♦YOU MUST HAVE READ THE PREQUEL, THE GOLDEN PRINCESS, TO READ THIS BOOK!♦
BEWARE--spoilers in this blurb, for those who have not read previous books! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
Kings. Queens. Princes & Princesses. Duchesses and Dukes. And... regents?
Eve...
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As they did the day before, the heaps of pale peach silk and satin draped over Marguerite's figure, widening around her like a halo of lace. She posed before the mirror, practicing her stone-cold but not too uninviting facial expressions. Her crown—one of her mother's—glimmered, heavy with azure jewels, fixed atop her curled golden locks.
She looked like a Queen, but felt like a terrified orphan.
Marigold, clothed in radiant peacock-blue, escorted Marguerite from the bedroom. If she detected Marguerite's terror, she acted otherwise. Together they glided down the two sets of stairs, but the closer they got to the Ballroom, the more Marguerite's heart hurt, thumping so hard and so fast she worried it might explode.
She considered letting it explode, but before long they arrived at the doors, and she had no choice.
Praying under her breath—for survival, godly intervention, or a swift death—she watched the guards tug the doorknobs and reveal the glowing space within.
Masses of colors and diamonds and feathers and flowers welcomed her. Tricorn hats and veils and poofy sleeves and lacy trains lined the cerulean carpet.
Everyone studied her as she took one step, then another, and paused in the threshold.
Decked in classic blues, matching her guards, the herald thrummed his staff to silence the murmuring attendees. "Announcing Her Majesty, Queen regent Marguerite of Giroma. And her lady-in-waiting, Miss Marigold Porter, daughter of the Lord of Lekske's right hand, Mister Porter."
Though her lips tugged up at the delectable pastry scent wafting into her nostrils, Marguerite squinted at the herald.
Someone was missing—the one meant to accompany her down to her throne, where Sébastien awaited.
"Where is the Duke of Spestein?" she said to the staff-wielding man.
He shrugged. "I am unaware, Majesty."
Tenser than she'd been in hours, Marguerite permitted Marigold to guide her, instead.
In the rows of nobles and dignitaries and foreign guests, sinking into bows and curtsies, she searched for him. She gritted her teeth to stop her lips from quivering, or her insides from spilling out her mouth; but having no sign of Henry worsened her dismay.
Atop the podium, Sébastien stood in a radiant beige and white suit, and over his tamed ponytail, he'd placed his Totresian crown. So poised and proud, he took her breath away, reminiscent of his father.
Pleased as she was to see him, she couldn't help but worry about Henry. Had they gotten their signals crossed? Did he wait elsewhere, or did he plan to arrive late on purpose? He'd warned her earlier that day he'd planned a speech to introduce her, a formal welcome to Giroma, a kick-off to the festivities. But as she climbed onto the platform, locking eyes with men who blushed at her attention, she still couldn't locate his corn-tinted hair, his flamboyant grin, or his outrageously colored-suit.
