The Golden Girl (#2 in the GOLDEN series)

•T W E N T Y•

"Would you read it again? Please, I still do not understand."

Céleste's voice, so shrill as she huddled on her bed, worsened Marguerite's migraine.

Her head already pounded from lack of sleep, and the girl's two consecutive screams had done nothing to help it. Restless dreams of Antoine's sparkling gaze, Clémentine's glacial speeches, hoofs on rainy gravel; they'd caused Marguerite to wake earlier than normal. Even a warm bath and a delicious brew of coffee hadn't aided her plight.

"Fine." She cleared her throat. "My dearest Marguerite, it is my honor to ask your permission to meet your lady-in-waiting, Miss Céleste Richel. I wish to take her on an afternoon stroll through the gardens." She lowered the parchment; she hadn't needed to read it, in truth, because the words had imprinted onto her brain.

As Céleste stuffed her nose between her knees, Sébastien's voice filled Marguerite's ears, provoking her pounding temples more. His proper vocabulary, his effortless poise—

It is my fault. I brought her here. I enabled her to draw royal attention.

Céleste winced. "But what does it mean? I am only a lady-in-waiting, I..."

Swallowing what she wanted to say—that Céleste was a target who'd soon feature in all gossip at court—Marguerite crumpled the note. "It is a royal invitation, so it means you have little choice."

"But why?"

Marguerite had no explanation. She no longer knew the boy she'd grown up with; the shy child who wanted to read and play sword-fighting in the orchards. He was a man, now. An eighteen-year-old Prince who'd placed his interest in her lady-in-waiting.

"That is not for me to answer."

Céleste lept from the bed and hobbled to her vanity. She snatched a cloth and dampened it in the water bowl, dabbing at her brows, rubbing her eyes. "Can I meet him? I am not a contender. I attend the contender's chaperone! It makes no sense!"

Marguerite chewed on the insides of her cheeks. "I agree, it is confusing, but no Totresian law states you cannot be courted. A lady-in-waiting is eligible for courtship by noblemen or royalty. It is rare, and you are underage, but yes, you can meet him." She stroked her jaw, watching the girl hunch over. "But a measure so bold, close to a Presentation Ceremony, and during a royal Season, will make people talk. It is ill-viewed. Bad-timing."

Céleste glared at Marguerite in the mirror. "People already talk, I am sure! He spent the evening staring at me, which must have drawn rumors. And now this?"

Marguerite's fingers tightened around the scrunched message. She should have known, should have reacted sooner. She recalled when Sébastien had first looked at Céleste, that evening when he and Antoine found them in the Ballroom. He'd watched her leave, glued to her form, interest sparking all over his face. She should have said something then, before he made a move. Before this.

Jules was the rebellious one; it would have shocked her less if he'd invited Céleste. But Sébastien? Good-natured, reserved, solemn Séb? Céleste was correct—it made no sense.

Heart thumping, she walked up to stand behind Céleste's seat. "He knows better. This behavior is preposterous. Most unlike him." Her pupils enlarged as she realized what she said, how much information she nearly revealed. "I mean—well, he had a royal tutor, he understands how these things work. His attitude appalls me." Her lashes fluttered, and she prayed that Céleste, busy groaning as she tugged on her curls, hadn't caught the near slip of the truth.

"Why, why?" Céleste let out another groan, but then immobilized. "Wait." She released her locks and gawking at Marguerite in the reflective surface. "Why did he send the note to you?"

Marguerite focused on fixing her lower-than-usual neckline. "Because I am your Director. You are not of age, remember? It is normal to request my permission."

Céleste moved the chair backwards and its legs scraped on the floors until it sat between her and Marguerite.

She stood, one brow cocked as she glowered at Marguerite's reflection. "There is more to this. You are hiding something." She jolted around. "I sense it even more since last night, with the King, the Vidame, the Prince. You are aware of too much. You dodge questions with talent, I admit it. But I deserve legitimate facts, no? If I am to be introduced to a Prince, should I not be warned of what I am walking into?"

The girl's daring tone caused Marguerite to snarl, and goosebumps grew on her arms. "Careful, Céleste—"

Céleste shoved the chair out of her way. "Careful of what? The truth?" She strode up, lips bunched, fists on her hips. "I must know. I must. This invitation is so sudden, and you seem to know so much about it. It is not fair to throw me into the lion's den like so!"

Marguerite rolled her eyes. "It is not a lion's den, it is a meeting with a Prince—"

"—exactly! Unexpected and frightful! A meeting with a Prince!" Barefoot, in her cotton nightgown, her robe's sleeves dangling from her arms, her tresses tangled and wild, Céleste appeared as a mad inmate, a psychotic witch.

Unable to control herself, Marguerite laughed, her nerves on edge. "You are overreacting."

The girl stomped her feet. "It is not funny! How are you acquainted with the royals? Why are they so familiar with you?"

A mix of concern and rage tore through Marguerite; worry at the girl's ease with uncovering mysteries, and anger at her disrespectful demeanor.

"You will mind your tone." Though her legs were weak and every memory of her life at the castle flashed before her, Marguerite held her ground. "I do not know the royals. They recognized me from before, that is all."

Céleste sank to her knees, her lower lip trembling, her eyes watering. "Please, Marguerite. I cannot be your lady, your friend, if you are not honest with me. How am I to serve you with half-truths and cover-ups? It is too obvious that you lie and it wounds me."

With a grunt, Marguerite spun and marched to the bed. She kicked at the mattress, snarled at the wall, muttered foul curses.

"This is... and if you... ah!"

Huffing, yearning to jump out the window before having to come clean, she sucked in a breath, and another, and one more before flipping to Céleste. The girl was still on her knees, still pleading, still desperate.

So this is it, then? I have no alternative?

"Fine." Her spine tensed. "But you will keep this secret with your life, do you hear me?"

Though tears had drizzled down her cheeks—fake or not, Marguerite couldn't tell—Céleste swallowed and nodded. "I promise."

Marguerite scowled up at the ceiling, unwilling to look at Céleste as she confessed. "The Duchess in that damned book... that was me. I am the Duchess of Torrinni. Your Kings, your Princes, your Princess, the Queen, and the Dowager... they are the current royals. That Kingdom is Totresia."

"The Duchess..." Céleste tumbled onto her buttocks. "The Duchess is you?"

"Yes," said Marguerite, seething, regretting her confession. "I am your Golden Girl." She fell to the mattress. "I am the one you have been searching for."

Céleste's squeals of joythrummed in her scalp, intensifying the migraine that she slowly realized wouldnever dissipate.

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