“Well, they are all for you.”
Maddie blinked. “Me?”
Ashley nodded. “I had your seamstress design some new dresses for you. Something more suited for husband chasing.”
Maddie looked down at her current evening dress. She thought the green matched the color of her eyes. Even if its sleeves puffed oddly and the lace scratched. “What’s wrong with my dresses?”
“Well, for one, they cover up way too much, and I could never understand why your mother added so many frills. The dresses I brought are elegant and fit for a duke. And don’t worry; I charged it to your mother’s account.”
Maddie laughed, and in her heart, she felt both sweet and sour at the same time, much like the lemon treats she loved so much. She didn’t know what she had done to deserve such a loyal friend as Ashley, and she couldn’t imagine stepping into this next adventure without her. Maddie hugged herfriend tightly.
“Thank you.”
She might be plain.
She might be awkward.
She might have more interest in her potions than in people.
But this season she was going against all the odds—and her family.
This season, she was determined to reach for one thing and one thing only…
The stars.
With a touch of potion.
Chapter Two
“Moore. Sebastian AugustusMoore, Third Marquess of Cambridge.” Sebastian blew on his hands, bouncing from left foot to right. Movement kept his blood flowing. Or at least, kept his boots from freezing him to the ground. The terracotta floor tiles beneath him were just as bitter as the frost outside. His boots were soaked through, his toes aching.
“There ain’t no reservation under this name,” the gap-toothed innkeeper said from behind the worn walnut desk ofThe Silver Thistle, the last halfway-clean roof between here and nowhere.
Sebastian rubbed his arms and popped his collar, pretending the extra millimeter of wool might matter. His taupe cashmere scarf gave him a sliver of relief—until the door burst open behind him. Another gust of wind. And Paul. His poor coachman, soaked to the bone, shaking snow from his felt hat with trembling hands.
“Do you have any room at all?” Sebastian asked, laying five shillings on the counter. “My coachman needs a rest, too.” He flicked a glance toward Paul and tugged his own wool coat tighter, though it made no difference.
The innkeeper pocketed the coins and checked the ledger. “No, milord. A hot soup is all we can offer ye tonight. ’Tis on the house.”
A hollow kindness. For five shillings, the man could have served them something edible. Soup for two costs half a shilling. The rest wasa tax for being titled.
Of course. The crest on the carriage—Sebastian had paid in advance for their contempt.
What they never saw—what none of them ever saw—was the price of those luxuries, not in coin, but in constant scrutiny. The smile required in every drawing room, plus the rehearsed charm. Even now, shivering in the vestibule of a backwater inn, he had to look vaguely dignified.
He might’ve laughed if his teeth weren’t chattering.
Thomas would laugh. Thomas always did. Sebastian could hear it now: a dry chuckle and a too-casual,“Did you really try to impress an innkeeper with your title?”
That was the thing about titles.
But Sebastian did far too much because he ranked far too low and possessed far less money. It was the story of his life—paying to appear above the fray while fighting tooth and nail to stay in it. The old French adage his mother loved to repeat floated up like smoke:Noblesse oblige.Nobility obliges.
And it did. It obliged him to act grateful for a title that cost him his two-seater phaeton—sold to pay tuition. It obliged him to smile when he had nothing left but appearances. It obliged him to accept cold soup with grace.
That scarf soaked through and oddly stiff? Gifted last season. The boots? Repaired more than thrice. And still he stood, back straight, words polite.
He tugged at his cravat. Too stiff. He liked them starched—but it was suffocating like everything else in his mother’s London townhouse, which was why he’d left right after the New Year to visit Thomas for his engagement festivities to Lady Ashley.
