Marguerite, the former Duchess of Torrinni, receives two letters that will change the course of her life forever; and that will impact young Céleste Richel's life too, in more ways than one.
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When Marguerite is forced to return to Torrinni cour...
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The instant he was back inside, Sébastien's legs turned to mush. His breaths were spaced-out, his heart hammering in his chest. A fuzzy warmth settled in his belly, but a batch of boisterous butterflies broke through and ruined the sensation.
Not that he was unhappy with the butterflies—they meant wonderful things—but he'd wanted to enjoy the few moments of comfort, of happiness that Céleste Richel provided him.
There was no easier way to say it—he was flustered. Utterly and confusingly drawn to her, struggling to formulate sentences as he spoke to her, in awe of her rebellious choices—that book, oh, dear—and befuddled by her cautious wit.
It wasn't his style to be intimidated by a woman—or by anyone, in fact. Yet Céleste had his knees shaking, his tongue feeling huge in his mouth, and his arms swaying at his sides aimlessly, not knowing what to do with them because he wanted nothing but to slide one hand into hers. To pull her close, to smell her—she'd reminded him of books, how divine—to drink her in and never forget the feel of her.
There was something about her that had caught his attention the day he saw in her the Ballroom, and that hadn't allowed him to think of much else ever since. He'd known of her before, sure; Emeric had approached him months ago, asking him to scout amongst the male courtiers to "find her some prospects for next year." Sébastien had agreed; Emeric was a friend, his father a fierce ally of Totresia, so what would the harm be?
He wasn't warned she'd be coming to Torrinni Court this year. Nor did he know she was much more beautiful than he'd ever imagined. And that she was affiliated with Maggie, or that Maggie was even alive, let alone the Director of the Academy—
No, that is another matter. Antoine is handling it.
Upon seeing Céleste, he'd had a floating sensation take him over, lifting him off his feet, surrounding his head with clouds. He recognized her; she had her brother's and father's gray eyes, with splashes of sky blue in them. The signature posture—straight but ever so slouched forward, as if carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. A hint of a smirk played over her features—he wasn't even sure she'd been aware of it—and it reminded him immediately of Emeric, when he was in a playful mood.
Sensing a few gazes on him—servants, guards, a few gushing girls coming around the corner—Sébastien pried from the window he'd been leaning against and started towards the Reading Room. Cordelia would be in there. And he needed someone to confide in, someone to tell about the encounter that just occurred.
As he meandered forward, lazily looking outside to see if Marguerite and Céleste were walking back from the meeting point, he recalled what Emeric told him about his sister.
They'd been in the Cigar Room, puffs of smoke swirling around them in noxious clouds. Sébastien didn't mind it, though his long locks would later reek of the fumes, and it would take several washes to get the stench out. It was tradition to sit in the smoky room on one of the dingy chaises—Edouard had liked them torn apart and old, said it gave the room its masculine charm—and share cigars and clink glasses in celebration to a good hunt, a good day, or for some, a good lay.
