Vivienne sat in front of her vanity, her robe half-tied, her expression half-dead. The candles were burning low, throwing soft light across her face and turning her eyes into something darker. Genevieve stood behind her, brushing her hair with so much excitement it was almost violent.
Genevieve hummed some silly little song as if she were living in a love story instead of a house full of lunatics. She kept saying, for what felt like the hundredth time, "You're so lucky, Vivienne. The duke is completely in love with you."
Vivienne stared at her own reflection, dead silent. Her lips twitched into the faintest smile, the kind that hides murder.
Lucky? she thought bitterly. Yes, how lucky I am to have a deranged duke hovering over me like a cat that's planning my funeral.
Genevieve kept brushing and talking, not noticing Vivienne's growing rage. "He looks at you like you're the only woman in the world. If that isn't love, I don't know what is."
