The morning sun bathed the Vaelthorne estate in soft golden light, filtering through the tall, arched windows of Seraphine's chamber. She had hardly risen from her bed when a knock sounded at the door.
Elda entered with a curtsy and a smile. "Good morning, my lady. I hope you slept well. The Duke arranged for a seamstress to visit today. She has arrived and awaits your pleasure."
Seraphine blinked, still slightly dazed from waking. "A seamstress? For me?"
"Yes, my lady. His Grace has requested an entire wardrobe prepared for the next season. Gowns, riding habits, cloaks, slippers, gloves... everything a lady of your standing will need."
Seraphine's lips parted in surprise. Back at the Delacroix estate, she was lucky to receive hand-me-downs or old gowns altered to fit. The idea that someone would make dresses just for her—dozens of them—felt like a dream whispered into life.
Soon, her chamber transformed into a flurry of silks, satins, and velvet. The seamstress, a dignified woman with silver spectacles and measuring tape coiled like a snake around her neck, worked efficiently with her team of assistants. Bolts of fabric in every shade were brought in—deep emerald, royal blue, dusky rose, and cream.
Seraphine stood barefoot on a small platform as measurements were taken and sketches were drawn with swift, precise hands. She was measured from every angle—waist, bust, arms, shoulders—then draped in fine muslins and pinned with delicate precision.
The seamstress looked her over thoughtfully. "Exquisite bone structure. High cheekbones. Narrow waist. You'll carry court fashion well."
Seraphine flushed. "I've never worn anything like this before."
"You will," the woman said with a curt smile, "and when you do, heads will turn. His Grace has excellent taste."
As the gowns began to take shape—layered skirts with embroidered hems, sleeves like floating petals, corsets laced with gemstone buttons—Seraphine stared in wonder. This was wealth beyond anything she'd known. How did anyone live like this every day?
The day passed in a blur of fabrics and fittings. That night, she sat at her vanity, staring at her reflection. She looked like someone else—no longer the girl scrubbing floors in borrowed aprons, but a young noblewoman with hair like spilled ink and eyes wide with uncertainty.
---
The following morning, the sound of car on gravel echoed again through the estate courtyard. Elda knocked gently before entering with a slight bow. "Your tutor has arrived, my lady."
"My… tutor?"
"Yes. His Grace has arranged for your instruction in noble etiquette, dance, speech, and courtly conduct. You'll need these skills before attending any formal engagements beside him—especially the upcoming Winter Ball at the palace."
Seraphine nodded slowly, nerves prickling her skin. A ball? In the palace? She had barely learned to hold a fork with the right grip.
Downstairs, waiting in the eastern drawing room, stood a tall, elegant woman with gray-streaked hair coiled tightly atop her head. Her gown was severe, her posture upright, and her eyes sharp as needles.
"Lady Seraphine," the woman said without smiling, dipping her head with exact formality. "I am Madame Beaudoin. For the next several weeks, I will instruct you in everything necessary to stand at Duke Vaelthorne's side with dignity and grace."
"Thank you," Seraphine said, swallowing her apprehension.
"Lesson one: speak clearly. No mumbling, no shrinking. A lady's voice is like music—meant to be heard, not hidden."
And so began a day of rigorous training.
Seraphine was taught how to sit with her back straight and her knees angled just so, how to glide rather than walk, how to make elegant conversation without ever giving too much away. She practiced curtsies until her legs ached, balanced books on her head to correct her posture, and repeated the proper titles of nobles until her tongue went numb.
During a lesson on court dancing, Madame Beaudoin stopped her mid-step.
"No, no, no. You lead like a soldier. You must learn to trust your partner. Again."
By the end of the day, Seraphine collapsed into her chair, exhausted and sore.
Elda appeared with warm tea and a plate of fruit.
"I don't think I can survive weeks of this," Seraphine whispered.
"You're doing well, my lady," Elda said gently. "Few have gone from servant to noble in days. But you're stronger than you know."
Seraphine looked at her hands—still a little calloused from years of chores, now wrapped in silk and lace. She didn't feel like a noble.
Not yet.
But she was beginning to learn.
Three days passed.
Three days of gowns, etiquette drills, posture corrections, and whispered instructions on how to breathe, speak, smile, and move like a noble lady. Seraphine's fingers were sore from endless practice with cutlery and court dances, her feet blistered from dancing in shoes too stiff and too perfect. But she endured it all in silence, knowing that soon—too soon—she would have to stand beside the Duke again.
And when that moment came, it came swiftly.
The grand entrance doors opened just past noon, carried inward by the strength of two liveried guards. The cold wind rushed in first, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots on marble.
Alaric Vaelthorne had returned.
Seraphine stood frozen at the top of the stairs. From above, she saw him step through the threshold, his black coat dusted with snow, silver eyes as sharp and unreadable as ever. The servants bowed as he passed, heads lowered in respect—or fear.
He looked like a man carved from myth: tall, pale, powerful. Regal not only in blood, but in presence.
Her heart skipped.
Would he notice her? Would he see that she'd changed?
He climbed the steps steadily, each footfall echoing like a drumbeat in her chest. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her, her training warring with her nerves. She was dressed in a fitted gown of soft twilight blue, her dark hair twisted in elegant coils at the nape of her neck, a single sapphire pinned just above her heart—one of the jewels he had unknowingly given her, through the wardrobe he had commissioned.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he stopped before her.
A long moment passed.
His eyes swept over her—not in lust or appraisal, but in silent recognition.
"You've changed," he said simply, voice low and deep.
Seraphine lowered her gaze briefly, curtsying just as Madame Beaudoin had taught her. "I've been receiving lessons, Your Grace."
A flicker of something—approval?—crossed his face. "So I see."
She dared look up again. "Welcome home."
His gaze lingered on her a beat longer before he turned to the butler behind her.
"See that my luggage is taken to my study. And inform the household: there will be a formal dinner tonight." He glanced back to Seraphine, his expression unreadable. "She'll be joining me."
Then, without another word, he disappeared down the corridor.
Seraphine released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
That evening, the great dining hall was lit with hundreds of candles. The silver cutlery gleamed, the table adorned with winter roses and fine porcelain.
Seraphine sat at the end opposite Alaric, hands folded on her lap, back perfectly straight.
Throughout the meal, she stole glances at him—his refined movements, his quiet strength, the way everyone around him seemed to shrink in his presence. He said little, but when he spoke, everyone listened.
Only once did he meet her gaze during dinner, and when he did, her spoon trembled in her hand.
She looked away quickly.
Later, as she stepped out onto the terrace for air, the cold bit through her shawl—but it helped clear her spinning thoughts.
"You held yourself well tonight," came Alaric's voice from the shadows.
She turned quickly to find him standing there, hands behind his back.
"Thank you, Your Grace," she murmured.
He walked closer, the moonlight casting sharp angles across his face. "You fear me."
She stiffened. "N-not fear, exactly. Just… you are unlike anyone I've ever known."
He studied her. "And yet, you are the only one who did not try to impress me."
"I didn't think I had a chance to," she said truthfully.
A silence passed between them. Then, softly:
"You are wrong."
She looked up, startled.
Alaric turned away. "Rest well, Lady Seraphine. Your real lessons begin tomorrow."
Then he was gone again, his cloak disappearing into the night wind.
And Seraphine stood alone, heart racing—not from cold, but from something she no longer knew how to name.