Isolde's POV
The manor did not sleep. Not truly. It breathed, through walls that creaked with secrets and corridors that whispered like reeds in the wind. I lay curled beneath unfamiliar sheets, the echoes of groans and Lucien's knowing smile still clinging to me.
But morning came like a slap.
The door burst open without warning.
"Up."
I shot upright, clutching the blanket to my chest just as the heavy curtains were flung open. Light streamed in, harsh and gold.
Lady Marguerite stood framed against it, sharp as ever in her deep plum gown, a figure of imperious order.
"You will not linger in bed like some lazy farm girl. This is Ravenshade, not your father's country manor."
I sat up, dazed, one hand shielding my eyes. "It's barely dawn…"
"All the more reason to start. Get up." Her tone brooked no refusal. "Your welcome ball is in three days, and you are far from ready."
"So I'm going to be teaching you the basic etiquette for the ball. We'll continue after the ball." She added.
Before I could reply, she clapped her hands. Two maids entered, armed with garments, a basin of steaming water, and determined expressions. The bedcovers were whipped away as though I were livestock.
"Honestly," Lady Marguerite muttered, "lying about in daylight like some farm wench. You are to be dressed, corseted, and taught to stand properly before midday. There is a ball in your honor this evening. If you fall over trying to curtsy, we'll all be shamed."
"I can curtsy," I muttered under my breath.
"We'll see."
The maids stripped away my nightclothes and lowered me into the bath before I had the sense to protest. My skin flared under the hot water, and Lady Marguerite watched like a hawk as they scrubbed and poured lavender-scented water over my hair.
Then came the dresses.
Racks were wheeled in, silks, velvets, satins in shades I'd never touched before. Sapphire, crimson, ivory. Gowns with embroidered sleeves and glittering necklines, bodices stiff with whalebone and trimmed in lace.
"Too pale," Lady Marguerite said, waving off one with a flick of her wrist. "Too girlish. Too provincial. That one makes her look like a governess. Gods, no yellow. Does she look jaundiced to you?"
The maids didn't dare answer.
Then she turned to me, arms crossed. "Stand up straight."
I did. Or tried to. The corset, dear gods, the corset was already half-tightened, and the maid behind me gave a fresh tug.
I wheezed.
"Breathe through your ribs," Lady Marguerite said as if it were simple. "You'll be wearing it until midnight, so you'd best make peace with it."
Dress after dress was draped over me and cast off again. Some made me look older. Others buried me in ruffles or made my arms look too thin.
At last, a gown of midnight blue was held up. The fabric shimmered like ink under candlelight, the sleeves falling just off the shoulders, the waist cinched brutally tight. The bodice was stitched with threads of silver, catching the light like stars.
Lady Marguerite raised an eyebrow. "That one."
I stared at myself in the long mirror as they fastened the final pins. I barely recognized the girl staring back.
She looked like a noblewoman.
She looked like someone else.
Lady Marguerite stepped behind me, her voice softer, but no less firm. "You'll walk into that ballroom tonight as a Duke's bride. So hold your chin high, and whatever you feel, swallow it."
I nodded once, breath shallow beneath the corset.
Because I had no choice.
*******
TRAINING, HOUR ONE: The Noble Curtsy.
We stood in the drawing room. Mirrors lined the walls, every angle exposed. Lady Marguerite stood opposite me like a hawk, her walking stick tapping the floor.
"Begin."
I attempted a curtsy. It felt… fine.
"Wrong," she barked. "Too fast. Again."
I tried again. Slower.
"Still wrong. Are your ankles made of rope?"
She strode over and kicked my left foot. Not hard, but enough. "Heel behind the other.
Ankles crossed. Spine tall. Chin elevated, you are not begging, you are greeting."
I swallowed and tried again.
My knees wobbled.
"Balance! A lady doesn't sway like a sapling."
Over and over I curtsied. My legs began to tremble. My back burned.
On the sixth attempt, I stumbled completely. She caught me by the wrist.
"Sorry…"
"Stop apologizing," she snapped before I could even speak. "Apologies are for servants. You smile. You recover. You make your mistake look intentional."
I nodded, blinking back tears.
"And smile gently. You are not a child being given a sweet."
