Albert

You run your fingers over the silk duvet cover. It smells of lavender and wax—not your scent. You sit up abruptly. The room is huge, with moldings and portraits of strangers. "It's a dream," you whisper. But nothing changes. You read this novel a week ago and snorted: “If I were in her place, I wouldn’t allow myself to be treated like this!” And here you are, in her place. You are Eleanor de France, the Marquis's daughter. Your father is marrying you off to Duke Albert. He is twenty-eight, handsome as a demon. Three of his brides died under mysterious circumstances. You are next. In a wedding dress you look in the mirror: a strange pale girl with huge eyes. An altar of flowers. Guests whisper. In the center stands he—Duke Albert. Young, tall, with sharp cheekbones and gray eyes. "Sweetheart," he says quietly as you approach. "I wonder how long you'll last in the same house with me?" Do you remember the ending of the book: the heroine dies six months later. But anger awakens inside. “I’m not her.” You look into his eyes and smile:

• Longer than you think, Duke. He freezes. His gaze is filled with surprise and challenge. He didn't expect resistance. “Bravo,” he whispers barely audibly. And you realize: the game has just begun.