CHAPTER 42

A line of carriages formed outside the Magistrate Alcott's grand country manor, illuminated by tall torch stands. Laughter and music spilled from the open doors, a stark contrast to Vivienne's twisting anxiety. She sat beside Lucien in his polished black coach, her gloved hands clasped in her lap.

Lucien glanced her way, offering a faint reassuring nod. She forced a smile in return, recalling how countless times before she'd attended lavish events with him at her side—and how different it felt now, without the guise of illusions.

They disembarked, footmen bowing as they entered the bustling foyer. Clusters of well-dressed nobles sipped wine, exchanging gossip. Almost at once, curious eyes turned to the Duke of Belfoire and the woman on his arm. Whispers rippled: "She remained, then." "Was she a traitor or a heroine?"

Vivienne's cheeks heated. Lucien drew her closer with a subtle motion, announcing their arrival to the magistrate, who greeted them with exaggerated politeness. Lord Alcott, a rotund man with a waxed mustache, ushered them into a spacious ballroom. Candlelight reflected off gilded walls and mirrored panels, illuminating swirling dancers.

As they moved through the crowd, acquaintances approached, some congratulating Lucien on overcoming "unfortunate rumors," others discreetly probing about Nathaniel's fate. Lucien navigated it all with cool composure, fielding compliments and sidestepping prying questions.

Vivienne stayed near, letting him set the tone. The weight of scrutiny pressed on her, but she maintained a poised smile. This is progress, she told herself. A chance to stand openly at Lucien's side, even if the tender closeness they once shared felt distant.

Midway through the evening, Magistrate Alcott signaled for a waltz to begin. Lucien turned to Vivienne, offering a hand. "Shall we?"

Her heart fluttered. "Yes." She placed her hand in his, recalling the many dances before, some filled with blossoming love, others overshadowed by deceit. Could a new step be forged?

They glided onto the marble floor. The orchestra launched into a graceful melody, couples spinning under the chandelier's glow. Lucien guided Vivienne into the dance. At first, stiff formality stifled them, each wary of intruding on the other's space. But as the waltz swelled, muscle memory took over. They moved in sync, corners of their gowns and coats brushing in perfect time.

Quiet overcame her as she gazed up at his face—tense, guarded, yet longing flickered in his eyes. His hand at her waist tightened fractionally, drawing her closer. She inhaled the subtle cedar of his cologne, memories rushing back: the first time they danced at a country ball, the nights in Belfoire's garden under starlight. Despite everything, a spark of emotion stirred.

Halfway through the waltz, he bent his head, voice low. "Everyone's watching," he murmured near her ear. "But they can't hear us. Are you all right?"

She nodded, heart pounding. "Yes, though I feel their stares."

He exhaled softly. "Let them stare. I'd rather they see we stand together than keep whispering behind closed doors."

A fragile hope blossomed in her chest. "Then…we truly stand together?"

His gaze flicked down to her lips. "In matters of public unity, yes." She sensed the unspoken coda: In matters of the heart, we're still healing. But for now, it was enough.

They completed the waltz with measured grace, ignoring the hush that fell among the onlookers. When the music ended, a polite smattering of applause echoed. Vivienne's cheeks flushed. Lucien escorted her off the dance floor, muttering thanks to the magistrate who praised their "elegant display."

As the evening wore on, rumors subdued somewhat, replaced by a tentative acceptance that the Duke's companion had not fled—and that their alliance, however strained, stood intact. Vivienne felt a flicker of accomplishment. This was the first step in rebuilding public trust for Lucien—and perhaps a step toward mending their personal bond.

Near midnight, they departed, riding home in silence. In the carriage's dim lantern light, Vivienne cast a glance at Lucien. He stared out the window, lost in thought. She reached across the short distance, tentatively resting a hand over his. He stiffened slightly, then let out a shaky breath.

"Thank you," he said, voice hushed, eyes still on the night sky. "For being there tonight. I…didn't realize how much I needed that show of solidarity."

A small knot of warmth bloomed in her chest. "I'm glad." She squeezed his hand gently.

Their fingers remained linked the rest of the ride, no further words exchanged, but a quiet sense of progress settling between them. Once at Belfoire, he walked her to her chamber door, pausing as if searching for something to say. In the end, he merely bowed slightly, leaving her with a lingering farewell that felt more intimate than any speech could have managed.

Behind the closed door, Vivienne's heart pounded. Perhaps, she thought, there is a path for us, if we tread carefully. She pressed a hand to her chest, recalling the memory of Julian's face, his own longing unfulfilled. Emotions tangled anew, but a new glimmer of hope steadied her. One step at a time, indeed.