LUCIEN

  No Alistair today.

  Lucien noticed the absence the second he stepped out of his room. He didn't proceed to the Great Hall for breakfast; instead, he had been requested at Claremont first thing in the morning.

  Classes at Billard had been suspended for the day to allow everyone to prepare for the Gala.

  "Good morning, Master Green."

  Master Green.

  He hated the name, but he smiled, nonetheless. "Good day, Alfred."

  Alfred—the same chauffeur who had driven him and Alistair to Harrowhal for their lessons—was Corin's personal driver and now, also his.

  It was a long, quiet drive. Alfred did not speak much, even when Lucien attempted to start a conversation. At a crossing, a massive LED screen flashed news of the Gala, calling it a night of celebration for the Chairman of Clarendon Industries: Gordon Clarendon.

  "Is the Chairman there right now?" Lucien asked not meaning to pry but only trying to be informed.

  "No, sir," Alfred surprisingly responded. "The Chairman is flying in later from Shanghai."

  That was the one thing Lucien was grateful for. It bought him time to prepare. He had been told his invitation came from the Chairman himself—a fact that felt more like a summons than a gesture of hospitality.

  Gordon Clarendon must be curious. Though, Lucien doubted a man of that stature ever truly became curious about something as trivial as a scholarship student.

  It made Corin nervous, no doubt. Hence the lessons.

  "We're here, sir," Alfred informed him as they passed through a set of giant iron gates.

  The house was nowhere in sight. There was only a long driveway, lined on both sides by ancient cedar trees. The knot in Lucien's tie felt inexplicably tighter as they moved deeper into the estate. The trees seemed endless until, finally, the famous thousand-acre park opened up. And there, standing before them, was Claremont. Its proud, high spires were daunting in the cold light of dawn.

  The servants, lined up outside, bowed as he stepped out of the car.

  "Welcome to Claremont, Master Green." A man in a black suit and a heavily starched white shirt with a stiff collar received him. "My name is Guilford, sir. I am the butler of the house. We have prepared a small breakfast for you in the day room while you wait for your fitting."

  Lucien recalled the name from the dossiers Henrietta had made him memorize. Guilford had been with the Clarendons for decades, even before Corin was born.

  "Thank you, Guilford. Is Corin joining me?"

  "No, I'm afraid not, sir. Miss Corin is indisposed at the moment. If you would follow me, please."

  Claremont was ten times the size of Harrowhal. This had been the official residence of the Clarendons since the monarchy was abolished. Lucien felt as though he had been transported back to a different era. The only thing reminding him of the present was the technology seamlessly incorporated into the traditional estate.

  They passed the Grand Ballroom, where final touches for the Gala were underway at full scale. Maids were not using feather dusters, but high-powered vacuums manufactured by none other than Clarendon Industries. Every staff member in a crested uniform wore an earpiece—a hands-free network of silent commands.

  The massive chandeliers were being mechanically lowered by systems integrated into the ceiling, each light being meticulously checked. Outside the windows, Lucien could see barriers and metal detectors being laid out at the entrance.

  There would be too many important people tonight. The place was packed with enough security to keep even God out.

  "In here, sir."

  Guilford led him into a room much like the one at Harrowhal, though this one displayed a different coat of arms on its walls. Inside, a footman was already arranging plates of food that could have fed Lucien's entire class.

  "Small breakfast," Lucien muttered under his breath.

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  Guilford pressed his lips together at the remark, trying to suppress a smile. "I will be pouring for you, sir, as the lady of the house is currently preoccupied. Would you like tea or coffee, Master Green?"

  "Coffee."

  "Very good, sir."

  For the entire morning, Lucien did not see Corin once. However, he occasionally heard her codename, "The Rose," crackling through the staff's earpieces—including the one Guilford wore.

  The final fitting went perfectly. There was a briefing on handling the press, and he was oriented on the flow of the evening: who would arrive when, and which dignitaries would take the podium to offer well-wishes to the Chairman.

  Guilford never left his side. He was Corin's eyes and ears, but kinder. And, unlike Heatherrow, this man knew how to smile. Every painting or a room of significance they passed, he was jovial enough to share a piece of Clarendon history that couldn't be found in any textbook.

  They sounded like fond memories.

  "Miss Corin used to run along this gallery with young Master Victor." He pointed to a blank, discoulored space where a portrait had once hung. "They drew some unsightly things on one of the old Clarendon kings. Up to this day, it's still in restoration."

  Two things Lucien did not expect to hear in the same sentence: Corin running, and with Victor Vandercourt, no less.

  "They grew up together?"

