The Gown that Swallowed the Lady
I actually intended to go home.
Truly.
I swear by that potato-faced Crown Prince.
That noble intention had been born in my tiny heart five minutes ago—right after I was almost dragged to the bottom of the lake like some 2.1-class romantic tragedy character.
But the world, as usual, had another agenda.
"Lady Liliane."
Duke Tristan's deep voice immediately triggered my "cute-radar." I looked at him with pure sincerity and admiration. I turned around. His hair was still wet. Water dripped slowly from the ends of his black strands, making his clothes look disheveled and revealing his broad chest. Oh gods, oh gods... may I touch it?
Without realizing it, my hands were moving. Moving while trembling. I wasn't sure if I was trembling from the cold or from this golden moment.
But wait...
HOLD ME BACK, OH GODS... WICKED HANDS! WICKED HANDS! DON'T TOUCH HIS SACRED CHEST! (As you can guess, I was already patting my own "cute" hands to stop them).
