“Thank you,” she whispered.
For the first time, the little dog had crossed the tentative space between them. She stared at the canopy, listening to Bijou’s soft snores, and questioned whether everyone was mistaken in thinking she could succeed.
Chapter eight
Three days remained before Nin’s private princess training would come to an end.
Cedric folded one arm to his chest, the other pressed against his mouth as Nin balanced three books on the crown of her head. She swayed, spreading her arms out to stabilize herself like a drunk goose in her short heels—the first she’d ever worn.
Cedric exhaled a deep sigh that rumbled in his bones.
“The sides of your dress,” he said. “You must pick up the top layer delicately as you walk. You can’t balance yourself like you’re on a tightrope.”
She took small, rigid steps over the parquet wood flooring. “I might as well be in these dumb shoes. They’re pinching my toes,” Nin mumbled, but he caught her words as clearly as the crystals dangling from the chandelier.
“It’s the unfortunate beauty process,” Lucille said sympathetically across from her. “You’ll have to break them in.”
“Unless they break me first,” Nin said, wincing. “I think they’re too small.”
He strode over to the dressing table and retrieved a fan. Stepping in front of her, he lifted her chin with the closed edge. “Up. You’re not looking where you wish to command.”
Her blue eyes flicked upward, her body shivering under the weight, and a flash of fear crossed her features.
“I can’t, not unless you want them to fall,” she said through clenched teeth.
His lips tightened into a thin line. “I said, chin up.”
She shot him a glare, but raised her chin a bare fraction. His jaw ticked, but he retreated to allow her to compose herself under the wobbling books.
Cedric marched past Lucille to seize another tome from the table, ignoring her steely judgment. Instead of placing a fourth book on top of Nin’s head, he pressed the spine between her shoulder blades.
Nin arched her back with a small yelp, quickly reaching out to catch the books that were teetering over her face.
“You’re slouching again. This is how tall you should be standing at all times,” he said.
Every inch of her trembled when he released her. Nin stepped forward, her back straight, but her arms flapped like a baby bird about to fall from its nest.
“Cedric,” Lucille said with folded arms. “Is this instruction truly helping?”
He heard her, but the clock ticking down every precious second was louder.
“The Duchess of Rochefort—is she widowed or married?” he asked, pacing over the rug.
“M-married,” Nin responded, her heels clicking too slowly across the floor.
“To whom?”
“The Duke Armand de Rochefort,” she said. One of the books slid forward, and she righted it.
Cedric didn’t give her time to recover. “Who governs the northern province of Chanterelle?”
“The Duke Henri de Lorme.”
“Old blood or new?”
“Old,” she answered quickly, but her eyes rounded. “N-no, I mean new. New blood.”
He halted, pinning her with a stern look. She opened her mouth to fill the silence, but nothing came.
