Page 26

T he Lyndons’ drawing room, so often a place of easy conversation and gentle laughter, felt oppressive this morning.

Though unchanged, everything seemed suddenly foreign, as though it pressed in on Sera’s dissatisfaction.

She wasn’t content to be here, or anywhere else for that matter, not knowing where Alex was.

She simply missed him.

Delicate porcelain vases lined the mantel, and the scent of lavender polish clung to the air, yet none of Lyndon House’s usual charm soothed her.

It was as if the room itself anticipated something, echoing the quiet restlessness that had pulled her from sleep too early.

Sera’s gaze flitted to the clock on the mantel—a fragile thing adorned with gilded cherubs—and watched the hand tick past another moment.

Waiting for the reunion at Vauxhall had never felt so interminable.

And to make matters even worse, she had to dress for a ball she didn’t even want to attend.

“Silk or cotton, Miss Lyndon?” the modiste, Madame Duchon asked, her voice crisp but polite as she adjusted a pin on the hem.

Off to the corner, her mother and sister were looking over some muted fabrics the modiste had brought along with her for Isabella, who insisted she didn’t want a dress, but her mother insisted otherwise.

“Cotton,” Sera replied firmly, stepping carefully onto the wooden stool, her slippers making no sound.

The air in the room smelled faintly of lavender sachets tucked into drawers, mixed with the bite of freshly pressed fabric.

Sera sighed as she stood still, letting the modiste bustle around her like a bee attending to a flower.

Cotton. It was practical, comfortable—her Cornwall wrapped in every stitch.

She thought of those carefree days along the Cornish shore, the sea breeze knotting her hair, her toes digging into cool, damp sand.

Even though it was only a few days ago, it had been too long since she’d walked barefoot, without anyone fussing about what she’d wear or how she was to behave.

Now, she was to be Miss Seraphina again, polished and proper, when she’d rather just be Sera.

Sera and Alex.

Short and sweet.

Seraphina and Alex.

Urgh.

No. Just Sera and Alex.

The modiste gave her a nudge. “Hold still, Miss Lyndon, nearly done,” she said, her fingers working deftly with a needle near Sera’s sleeve.

It seemed like lace atop sarcenet atop muslin—perfect to keep its shape—or to force her into a shape and life she didn’t want.

The gown’s pale-blue fabric layers were stiff and cool against her arms, a far cry from the simple flowing cotton dresses she longed for.

Her gaze drifted to the large bay window.

She squinted at the bright sunlight until her eyes adjusted, and that’s when she saw it. A grand carriage, drawn by four sleek horses with coats that gleamed under the afternoon sun, rolled to a stop just beyond the garden wall.

Sera leaned slightly to the side, curiosity tugging her closer to the view.

“Lady Seraphina, please keep still,” the modiste said as she tugged at the hem, but Sera’s gaze was fixed to the goings on outside.

The man who stepped down first wore dark tails, his posture erect and manner deliberate.

His hair was blond, short and—Sera swallowed hard when the memory of that night flooded back.

It was mere days ago and yet seemed as if it had been in another lifetime.

How she’d gripped Alex’s hair, feeling the silky softness of his golden locks between her fingers.

He’d held her, supported her, given her strength to face the earth-shattering sensations he’d sent through her body.

It had been an awakening that fueled her appetite for more.

For him.

As her mind drifted, Sera couldn’t take her eyes off the tall man outside.

He paused, slipping on a top hat with a flick of his gloved hands.

Sera caught her breath. If he weren’t so polished, she’d have thought it was Alex.

His broad shoulders filled his coat perfectly, and the natural ease of his movement awakened a memory she hadn’t buried deeply enough—or not at all. But the stranger wasn’t Alex.

It couldn’t be Alex.

This man assisted an elegantly dressed woman stepping from the carriage—a woman whose shining blonde hair, elegantly tucked beneath an elaborate bonnet, resembled someone from a royal portrait.

The woman who stepped out of the carriage placed her hand on his arm as if they belonged together—as if they’d never been apart.

She moved with practiced grace, her slender frame draped in a gown of soft lilac silk that shimmered faintly in the sunlight.

Her hair was swept into an intricate chignon, delicate strands catching the light like threads of fine gold.

