The air after descending from the carriage felt cool, gentle… and slightly imbued with the scent of an expensive soap opera. But for me, there was no aroma more delightful than the scent of Duke Tristan von Blackwood—a mix of cinnamon, composure, and emotional trouble that was costly to resolve.
We walked side-by-side on the road toward the hall where the famous and distinguished musicians of the realm practiced. Or, well… tried to walk side-by-side.
The problem was, Duke Tristan's strides were long like a nobleman's destiny, while mine were short like a hopeful sentence rejected by the universe.
So, every time I tried to catch up, the result was: I looked like a child chasing the long shadow of a mysterious black-haired man who could destroy the faith of Ladies just by blinking slowly.
"Liliane, don't get too close to him," Dominic's voice reappeared like a royal courtesy alarm clock that couldn't be turned off.
