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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The roaring fire's warmth sent tides of happiness to crash over Marguerite's body. The boys' musks of ginger, pinewood, and cocoa infused soothing energy into her soul. With them relaxing on either side of her, chatting of memories that made them smile, she wondered why they'd waited so long to gather, to reminisce.
If only every day were like this.
"Three years, hm?" Jules leaned in his seat, hands clasping behind his head, digging into his messy curls.
"Come January, yes," said Marguerite, "and it is hard to believe."
"Oh, the things you have missed," said Jules, yawning, stretching his legs. "I have notbeen a proper gentleman at all times."
Marguerite's brows lifted though an amused grin spread across her lips, "Is thatwhy Antoine refuses to allow you to leave the castle at night?"
Jules flushed as he shrugged. "Perhaps?"
"And you—" she pivoted to Sébastien, "—your travels! I imagine you have seen more than most eighteen-year-olds can boast."
His chocolate eyes creased. "Indeed. I wish I had more time to detail them for you."
Marguerite patted his wrist. "We will find a moment. I expect I will stay at least until the Masquerade. And maybe I will extend my visit to catch up with you—"
The Library entrance blasted open in the distance, prompting all three to whip their necks towards the doors. A few bookshelves blocked their view, but there was no mistaking the screeching voice that reverberated down the floor-boards.
"Where are they?"
A chill slithered up Marguerite's spine as a suffocating aura permeated the room. An unpleasant, cruel, critiquing air that manifested in the form of slamming heels and swishes of pale mint green skirts and grunts of displeasure.
Jules saw the intruder first, and nearly fell from his chair as he shot up. "Mother?"
Marguerite scrambled up too, but backed to the fireplace, praying to become invisible. Sébastien remained calm, but panic pierced his once puffy cheeks and deflated them.
The Dowager slowed her storming pace as she located them. Her white bodice tightened and released as she breathed in and out, her scowl deepening upon noticing Marguerite. Her fists clenched as she pressed them to her hooped hips.
"What is the meaning of this?" Her obscure gaze scanned them all, but loitered on Marguerite, darkening and unblinking.
Limbs quaking, Marguerite lowered into a curtsy.
Jules set hishands on his hips, in perfect imitation of the Dowager, as Sébastien sidled in front of Marguerite to shield her.
Marguerite gulped. Like she was fourteen again, yelled at for running into the depths of the forest without permission. Or fifteen, found guffawing under the table in the Game Room reserved for men. Or sixteen, discovered in a closet making out with—
