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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Céleste steered clear of the dance-floor.
She'd scrutinized the Prince and the Director as they danced, but had had enough. They were close, like family; she had no reason to be jealous. But she was. Every time they swirled or spoke or seemed too friendly, she cringed.
When they'd stopped and pivoted, peering at her, she'd froze. Marguerite's brows scrunched, but not Sébastien's; his gaze was one of longing, and he smiled.
Smiled? Why? He'd forgotten her; that was nothing to smile about.
The memory of his smirk still haunted her, though it had happened minutes ago.
She sucked in a great breath. Pulling up her gloves, she looked at Cristina, who was parked off to the side, in discussion with a decadently dressed noblewoman.
Images of the southern beauty's dance with the Prince flashed over and over in Céleste's mind. Cristina's mahogany curls in a perfect up-do, bouncing with every twirl; her radiant skin glowing beneath the chandelier. She conversed with ease, glancing at the dais now and then as if expecting the Prince to invite her for another turn on the dance-floor.
A little farther down, Harriet stood in her daring green and frilly white gown. Even she, as the daughter of the most disgraced noble of Totresia, held herself with poise. Her ravishing strawberry tresses tumbled over her exposed back, and Céleste wondered how no one had invited her to dance.
Goosebumps pricked her skin. She had no right to compare herself to these ladies; they were presented, educated, here to find husbands. She was not.
Uncertain where her Director had fled to, she glanced at the dense crowd. All she could think of was him. His flowing mane, the aubergine velvet threads covering his chiseled arms, his rhythmic strides.
She recalled when their gazes met—when he'd motioned at her before leaving Marguerite alone on the dance-floor. Was he tauntingher? Explaining his decision to court Cristina instead? Plotting? The manner in which he grinned, so coy, so mysterious, had made Céleste's limbs go limp and her heart throb.
She scanned the throng of dancers, wondering who he'd invited next. The thought of his dimpled cheeks and soft hands woke butterflies in her gut—the same that had unleashed when they'd chatted in the Winter Garden. The same she'd sworn to kill.
Tucking her chin to her neck, she fought to contain her tears. To shove down the reminiscence of the flicker of passion that once ignited in his eyes, the laughter that brought fresh air to her lungs. He'd reserve such things for Cristina, now, no doubt.
Céleste's toes curled inside her shoes as she examined Miss Condello in all her peachy splendor, cooling herself down with a thick feathered fan.
Her stomach bubbled in rage, and she inhaled the stuffy Ballroom air and closed her eyes.
