[Rynthall Estate—Morning, Five Days Before The Wedding]
There are many sounds that mark the beginning of a perfect morning.
Birdsong. Gentle rustling of silk curtains. A lover's whisper.
And then there's Marcel.
"MY LORD! YOUR GRACE! THE WORLD IS ON FIRE—AND WE ARE SEVEN LINENS SHORT!"
The heavy doors of the Rynthall estate flung open like the dramatic curtains of a third-act tragedy. And in bursts Marcel—Lucien's personal butler, former opera understudy, self-proclaimed aesthetic dictator, and full-time chaos incarnate.
His coat swirled behind him like storm clouds. His gloves were off. His sleeves were rolled.
Lucien blinked from the fainting couch, still wrapped in a throw blanket with a cookie in his mouth. "…What now?"
Marcel stormed into the room with all the grace of a collapsing chandelier. "I have just been informed—by the traitorous staff of the west wing—that the ivory lilies we requested for the ceremony have been replaced with daisies. Daisies, my lord."
