The tea party was in full swing. Lace parasols. Overpriced pastries. Too many corsets and not enough sincerity.
Seraphina sat at the head of the garden table like a woman who'd just inherited a kingdom and was debating whether or not to burn it down.
To her right: Lucien, perfectly silent, holding a teacup like it had personally offended him.
To her left: Rhys, wearing his third-best shirt and a facial expression that screamed "I will stab someone with this cake fork."
In her lap: Snobberly. Sprawled. Judging everyone.
Across from her sat Lady Ilsabeth Mournwell, a walking headache in floral lace and weaponized gossip. She had invited Seraphina as a "gesture of goodwill," which, in noble terms, meant "I want to see if you'll humiliate yourself publicly so I can mock you at dinner parties."
"I hear," Ilsabeth said sweetly, "that you've acquired some rather... exotic staff."
Seraphina stirred her tea. "I'm investing in versatility. Efficiency is sexy, don't you think?"
Ilsabeth's left eyelid twitched.
And then came the kicker. The thin envelope, placed oh-so-casually on the table by one of her simpering attendants.
"A formal challenge," she said, feigning innocence. "For your honor."
Seraphina opened the letter. Read it. Sipped her tea again.
Rhys leaned in. "What does it say?"
"Apparently," she said, "I'm to defend my 'virtue and station' via duel."
Lucien's face twitched. That meant he was almost shouting internally.
"A duel?" Rhys scoffed. "With you?"
Seraphina nodded once. "Tomorrow morning. First blood."
"And you're going?"
She looked at him like he'd just asked if water was wet. "Of course I'm going. I'm bringing snacks."