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's spit was sharp as knives as it hurried down her throat.
When Marguerite came up to her, expression hard to discern, the pain worsened. "The Prince is ready for you. Come, I will introduce you."
Spine tingling, she advanced beside Marguerite, fighting not to stumble over the hem of her dress. The closer she got, the harder it was to contain the shivers that slithered down her sides, her waist, her legs.
Prince Sébastien waited, elegant, his ebony tresses flying about his high cheek-bones, his hands in his pockets. His erect posture showed confidence, comfort, and ease.
Opposite emotions overwhelmed Céleste. Her shoulders wanted to droop, her jaw was sore from how she forced it to stay in place, and her footsteps were clumsy and uneven.
Once arrived before the Prince, she and Marguerite sank into curtsies. She focused on the ground, embarrassed by the flush taking over her.
Marguerite rose. "Your Highness, I present to you Miss Céleste Richel, daughter of the Marquess of Valeville."
Céleste, wobbly, lifted from her curtsy to see Sébastien tipping forward in a polite bow.
"Céleste, His Highness, Prince Sébastien of Totresia." Marguerite clutched Céleste's upper arm, as if nervous to let her go.
"It is a pleasureto meet you, Your Highness," said Céleste, fearing her tongue might fall out of her mouth.
"I will leave you to acquaint yourselves." Marguerite backed off. "I will not be far, and willbe watching." She swerved towards the castle and gave them some space.
Inhaling the pine-scented air, Céleste clutched the corners of her gown, unwilling to release the fabric as twisting it seemed to soothe her somewhat.
The Prince took one of her hands. "Miss Richel." His musical voice sent a jolt of blood to gush through her veins. Even through her gloves, the warmth radiating from his touch was impossible to ignore. His long, slender fingers curled around hers as he placed a kiss atop her knuckles. "Enchanté."
She overheated as their gazes met. He was about two heads taller than her, broad-chested and well-garbed. The silky material of the shirt under his cloak made her wonder if Marguerite had been right about him preferring simplicity.
A bubbling sensation woke in her stomach. "L-likewise, Highness."
He kept his mouth on her glove for several seconds, his chocolate eyes burning with intrigue.
When he at last freed her, he motioned to the pathway leading toward the racing field. "Would you care to walk? I abhor standing still."
"Certainly," she said, praying to not fall on her nose.
