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.
*****
When Marguerite is forced to return to Torrinni cour...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Me?" Immobilized near the door, Céleste Richel gulped.
"Yes, you." Marguerite turned to her five graduates; all silent, hands fiddling in their laps, staring at her in awe.
Some had never seen her, since she preferred to keep to herself, speaking only with those who caused trouble. Two such trouble-makers were there now: Céleste Richel and Harriet Thatcher.
The latter, seated to the far right of the room, closest to the door, had less wonder about her than the others. She showed palpable fear as she shook, bit her lip, and cast her olive-green eyes anywhere but at her Director.
"You are the finest in the Academy." Marguerite remained chipper, though on the inside, she worried as much as—if not morethan—Harriet. "Do not be wary; this is marvelous news." She tapped her fingertips to a steady rhythm, unwilling to show these ladies how her hand trembled, how her arm wrestled its sudden weakness. "A royal Presentation is a matter of celebration! It shocks me to not see you all jumping up and down."
Harriet clapped a hand over her mouth. "Jumping?"
The auburn-brunette next to her gasped, as if being pinched back into reality. "Oh, of course! What an honor!" Her eyebrows lifted as she beamed. "The biggest!"
Marguerite pulled her lips into a slight smile. At least one person saw privilege in such a trap; Esther Bristol, daughter of the Count of Rosford, and a fervent gossip.
Poised and dressed in luxurious silks—though her neckline was toolow for Marguerite's taste—the girl in the middle, Cristina Condello, inclined her head of chestnut curls. "Apologies, Miss M. It is an absolute praise that you would consider me." Her voice was thick like honey yet coated with vines; the daughter of the Marquess of Trecuse was reserved, but sharp. "It will please Father, too—he expected I would meet better suitors at court, anyway."
The blonde beside her scoffed, but Marguerite ignored her. "Speaking of suitors; as I mentioned, you are all to be contenders to Prince Jules and to the returned Prince Sébastien. Both have expressed the wish to find wives, and fast, so that they might continue on with the royal legacy." Her throat constricted with a word holding such heavy meaning. With it came the foul image of a red-headed seductress curling her shiny crimson skirts around a pair of muscular legs, the fabric undulating up to a broad chest, strong shoulders, a sturdy chin—
No. Not now. Not after all these years.
"The Princes." Charlotte Geitz, the snobby blonde, perked up. "Theyare prospects my father will accept." Her bright blueberry eyes glowed. A most ambitious lady with two older sisters married to foreign royalty, Charlotte was top of the Senior class and never hesitated to remind everyone about it.
Someone scoffed at Charlotte's comment, and only one individual would dare be so open about her hatred towards the perfectionist girl.
