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.
They glared like hungry owls seeking their prey. Their whispers were so loud the music didn't mute them. Cruel onlookers; rumor-starting aristocrats.
Céleste fumbled with her steps, almost stomping on Sébastien's foot more than once. So lost and dizzy from the twists and spins, she struggled to recall proper dancing postures.
Whywas he so quiet, so oblivious to those staring at them? Was she dreaming? It would make sense. It would explain how they floated above the polished floors, wings sprouting from their backs, clouds puffing up around them.
When his hand pressed into her back, she came to. No, it was nota dream. The nobles still devoured them with their scowls, the servants fluttered about delivering drinks, the guards were fixed on the Prince's every move, on alert.
She imagined what they were all saying.
"The lady-in-waiting dares to dance with a Prince"
"She is underage, who gave her the right"?
And Charlotte's growls of "he is not available to you!" and Julia's nitpicking about how inappropriate it all was.
Halfway through their awkward dance, the Prince cleared his throat. "Forgive my silence, but you look stunning, Miss Richel. Céleste, I mean. May I still call you that?" He squeezed her hand, warmth radiating through his glove.
She couldn't meet his eyes, lest she lost her sanity. "Thank you, Highness. And yes, you may." On the inside, her heart swelled; whenever he pronounced her name another butterfly came to life in her belly.
He guided her along to the rhythm, gallant and graceful. "Sébastien," he said, his voice drizzling with honey, prompting her to look up. "Please, call me Sébastien."
She forgot how to breathe. Her knees buckled as she drowned in his gooey gaze, like chocolate fountains engulfing her. It took all her might to not shrink to the ground and cry, laugh, scream, tear her hair out.
"Céleste? Are you all right?"
No, I am not.
"I beg your pardon, High—Sébastien, but I am confused." She let out a shaky breath.
"Confused? Why?" He twirled her, and a breeze whipped up her legs. "I told you I would save you a dance."
"Yes, but..." The thumping inside her rib-cage amplified and waves of dizziness clogged up her vision. "You said... and then Cristina... and I thought, wethought..."
As he spun her again, she noticed Marguerite dancing—and when she saw with who, she feared she'd cough up her lungs.
The Duke of Terter? She dances with the enemy?
Sébastien drew her close, dragging her from the sight. His enchanting features soothed away the image of her Director locked in an embrace with the vile Duke.
