-calf, harmonized beautifully with her blond hair and eyes.
From just under the bust, the gathered fabric puffed out softly—utterly charming—and her bangs were in a loose braid.
In other words, her face was visible.

Being able to look straight into those olive eyes—the same color as the real Curtis’s—made Rishe giddy with joy from the bottom of her heart.
“Lady Harriet, you look wonderful!”
“Uah—n-no, that’s… I mean—”

By reflex, Harriet covered her eyes with both hands.
But immediately she timidly lowered them and bowed deeply to Rishe.
“Th-thank you… um, I’ve borrowed Elsie, and she’s been teaching my maids all sorts of things…”

“Think nothing of it. Elsie had a marvelous time. She’s good at fashion—and absolutely loves it.”
Elsie bobbed her head vigorously, though Harriet still looked apologetic.
“And I borrowed so many of your dresses and bags, Lady Rishe…”

“Don’t worry about that either. For tomorrow’s shopping and beyond, it’s more fun if we narrow down what you want first!”
On the guest suite’s chaise, dresses were heaped in a cozy mound.
They were pieces from this trip—but there was no chance she would wear them all. Since she had gone to the trouble of hauling them by carriage, better to have Harriet try them now than take them home unworn.

“More importantly, Lady Harriet. To business—”
Rishe looked toward the items Elsie had been carrying.
“Y-yes, I was wondering… um, what is…?”

The item was a large cast-iron pot.
Smiling brightly, Rishe set the pot on the table and took out steaming-hot towels from within.
This was what she had prepared in the kitchens while making the sandwiches—timed to be delivered at just the right warmth.

“Now then, Lady Harriet! Please lie down on this chaise.”
“Eep!? U-um, but, in front of you, Lady Rishe—!”
“Right this way. Sit here—on your back—hands folded over your tummy…”

“Hyawawawa.”
Her brisk technique for settling a patient into position was something she’d learned in her apothecary days.
Asking Elsie to wait in the corridor, Rishe laid a warm towel over Harriet’s eyelids where she reclined on the chaise.

“Hi—ah…?”
Harriet seemed bewildered by the sensation.
“I-it smells strange—but nice…”

“The towel has herbs wrapped inside, and we warmed the bundle with steam.”
The cloth was thin, so the herbal constituents should seep through little by little.
“These herbs loosen muscle tension. Warming them makes the effect stronger.”

“M-muscle… you mean around the eyes…?”
“Yes!”
This method would deliver the medicinal effect through the skin while the heat itself warmed the muscles.

“Relaxing the eye area by itself makes things much easier.”
It should also help somewhat with Harriet’s concern—the unconscious habit of furrowing her brows.
“Fwaaah…”

Harriet’s voice melted into something that might slip into a doze from sheer comfort.
Smiling, Rishe moved to finish a second preparation.
“Does it help you relax?”

V-very comfortable…”
“Good. I’ll write down the herb types and blend ratios so you’ll be fine once you’re back in Fabrania.”
The clink of a dropper and bottles sounded through the room as she compounded the liquid.

After a short silence, Harriet spoke, timidly, carefully.
“Um, Lady Rishe. M-may I ask you a question?”
“Yes, by all means! If it’s within my power—from how to grow the herbs to how to warm the towel—I’ll answer anything!”

“Then, um…”
With the towel over her eyes, Harriet asked softly:
“Did something happen… with your betrothed?”

“…”
Silence fell over the guest suite.