The townhouse of the Roselle family was a stark contrast to the Academy.
It smelled of expensive perfume and polished mahogany.
Marcus stood in the foyer.
A servant took his cloak. The servant looked at him with mild curiosity.
It was late for a social call.
"The Duchess is in the parlor," the servant said.
Marcus nodded. "Thank you."
He smoothed his shirt.
He tried to shake off the weight of Seraphina's expression.
Catarina would be different.
Catarina was a politician. She understood pragmatism.
But she also valued control.
Finding out her life was a story might not sit well with her.
He walked into the parlor.
Catarina was standing by the fireplace.
She was wearing a silk dressing gown. It was elegant but informal.
She held a glass of wine.
"Marcus," she said. She turned to face him.
Her green eyes were sharp. Calculating.
"You look like a man marching to his execution," she noted.
"I feel like one," Marcus admitted.
