The Grand Ballroom of the Hamilton estate had been transformed.
Four hundred candles—just as Rowan had begrudgingly paid for—flickered in the crystal chandeliers, casting a warm, golden glow over the room. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, sweet wines, and the thousands of white lilies that adorned every surface.
The reception was in full swing.
Servants moved through the crowd like silent shadows, refilling glasses of champagne before they were even empty. Laughter bubbled up from every corner. The guests were relaxed, fed, and happy. Even Uncle Silas was smiling, holding a glass of the expensive claret he had insisted upon.
In the center of the room, the orchestra struck up a new song. It was a waltz—slow, romantic, and sweeping.
Carcel turned to Ines. He bowed low, extending his hand.
"May I have this dance, Your Grace?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of mischief and reverence.
Ines laughed. The title still sounded new and strange to her ears.
