The smell of fresh roses filled the dining room as Clara Beaumont burst through the doors, her face flushed with excitement. She clutched an elaborate bouquet to her chest, the expensive blooms perfectly arranged with a silk ribbon.
"Mother, look!" she exclaimed, thrusting the flowers toward Lady Beatrix Beaumont, who sat at the head of the table sipping her morning tea. "Another gift from Lucian! Aren't they divine?"
I watched my daughter preen, noting how her eyes sparkled with triumph rather than love. The Marquess Lucian Fairchild was merely a prize to her—the highest-ranking nobleman she could secure after failing to capture Duke Alaric Thorne.
"Very lovely, dear," I responded, gesturing for her to sit. "Though I hope he's sending more substantial tokens than flowers. The wedding preparations require significant funds."
