CHAPTER 48

The long-anticipated day arrived. Belfoire's ballroom sparkled with fresh garlands, crystal chandeliers, and polished parquet floors. Staff hurried to finalize the lavish buffet, arrange candlelit corridors, and direct the arriving musicians. Hours before the ball's official start, carriages began to roll up, delivering guests who wanted to settle in the manor's spare rooms or explore the gardens.

Vivienne dressed with Madame Bernadette's help in a breathtaking gown of silvery-blue satin, embroidered with subtle hawk motifs—a poignant nod to the Hawke lineage, yet reimagined as something proud rather than treacherous. The corset hugged her waist, the skirt flared elegantly, and off-the-shoulder sleeves framed her graceful neck. At the mirror, she barely recognized herself—a refined hostess, not the uncertain infiltrator of old.

Downstairs, Lucien awaited in the foyer, resplendent in a tailored coat of midnight-blue velvet. When Vivienne descended, his breath caught. For a moment, admiration shone unguarded in his eyes. She curtsied, heart fluttering at the memory of how he once openly praised her beauty. Now, the praise lingered only in his parted lips, unspoken.

Guests streamed in, exclaiming at the transformed estate. The rumor mill churned: "Isn't this the Duke's triumphant return to society?" "Yes, and Lady Vivienne is co-hosting. So the scandal was false, or they've reconciled." Vivienne greeted each visitor with a gracious smile, ignoring the tremor in her hands.

As dusk settled, the grand ballroom filled with elegantly dressed nobles. The orchestra tuned instruments in a corner. Julian appeared among the throng, wearing a sleek black tailcoat that accentuated his lean frame. Vivienne spotted him across the crowd, her pulse accelerating. He offered a small bow, lips curving in a gentle smile that spoke volumes. She inclined her head, returning the silent greeting.

Meanwhile, Lucien maneuvered around the guests, exchanging pleasantries. He approached Vivienne, who had just finished welcoming a baroness, and murmured near her ear, "You look radiant. Thank you for…all of this."

She blushed at the genuine warmth in his tone. "I only hope it cements the estate's renewed reputation—and perhaps brings us some measure of peace." Her gaze flicked to Julian, who conversed politely with a marquess. Lucien followed her line of sight, tension flicking in his jaw. But he exhaled and placed a light hand on Vivienne's arm.

"Shall we open the dancing, hostess?" he asked, forcibly cordial. She nodded, letting him lead her to the center of the floor. The musicians struck the opening notes of a stately waltz, and the assembled crowd paused, eager to observe the hostess's first dance with the Duke.

They began, swirling under the chandelier's glow. Whispers circulated: "Do you see their unity? Perhaps love truly overcame the scandal." Vivienne tried to ignore the talk, focusing on the familiar synergy of dancing with Lucien. He guided her fluidly, gaze locked on hers. A fleeting sadness haunted his eyes, but also a yearning she recognized all too well.

At the dance's midpoint, Lucien dipped her gracefully, then drew her upright. Applause rose. She caught sight of Julian near the perimeter, watching them with an inscrutable expression. Her heart squeezed. In that moment, she felt torn in two, wanting to share this dance with Julian as well, yet bound by a sense of loyalty to Lucien who had reclaimed her side in public.

When the waltz concluded, Lucien escorted her to the edge of the floor. They parted with a fleeting, stiff courtesy as other couples stepped in. Vivienne's pulse still raced, uncertain how she'd survive the night with her emotions so raw.

Soon, Julian approached, offering a bow. "Might I request the next dance, my lady hostess?" he asked quietly, a touch of wry formality. She hesitated, scanning the crowd. Lucien was engaged in conversation across the ballroom, likely noticing. She swallowed. "Yes. Please."

They moved onto the floor for a less formal quadrille. Vivienne caught glimpses of onlookers gawking at them, tongues wagging: "Is that not the rumored War Office agent? She's dancing with him, too?" She steeled herself. Let them talk.

As they stepped through the patterned moves, changing partners briefly and returning, Julian's gentle gaze met hers. "Thank you for inviting me," he murmured as their hands rejoined. "I feared Lucien might banish me on sight."

She forced a small smile. "He's trying to accept your presence, for my sake, I think. For the sake of…whatever we might discover."

His fingers tightened softly around hers. "I hope this is a step toward honest resolution, even if it's painful. Seeing you in that gown—like a dream made real."

Warmth flushed her cheeks. She had no reply, only her heart hammering at the sincerity in his words. When the dance ended, they bowed politely. Vivienne curtsied, an ache tugging within as she caught Lucien's distant silhouette, stiff with tension.

And so the ball continued—a swirl of dances, polite chatter, and underlying tension crackling whenever guests saw Vivienne spend a dance with Lucien, then a conversation with Julian. Some speculated about a triangle, others whispered that the Duke displayed remarkable magnanimity. Through it all, Vivienne tried to keep the event running smoothly, her forced calm masking the tumult in her soul.

Late in the evening, as the orchestra struck a final romantic waltz, the floor cleared for those who still wished to dance. Vivienne found herself torn—should she waltz with Lucien again and seal the night's display of unity? Or should she accept Julian's silent plea from across the room, offering an alternative path?

The eyes of the ball bored into her. Her heart pounded. She sensed this waltz might define the narrative that soared from tonight's event. Which choice to make?

In a rush of adrenaline, she stepped forward onto the dance floor alone, scanning for the man whose arms she truly wanted. Lucien or Julian? They both hovered at opposite edges. Her chest tightened. The tension soared. She half-lifted a hand…

Cliffhanger: The final waltz beckoned her, and in that charged moment, she had to choose. Two men, two futures. Applause spattered as the crowd waited for the hostess to pick her partner. Sweat beaded at the back of her neck. Who would she dance with in front of them all?