Perched atop her head was a wide-brimmed hat adorned with clusters of pale pink and ivory flowers, each petal so perfectly arranged it looked as if it had just bloomed there.

Her posture was regal, her chin held high, and her gloved hands rested lightly against the gentleman’s offered arm.

Though she carried herself with quiet authority, there was a warmth in the slight turn of her lips, a reserved calm that heightened her elegance.

This was what her mother aspired for Sera to be. But it was in vain, wasn’t it?

Her gaze caught the man again.

Not. Alex.

Stop. Looking.

Miss Seraphina fit in with people like these—not Sera from the beach.

Her throat tightened as she wondered what Alex would think if he saw her now in this lovely yet rigid gown.

Would he laugh? Or would he nod politely, as if she were a stranger he had never met?

Would he stalk up to her, grab her shoulders, and demand to know what was going on?

She’d wager on the last.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, a longing she couldn’t shake, forcing her to hold her breath.

And then, just when she thought the scene couldn’t twist her heart further, another man descended from the carriage.

His hair was dark, not fair like Alex’s, but everything else—the cut of his jaw, his height, his deliberate stride—made her falter.

Although Sera willed him to look her way, all she received was his side profile.

Did everyone look like Alex to her these days?

“Miss Lyndon, you’re leaning too much,” scolded the modiste, tugging at her skirts.

Sera straightened, but her eyes stayed fixed on the figures outside.

And that man. Who were they? She craned her neck for another glimpse as the trio stepped away into the driveway, their faces turned just far enough from her view, leaving her with nothing but silhouettes and endless questions.

Oh no! “Do you know who they are, Madame Duchon?” Sera asked, her voice soft but slightly hurried.

The modiste chuckled, but the older woman had her back to the window and didn’t lift her gaze from the needles. She didn’t even glance up. “I haven’t the faintest idea, but if they’re heading to the Linsey estate next door, they’re likely royalty or close enough.” Of course, they were.

People like that weren’t ordinary, not with carriages and clothes that seemed to belong in a storybook.

Sera swallowed hard, trying to stifle her feelings, and looked down at her own reflection in the long mirror to her left.

The pale-blue gown billowed gracefully around her.

Every pin and stitch made her more of Miss Seraphina and less of the girl Alex would recognize.

Who did she want to be for the rest of her life?

Her mind drifted back to Cornwall.

To him.

She could still hear his easy laughter over the rush of the tide, still see the way he’d kicked off his boots without hesitation, that lopsided grin and confidence as they strolled down the beach.

His presence had been warm and steady then, his voice rich and teasing.

She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to summon that feeling—the sun on her shoulders, the wind cradling her hair, and Alex beside her, bare feet and all.

“Miss Lyndon?” Madame Duchon’s voice pulled her back. “You’re leaning again.”

“Oh! I’m sorry!” Sera blinked, her gaze retreating from the empty street outside the window. The carriage was gone now; the figures had vanished like a dream she hadn’t quite held onto.

“We’ll need another fitting.” The modiste didn’t wait for a reply, already packing up her tools. “I shall fit your sister then too.”

Sera nodded absently. She couldn’t shake the ache in her chest. Miss Seraphina was someone these elegant strangers might recognize. But Alex? Alex would only know Sera, the girl on the beach—and worse, he might prefer her that way.

But she was both, she supposed.

Oh, why didn’t I tell him my real identity ? Why didn’t she formally introduce herself in a witty informal manner? She wanted to do so at Vauxhall; however, she had thought that might have dragged it out too long.

Across the room, her sister pulled a face and shot her an expectant look. How could she quickly get out of this engagement?

She needed to confront the prince.

Soon.

*

The instant Alex stepped off the carriage and his boots landed firmly on the cobblestones, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

It was a strange sensation, sharp and insistent, like the gaze of unseen eyes.

He adjusted his top hat, squared his shoulders, and scanned the street.

Nothing. Just the quiet sway of trees lining the lane and the occasional flicker of movement behind the thick-paned glass of the houses.

He absentmindedly reached out to help his sister off the carriage.

“You really seem odd these days,” Thea remarked, throwing him a quick glance. His sister had always been attuned to his feelings, but he wondered if she could understand him now.

I fell in love, and now I don’t feel complete without her.