They glared like hungry owls seeking their prey. Their whispers were so loud the music didn't mute them. Cruel onlookers; rumor-starting aristocrats.
Céleste fumbled with her steps, almost stomping on Sébastien's foot more than once. So lost and dizzy from the twists and spins, she struggled to recall proper dancing postures.
Why was he so quiet, so oblivious to those staring at them? Was she dreaming? It would make sense. It would explain how they floated above the polished floors, wings sprouting from their backs, clouds puffing up around them.
When his hand pressed into her back, she came to. No, it was not a dream. The nobles still devoured them with their scowls, the servants fluttered about delivering drinks, the guards were fixed on the Prince's every move, on alert.
She imagined what they were all saying.
"The lady-in-waiting dares to dance with a Prince"
"She is underage, who gave her the right"?
And Charlotte's growls of "he is not available to you!" and Julia's nitpicking about how inappropriate it all was.
Halfway through their awkward dance, the Prince cleared his throat. "Forgive my silence, but you look stunning, Miss Richel. Céleste, I mean. May I still call you that?" He squeezed her hand, warmth radiating through his glove.
She couldn't meet his eyes, lest she lost her sanity. "Thank you, Highness. And yes, you may." On the inside, her heart swelled; whenever he pronounced her name another butterfly came to life in her belly.
He guided her along to the rhythm, gallant and graceful. "Sébastien," he said, his voice drizzling with honey, prompting her to look up. "Please, call me Sébastien."
She forgot how to breathe. Her knees buckled as she drowned in his gooey gaze, like chocolate fountains engulfing her. It took all her might to not shrink to the ground and cry, laugh, scream, tear her hair out.
"Céleste? Are you all right?"
No, I am not.
"I beg your pardon, High—Sébastien, but I am confused." She let out a shaky breath.
"Confused? Why?" He twirled her, and a breeze whipped up her legs. "I told you I would save you a dance."
"Yes, but..." The thumping inside her rib-cage amplified and waves of dizziness clogged up her vision. "You said... and then Cristina... and I thought, we thought..."
As he spun her again, she noticed Marguerite dancing—and when she saw with who, she feared she'd cough up her lungs.
The Duke of Terter? She dances with the enemy?
Sébastien drew her close, dragging her from the sight. His enchanting features soothed away the image of her Director locked in an embrace with the vile Duke.
"It is difficult to speak here." He tore from her and glanced left and right. "Come."
Before she had a chance to reply, he snatched her wrist and pulled her from the dance-floor. He glided through dancers, their skirts whipping at his calves; past half-drunken aristocrats who begged for a moment with him. Women fawned as he slunk by, men waved; but he ignored them, tugging Céleste far from them all.
Once they reached the windows, he turned her to the patio. A pale light filtered through the glass and basked his creamy, peach-smooth skin in a heavenly glow. His shoulder loomed several inches above hers, but he kept her near. In their reflection, she spotted him smiling.
Why would he smile? Was he about to deliver good news, or bad? She wanted to swallow, but her mouth had become too dry.
"Highness—"
"—Sébastien." He twirled and leaned against the window-pane, facing her, impossible to look away from. He towered so close to her she could have sworn she heard his heartbeats.
Her body went limp. If she'd been alone, not under such scrutiny, she'd have fallen down.
"Sébastien, yes. I am grateful for this special courtesy of dancing, as promised, but..." She jammed her lips together, releasing heavy whiffs through her nose. Her guts twisted into knots, but she wouldn't let her courage falter, not now. "You did not need to. Sending a note of dismissal, or something of the sort, would have been appropriate. I am not a contender, you owe me nothing."
Sébastien's bushy black brows bunched as he scratched his forehead. "I fear I have misled you." He dragged his palm down his face. "You see, I have no plans to stop courting you. This was not a goodbye dance, a promise to keep. I yearned to be with you again." His fingers briefly caressed her jawline, his touch so soft, so simple, so calming she couldn't stand it. "You have not left my mind since that night. I pray I have not left yours?"
Her cheeks heated so much she saw them burning in her reflection. "Of course you have been in my thoughts, how could you not?" Her imagination, her dreams, threatened to spill out; but she wouldn't shame herself. Those were things she had to keep to herself. "You are a Prince! A handsome man who should not court me, and I have doubted your intentions—"
"—stop." He slid his index over her lips. "No more doubting. Get used to me courting you, because I plan to present you to the King and Queen. Soon."
She hiccuped. "King and Queen? You... you can do that? But... and Cristina? What about her?"
His fingertip grazed the corner of her mouth. "I will handle Cristina. She must have sensed my reluctance, smart as she is." He immobilized, as if the mere sight of her discontinued his heart-beats. "She was a cover-up. I hoped I could erase the way I felt about you and follow my duties, but it was impossible." He snapped out of his stupor. "Yes, I can officialize you. I will do everything in my power to make that happen."
Céleste fanned herself. Her legs wobbled and the lower layers of her dress stuck to her stockings. "A cover-up. So you do not want to court her?"
