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 fell into such a deep slumber, she didn't hear Johanna come in to deposit a breakfast tray, nor did the smells fizzle into her nostrils and draw her to a seated position.
She had no idea what time it was when she woke, but the raindrops pattering against her window made her smile as she pried her eyelids apart. She lovedthe rain.
Jerking out of her mess of covers, she scurried to the glass pane and smudged her nose against it. Thick drops thumped on the roof, then trickled onto the garden pebbles like tiny diamonds. The window's icy surface sent a chill up her spine and covered her arms in goosebumps, reminding her of her emotions from the night before.
Her impromptu meeting with Prince Sébastien.
The Winter Garden had wrapped them in a bubble of flowers, in a world far from the castle drama. Her cheeks swarmed with heat as she remembered his hands holding hers. The way he'd blushed when she'd complimented him. How he'd listened to her, never interrupting, never judging.
How would he have looked if they'd met in a deluge, instead? She pictured droplets creeping down from his temples, his long tresses drenched, his dripping coat leaving puddles in his wake.
Eyes full of stars, she returned to her blankets and picked up a biscuit from her breakfast tray. As she sank her teeth in, the fuzzy dough, still warm from the kitchens, delighted her.
Only when she was halfway through the eggs and ham did realization smack into her with such brutality it took her breath away.
The Prince wants to dance with me in front of everyone?
Wiping her mouth with a napkin, she grimaced. He'd expose her; to the contenders and their fury, to his family and their judgment. From what she'd noticed about the Dowager, she didn't stand a chance at impressing any of them. She'd already created a bad name for herself as the girl who didn't address them properly and the lady-in-waiting who snuck about the corridors with the supposed-to-be-dead Duchess.
Abdomen clenching at the horrid images racing through her mind, she fished for a cheery outfit in her closet. Something bright, to contrast the weather. She plucked out a pale beige number with golden accents, and froze, gaping at her other dresses.
"Oh dear..."
The Inaugural Ball was that night, and she had nothingdecent enough for a dance with a Prince.
"I must talk to Marguerite." She peeked at the adjoining door as she struggled to fasten her undergarments and gown and gathered her curls into a messy bun. "Only she can help me."
As she shoved into Marguerite's suite, she found it empty. The clock showed a little after eleven, and the bed was made, the curtains parted to show the stormy skies.
Returning to her chamber, Céleste slipped on her shoes and draped a shawl over her shoulders. "I will hunther down."
The instant she exited into the corridor, she smacked into Johanna, carrying a set of laundered sheets.
