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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Perhaps it was the glistening fake snow covering the wooden floors of the Ballroom. Or the crowd of aristocrats, hovering about and staring at the dais. Or the bright-colored dresses, the over-decorated drapes, the over-accentuated flakes on the windows.
Somethingdidn't feel right.
Céleste gaped at her father and Sébastien conversing. About what, she wondered? She wasn't sure she'd ever find out.
Her cheeks flushed as they turned to her. Sébastien scrambled onto the podium and cleared his throat; her father clambered to her and tucked her arm under his.
"It is time," he said, taking her closer to the platform.
Halting a few feet from the man who'd set free hordes of butterflies in her gut, she bit her lip to stop her smile from expanding. To calm her nerves, she looked askance.
Duke Cornelius loitered nearby, obscure and calculating as ever, his stance menacing, his bulging arms crossed over his plain brown ensemble. He didn't wear a mask like other attendees and seemed unwilling to speak to anyone. He loomed off to the side, near his King who flirted with Julia; but his gaze zoned in on the main crowd. Something was off about him, too; his aura of cruelty and crudeness had amplified, his attitude awkward and scrutinizing. The usual groupies didn't flock near him while batting their lashes to draw his awareness. He was alone, scanning through the guests, searching, probing—looking for Marguerite?
Before Céleste could whip around to ensure Marguerite was safe from him, her father nudged her, which prompted her to peer up at the podium once more.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I beg your attention for a few more moments," said Prince Sébastien, silencing the room. He shuffled his feet. "I will follow my brother's example and declare myfuture betrothed."
She balked at him. A few women nearby whispered as they watched her, in envy or genuine admiration, she wasn't positive.
"To break tradition a smidgen, I wish to ask, in front of all, for her father's blessing to seek her hand in marriage." Sébastien motioned for Sir Richel to step forward.
As he let her go and marched over to the Prince, Emeric took his spot at Céleste's side. Radiant in his khaki suit, he squeezed her upper arm. "You look splendid, sister."
She beamed at him, and both returned their focus to Sébastien, and to Sir Richel bowing before him.
"Sir Barnabé Richel, Marquess of Valeville, esteemed councilor and friend to my father." His tone was firm, though Céleste detected a hint of a tremble in it. "Will you grant me leave to marry your daughter, Miss Céleste Richel?"
The world stopped spinning, but Céleste's head didn't. Her heartbeat raced a million miles a minute, and the butterflies flapped their wings faster and faster, banging into her ribs, flinging themselves against her lungs.