His hand found hers and squeezed. "No. I want you, Céleste Richel. You haunt my dreams, not her." He lifted her hand and hovered it near his mouth. His hot breath slithered under her glove and coated her skin in sweat. "I will not follow the plans set out for me. Antoine... he will allow this. After his experience, I am certain he wants me to be happy. You make me happy."
"Oh." Overwhelmed by the butterflies infesting her belly, she twisted to the Ballroom. Nobles clustered in groups, and all looked at her. "Are you sure?"
He sidled in front of her, blocking her view of the nosy intruders. "I am."
"And Marguerite?" She tipped sideways to peep around him, seeking her mistress.
Again he crept in front of her. "I will handle her, too. Please, trust me. It is you I wish to spend time with, no one else."
Straightening up, she glimpsed his arching eyebrows and his chest moving up and down, steady and serene.
He stiffened as he peeked at the podium. "Ah." He bowed and brushed his lips over her knuckles one last time. "Excuse me, my lady—my King needs me. We will talk again soon, yes?" He didn't wait for her reply and sauntered to the platform.
She watched him, fanning herself faster as she studied his long limbs lunging between courtiers desperate for his attention, navigating by those who sought to waste his time.
Breaking from her dream-like state, she scanned the Ballroom for Marguerite. When she located her near the buffet, between Charlotte and Julia, her soul shattered.
Marguerite drooped, her arms looking heavy, her complexion paler than ever. She didn't look alive; as if she'd clawed out of her own grave and fought to breathe.
Céleste dashed up to her, pushing aside the girls who'd been muttering foul things thinking she wouldn't hear. She didn't care—not when her Director had an urgent need of her.
"Miss M.? What is it?" She forced herself between Marguerite and Charlotte.
"That despicable... that disgusting..." Marguerite heaved, and Céleste seized her forearm to haul her from the sniveling vipers. She thought of going outside for some air, but there were too many obstacles—angry and envious ladies—in the way.
She settled for a spot between the Orchestra and a service door. "The Duke?" Marguerite nodded. "You danced with him, I saw."
Marguerite groaned. "I had no choice. Etiquette dictated that I had to."
"Right." Céleste grabbed a napkin from a passing serving girl's tray and whipped it at Marguerite's face. "What happened?"
Her cheeks regained a few splotches of color, but her eyes narrowed, dark like stormy skies. "The King of Giroma. He is coming here. Here."
Recollections of heated conversations in Sir Richel's office cramped inside Céleste's mind. Their screams about Giromian scum, men like the Duke of Terter and King Romain.
"He... the King? You are certain?"
"Positive." Marguerite jutted her chin at the other end of the room, and Céleste whirled around to see she was motioning at the Duke, loitering by the dais. "They invade our court, take the ladies. They plot."
Céleste rubbed the woman's upper arms in what she hoped to be soothing motions. "Giromians... oh God, this is bad."
Marguerite was about to answer when Julia skidded between them, her fiery glower plastered on Céleste. "What did you do? What did you say?" She gestured at the dais. "They are leaving!"
Sure enough, as Céleste swiveled to the dais again, she spotted King Antoine and Prince Sébastien hurrying down the steps, their expressions somber.
Céleste frowned. "I did nothing, I assure you!"
"Liar! You made him go, you little—"
Céleste shooed Julia out of the way and nudged Marguerite. "Odd, no?" They glanced at the King and Prince scurrying out the side exit. "Why would the King allow it? I read that he abhors King Romain."
"I am as puzzled as you. Something is amiss." Marguerite's voice was low, cryptic, breathy.
Julia's obnoxious grunting broke their bubble of concern as she zoomed before Céleste again. "Why did you dance with the Prince?" She snapped to Marguerite, her tiny frame quaking with fury. "And why did you dance with the Duke? You were so irritated with me for it, and then you did the same? Such a hypocrite!"
Céleste's shoulders tensed.
I have had enough of her!
Stomping her foot, she thrust herself against Julia, squishing their noses together. "Listen here, Espinar. I could not refuse a Prince, and our Director already danced tonight, meaning she had to accept the Duke. Are you not up to date on your Etiquette lessons?" Julia scoffed, but Céleste wouldn't let her interject. "You owe Miss M. respect, no matter your station! You humiliate her, and in such a public place, no less!"
She growled, but Marguerite ripped her from Julia before either could start a fight they'd regret. "Enough, both of you." She shoved Céleste behind her and scowled at Julia. "She is right; you will not raise your tone to me like that again, understood? Now go," she pointed to Charlotte, in the distance, "relate all this to that dreadful friend of yours. And learn to mind your own business."
Half-huffing, half-crying, Julia strutted to Charlotte. The two then turned their backs to Marguerite and Céleste.
Blowing out a weighted breath, Marguerite wheeled to Céleste. "Thank you."
"You are most welcome, but..." Céleste chewed the insides of her cheeks. "What do we do? What does this mean?"
Marguerite's focus rested on the floor. "I do not know. But I will figure it out. I always do."
I pray she is correct.
•••