  "Yes." Guilford nodded, his face suddenly clouded by a hue of sadness. "They couldn't be separated if one tried. Now, they have simply... grown apart."

  Grown apart was an understatement, Lucien thought.

  "Were they—I mean... were Corin and Victor..." He couldn't find the right words to phrase the question without sounding like something he wasn't ready to admit.

  "He proposed to her once."

  Lucien stopped in his tracks. "What?"

  Guilford smiled at him. "They were five years old then, Master Green. It was merely child's play, but the ring was real enough. Young Master Victor offered her his grandmother's ring and promised to push her on the swing whenever she liked."

  "Did she say yes?"

  "No, of course not." Guilford glanced at him with a conspiratorial air. "Does that satisfy you, Master Green?"

  "Yes. But I—I didn't mean anything by it. I'm just—"

  "Curious?"

  "Yes." Lucien stepped ahead to hide his flustered face. "Now, tell me about this room. This seems like an interesting door."

  By evening, Lucien had familiarized himself with the cold, sprawling geography of Claremont. When the call finally came to prepare for the Gala, Guilford appeared with a silent shadow in tow.

  "Master Green, this is Aberforth. He will be your personal valet for the evening."

  "I don't need anyone to dress me," Lucien said, his voice firm but polite. "I know where everything goes. But thank you—Guilford, Aberforth."

  The two men looked momentarily stunned by the dismissal but did not contest it. They left Lucien alone in a suite specifically prepared for him.

  He donned his waistcoat with swift, mechanical efficiency. The cufflinks—pearls set in silver—were fastened perfectly. Then came the white piqué bow tie, a strip of starch and silk that seemed designed specifically to test his patience.

  He thought he was doing a fine job until the double doors of the room swung open.

  "I heard you dismissed the valet."

  Lucien turned and saw Corin Clarendon for the first time that day.

  She was wearing a ball gown of a blue he had never seen—deep, arresting, and shimmering with silver-and-diamond-studded straps. She looked less like a student and more like... a damn princess.

  Corin stopped a few feet from him, her eyes sweeping from his waxed hair to his polished shoes, performing a silent audit. "You clean up nicely," she remarked.

  Lucien restrained himself from smiling.

  "But what in God's name is that?"

  Fuck.

  She stepped forward and tugged at the mangled knot on his collar, her hands ungloved. She tried to unfurl it, and when the silk refused to budge, she glared up at him. "What did you do to it?"

  "I followed the steps to the letter, but—"

  "You clearly did not." Corin called for scissors and a fresh tie. "Bend down."

  Lucien obeyed, leaning into her space until she could reach his neck without strain.

  "Please don't stab me," he whispered, his breath hitching as the silver blades caught the light.

  "I won't," Corin promised in a low, delightful tone. "Not yet."

  She pulled, and Lucien heard the sharp snap as she cut the ruined silk away. At this distance, he could see the microscopic shimmer on her eyelids, the precise curl of her lashes, and her rosy lips—now completely healed. It felt exactly like the infirmary. She was too close for him to keep a straight head.

  "Look," he mumbled, trying to justify the mess. "I did try..."

  Corin mouthed a soft, mocking 'No.'

  Lucien shook his head mildly in agreement as he leaned down closer, his gaze dropping to her mouth before returning to her eyes. He whispered against her lips, "I did... It put up a fight."

  She laughed—a sudden, genuine sound that made Guilford and the nearby footmen snap to attention.

  "Shut up," she breathed, her focus shifting as she began meticulously tying the new silk. "This is why I sent you a valet."

  Lucien watched her intently. There was something almost domestic about the gesture—a dangerous, intoxicating thought he allowed himself to indulge in for just a moment.

  "Maybe... I wanted you to do it." The air between them had grown thin, vibrating at a frequency only they could hear. "You look absolutely devastating. Did I tell you?"

  "You can't coax your way out of this, Lucien."

  "I'm not... and... stop smiling."

  'I'm not', she mouthed. "You're imagining things."

  "Is that right?"

  He leaned in just a fraction more, his gaze lingering on the curve of her mouth with an intensity that felt like a touch.

  When the knot was perfect, Corin rested her palm flat against his chest. For a long second, they simply looked into each other's eyes, the presence of the staff fading into background noise.

  "I need you..." she began, "...to be perfect today."

  His throat went tight, but not out of fear. He straightened his spine, her hands falling away from him as he did.

  "I will."

  Patrice arrived just then and assisted Corin with her gloves—the same white pair she had worn when they rehearsed the waltz.

  "Shall we?" Lucien offered his arm.

  Corin took it without a word, her grip firm, and together they stepped out to face the lions.