******
TEAINING, HOUR TWO: The Tea Ritual
The tea service had been laid out as if for royalty.
"Sit."
I sat.
"Back straight. Hands on lap. Ankles crossed. Wrists visible, but not limp."
I reached for the teacup. My hand trembled.
Lady Marguerite pounced. "The handle, Isolde, not the bowl. You're not drinking broth."
I corrected, lifted, but the saucer tilted. The cup clattered back onto the plate, splashing tea.
Her expression barely changed. "If you do that in public, smile as though it were the highlight of your day. Then faint. Gracefully."
I tried again. This time I managed the cup and saucer. I sipped.
"Better. But do not slurp. Do not gulp. And for the gods' sake, stop holding it like a weapon."
By the fourth cup, I could lift, sip, and lower without shaking.
"Now speak," she said.
I blinked. "Pardon?"
"You will never just drink tea. You must converse. Smile. Nod. Ask about his hunting dogs. Laugh softly when he makes a dull observation. Try."
"About hunting?" I hesitated. "But I don't know anything about…"
She cut me off. "You don't need to know, you need to pretend. Practice."
I forced a smile. "Oh, how, how clever, my lord. A pheasant flew straight into your arrow? What are the odds?"
Lady Marguerite blinked once.
"That… will do."
*******
TRAINING, HOUR THREE: Dining Etiquette and Conversational Defense
The next room held a mock dining table set with every piece of silver known to man. Ten forks. Fifteen spoons. Utensils shaped like riddles.
"Sit."
I did, corset groaning with the motion.
"Bread?" she prompted.
I reached for the roll and took a bite.
She slapped her cane on the table.
"Tear the bread. One piece at a time. We are not wolves!"
I blushed furiously, tearing off a corner.
"Now butter it. Small movements. No scraping. No digging. And never lick your fingers."
I worked slowly, hands sweating.
"Water?" she said next.
I reached with the wrong hand.
"Wrong. Your glass is always to your right. Wine to your upper right. You never clink glasses unless prompted. You never toast unless higher rank initiates. And you never, ever speak with food in your mouth."
I nodded, chewing in misery.
Later, she quizzed me on noble lineages, proper greetings for foreign dignitaries, how to excuse oneself to the ladies' room, how to ask for seconds without seeming greedy, and how to signal disapproval with a single raised brow.
By the end of it, my feet were numb. My shoulders ached. And my throat was sore from pretending to laugh at things I hadn't heard.
The days blurred into one another, carved into strict blocks of instruction, correction, and exhaustion.
From the moment Lady Marguerite tore open the curtains each morning, her voice sharp as frost, "Up. You are no longer a child or a commoner." Isolde's life became one of performance. Her body ached before she'd even lifted her head from the pillow, knowing what awaited.
Breakfast was formal: upright posture, elbows in, chin slightly lifted. Tea was to be poured from the left, spoon swirled gently without noise, pinky never extended. Lady Marguerite corrected her silently now, with a glance or raised brow, yet somehow that stung more than scolding.
"You hold the cup like it's a weapon," she murmured once. "Grace, Isolde. Grace."
After tea came the walk, measured laps around the gardens with a stack of books balanced on her head. Every step monitored. Every misstep noted.
By midday, they moved to the hall where the real torment began: the gowns.
Each day brought another dress: damask, velvet, brocade, each heavier than the last. Dozens of hands laced my corset until my ribs creaked and my spine ached. I couldn't breathe, couldn't bend, couldn't even sit without being posed.
"Beauty is not comfort," Lady Marguerite declared, tugging the laces tighter. "It is discipline."
I heard the maids whisper behind their hands, too thin, too pale, too common. I bit my tongue raw trying not to flinch.
Afternoons were for etiquette, where to look, how to curtsy, when to speak. I learned the order of precedence, the insignias of noble houses, the names of people I'd never met but would be expected to charm.
"Smile, but not too wide," Lady Marguerite snapped as I practiced in front of the mirror. "You're not a tavern girl."
Evenings were the worst. Dance training. I tripped on my own skirts more times than I could count. My slippers rubbed blisters raw. My shoulders burned from being forced back straight.
