As soon as he capped eyes on his only child, his features brightened, and that warm cheer never failed to delight Fiona. Her Papa, the Duke of Wakehurst, stepped inside the dressing chamber wearing his dapper garb and regal medallions. “Merci,” she retuned in a flat tone, for she was always being praised as “magnifique” or “belle” or “charmant” by her servant, and while the complements had charmed her in the past, they seemed rather mundane now.
Her french maid clasped her hands at the reflection. Her shimmering, peach stain gown with a tier of delicate lace complimented her fair complexation, rosy lips and dark sable curls.
Lady Fiona twirled in front of the full-length mirror.
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