Leaning lightly against Tang Rong’s knee, Tao Yiran spoke of the past—of her admiration, her joy.
Her voice was soft, her smile serene. The slender curve of her hand brushed against his cheek, her eyes brimming with yearning.
“My wish was granted. I became your wife, Rong-lang.
Though our time together has been brief, my heart is content.”
Another tear slipped down her face. Her gaze was tender yet sorrowful.
“Now that Grandmother’s origins have been publicly spoken of by the Countess of Changning, I fear others will repeat the tale tomorrow.
Grandmother treated me with nothing but kindness, raised me with devotion. How could I turn my back on her now? How could I feel shame for her sake?”
“Rong-lang, as radiant as the moon, gifted in both letters and arms—you should have a glorious future ahead.
For the sake of that future, I beg you to write a letter of divorce.
Seek a lady of high birth, one worthy of you. As long as your life prospers, I shall spend the rest of my days beside a lamp and the Buddha, praying for your happiness.”
Such words—how many men under heaven could remain unmoved?
By then, Tang Rong’s heart had already melted.
Tao Yiran had her flaws, yes—but she was generous, gentle, and loved him deeply. True, a lady from a noble house might aid his career, helping him ascend with greater ease—but he was already the heir of a marquisate, one of the capital’s most admired young men.
Did he truly need anyone else’s backing?
Tang Rong had his own pride.
Tao Yiran slowly bent forward, resting her head upon his knee and sobbing softly.
A surge of heat rose from Tang Rong’s chest to the crown of his head; his hand, almost of its own accord, traced her back, then her neck. His thumb brushed repeatedly against the smooth whiteness of her skin.
Tao Yiran, as though unaware, continued to weep in a trembling whisper. The loose ends of her coiffure grazed him again and again, each touch more incendiary than the last, until his breath came short. At last, he pulled her up and led her toward the bed.
That night, Tao Yiran was more ardent than ever—
as though she would cease to exist after dawn.
Tang Rong, lost in her allure, forgot every word his father had spoken, until the candlelight flickered into the deep hours of the night.
Meanwhile, his father, Marquis Tang Gang, lay awake, sleepless.
All night he pondered how to make Tao Yiran relinquish her position, how to silence the Tao family, and which noble household’s daughter might better suit his proud heir.
The next morning, Tang Rong and Tao Yiran, freshly dressed, came to greet Tang Gang and Wang Shi.
He looked satisfied though a faint shadow darkened his eyes;
she was rosy-cheeked, her collar drawn high to hide the telltale marks beneath her skin.
The moment Wang Shi saw them, she understood everything.
Her mood, for once, was pleasant.
“Sit down and eat,” she said with a smile.
Tang Gang, however, caught the same clues and fury surged within him.
With a sweep of his sleeve, he left the hall without a word, striding off to court.
Tang Rong took it in stride— he believed his father would come to understand, and that he could persuade him in time.
That same morning, Xin An was to accompany Lin Yao and the others to Nandu Temple to offer incense.
After paying her respects to Wang Shi, she departed early, with Tang Mo escorting her to meet the group.
Tang Rong and Tao Yiran, unaware, assumed she had simply chosen not to come.
“Shall we wait for Second Brother and his wife?” Tang Rong asked.
“No need,” Wang Shi replied lightly. “They’ve gone out on their own affairs. Let us eat by ourselves.”
Tang Rong wondered briefly what might have called them away but kept his curiosity to himself.
After breakfast, he addressed Wang Shi respectfully.
“Mother, I spoke with Yi’er last night. She understands her mistake regarding the zither incident—she never expected it would bring such grave consequences and regrets it deeply.
As for the matter with her family, she is truly innocent.
I hope Mother will guide her patiently for my sake. If you are ever too occupied, perhaps Yi’er can assist in your stead.”
Tao Yiran stepped forward to bow with utmost decorum, offering a string of contrite words about her thoughtlessness and lack of prudence.
Wang Shi’s lips curved into a smile—though it did not reach her eyes.
Now that her reputation has suffered, she suddenly remembers her mother-in-law, hoping I will help restore her standing.
“I once thought,” Wang Shi began smoothly, “that as a noble-born lady, famed as a talented woman of the capital, your manners would need no guidance. That is why I offered you few reminders before the banquet.
“The Countess of Changning spoke harshly, out of motherly love—this matter can be grave or trivial depending on how it is handled.
“For now, do not concern yourself with easing my worries. What truly matters is how to silence the Countess. That, your father must see to with care.
“In the future, you must watch your words and comportment. Never forget—you are the wife of the heir of the Marquis of Wei Yuan, the principal lady of the next generation. You must always embody grace, restraint, and generosity. For now, it is best that you refrain from going out. The capital never lacks for gossip. Give it time—these whispers will fade.”
Tao Yiran’s eyes reddened, humiliation stinging her chest. But she knew better than to shed tears now. She bowed deeply and murmured her assent.
Wang Shi nodded, satisfied. “Rise.”
Tao Yiran rose carefully—almost stumbling, but managed to steady herself just in time. Wang Shi pretended not to notice and dismissed them both.
Once they had left, Wang Shi’s trusted maid, Mama Pingqiu, entered with tea.
Wang Shi’s smile was faint. “Our dear Marchioness-to-be seems far more adept at handling men than at playing the zither.”
Pingqiu lowered her voice. “Such tricks are fleeting. No flower, however beautiful, blooms forever. To serve through beauty alone—how long can that last?”
She added quietly, “If I may speak boldly—his attachment to her bodes well for our Second Young Master.”
Wang Shi lifted her teacup and gently blew across its surface, clearly agreeing.
A wife of noble birth for the heir was never her wish. Tao Yiran, just as she was, would do nicely.
She was content.
Tang Rong left for his official duties. Tao Yiran, back in Spring Blossom Courtyard, felt an unusual calm.
Unlike her past melancholic days of sighing at the window or brooding by the railing, today she had passed one trial—but she knew her position remained perilous.
To secure her footing within the Marquis’s household, she must hold Tang Rong’s heart fast.
With renewed determination, she began personally sewing garments for him—her needlework delicate, her devotion evident in every stitch.
In contrast, Xin An was at Nandu Temple, kneeling before the solemn Buddha.
Her prayer was sincere—first, to thank Heaven for the mysterious second chance granted to her, and second, to pray for a peaceful, steady life in this world. She did not ask for longevity, only to live safely and die without regret.
For good measure, she also prayed for Tang Mo, her wish being larger than most—hence the offering of extra incense money.
Whether it was faith or serenity, her heart felt lighter than it had in days.
“What did you pray for, Sister Xin?” Lin Yao asked beside her.
Before she could answer, Han Wan’er teased, “Surely for lifelong harmony with her husband.”
Xin An smiled, pressing her embroidered handkerchief to her lips.
To wish that both should live long—is that not harmony everlasting?
“Madam Wei’s eyes are as sharp as ever,” Xin An replied playfully. “I imagine your own wish was much the same?”
The young madam of the Zhang family chimed in, laughing.
“I truly envy Second Young Madam. I saw Second Young Master escorting you personally today—how enviable indeed.”
Her words carried both jest and wistfulness.
The Zhangs were a family of generals; their men were always stationed afar. The house was full of women and children—honor in name, but sorrow in truth.