Lady Celine Farrington stood frozen. Her hand flew to her left cheek, her gloved fingers pressing against the rapidly reddening skin. The flesh burned as if it had been touched by a hot iron. Her ear rang with a high, thin pitch.
She stared at her mother with wide, horrified eyes.
Lady Farrington was breathing heavily. Her chest rose and fell in jerky, uneven motions under her stiff purple silk bodice.
For a terrible second, Lady Farrington raised her hand again. Her fingers were stiff, her palm flat, preparing to strike a second time.
Celine squeezed her eyes shut. She braced herself. She waited for the impact, her shoulders hunched in pure fear.
But the blow never came.
