Clara's face turned an incredible, burning shade of crimson.
She scrambled to her feet, her fingers twisting her feather fan so hard the ivory handle gave a sickening creak, but under the heavy, defensive glare of the host herself, she didn't dare to utter a single word of protest.
She bowed tightly, her skirts rustling loudly as she practically bolted down the terrace stairs in a frantic, humiliating rush.
The Marchioness of Thorne let out a low, deeply impressed chuckle, setting her teacup down with a definitive click as she looked at me with a brand-new level of calculative respect.
I smoothed down the heavy green silk of my gown with my uninjured left hand, a slow, deliberate smile breaking through my tear-stained face.
The garden tea party had come to a close, but the dark, dangerous lion's den of the midnight royal garden was still waiting for me.
***