"You'll look like a broken marionette if you hunch like that," the instructor barked.
I wanted to scream. To cry. To run. But I didn't.
Because somewhere in this same estate, hidden behind closed doors and shadows, was the man who would soon call me wife. A man I hadn't yet seen. A man who watched from behind curtains, or perhaps not at all.
And with every day, the pressure grew.
The ball loomed.
The whispers about my past. My worth. My beauty, or lack thereof.
I wasn't meant for this world, not really.
But at the end of each day, when the corset was finally loosened and I could breathe again, I stared at my reflection and made myself believe it.
You will not break, you will survive it.
Even if the gowns smother me. Even if the dances make me stumble. Even if no one in this place ever truly welcomes me.
********
The Final Training Day – Isolde's POV
The sky was iron-grey above us, the wind sharp against my cheeks, but Lady Marguerite insisted: "If you can dance in the cold, you can dance in a ballroom." And so we did.
Every step, every turn, every breath taken with posture and poise.
My muscles ached. My ribs protested under the tight embrace of my corset, cinched tighter today than ever. Sweat cooled too quickly on my back. I hadn't eaten properly since morning.
I was paired with a steward, kind but clumsy, always a half beat behind. His nervousness made me stiff and self-conscious.
Each missed step felt like a small failure, but Lady Marguerite's sharp eyes missed nothing. "Again," she ordered, voice sharp as ice.
"More lift in your spine. You are not a sack of flour." I swallowed and forced a smile at the steward, who flushed and bowed apologetically.
Then Lady Marguerite froze, eyes narrowing toward the far end of the courtyard. "Well, well," she said dryly. "Ravenshade's shadows do have ears." Following her gaze, I nearly stumbled over my own feet.
Leaning against a stone pillar was Lucien, arms crossed, watching us with that smirk I'd come to recognize.
He wore his usual air of smug amusement, like the whole scene was his private entertainment. His dark hair curled against his collar in the cold.
"Lucien," Lady Marguerite called out, voice cool and commanding, "If you're so invested in your future Duchess's progress, you may do more than lurk." Lucien pushed off the pillar with an exaggerated sigh, as if she'd just ordered him to clean stables.
"I was merely passing through."
"Nonsense," she snapped. "You've been standing there for ten minutes."
He looked at me, then back at her. "She's doing fine."
"She needs a real partner. Someone who knows the steps. Not a half-blind steward."
The poor steward flushed, bowed hastily, and slipped away as Lady Marguerite's eyes bore into me like daggers.
I wanted to disappear.
Lucien strolled forward slowly, enjoying the moment.
"You know I haven't danced in years."
"I'm sure your legs remember," Marguerite said.
"Or perhaps you'd like to explain to the Duke why his wife stumbled during their first waltz?"
He extended his hand to me with exaggerated grace. "Lady Isolde?" I hesitated.
Lady Marguerite's gaze said no escape. Reluctantly, I placed my gloved hand in his, leather cool against my skin.
His fingers closed over mine, steady, strong, practiced.
The music began. We moved. Immediately I knew: Lucien had danced this dance a hundred times.
The steps flowed from him like breath. Compared to him, I was wooden, stumbling, nearly colliding with him.
"Relax," he murmured close to my ear. "I don't bite."
"You smirk too much."
"I've been told it's charming." I glared at his shoulder.
"Your aunt terrifies me."
"Good," he said. "She terrifies me too."
I stumbled on the next pivot and nearly stepped on his boot.
"Sorry."
"Stop thinking," he murmured. "Let me lead." I exhaled shakily and obeyed.
Then, for a moment, everything clicked, the cold disappeared, the ache in my shoulders melted away, and I was simply dancing, lifted and spun and caught with effortless grace.
We turned again, and his hand lingered a second too long at my waist before the music ended.
"Better," Lady Marguerite declared. "We'll see if it holds tomorrow." Lucien bowed with a smile, "As always, Aunt."
He started to leave but glanced back once, a quieter, unsettling smile lingering on his lips.
I stood in the courtyard, heart pounding, breath clouding in the cold air, his gaze still lingering like a touch on my skin. Tomorrow was the ball.
And suddenly, I wasn't sure what frightened me more, my new husband… Or Lucien.