The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 53: Before the Ball

Lady Elyria’s study room always smelled of dried rose petals and ink. The scent clung to the carved wood panels, to the pages of ancient Montclair ledgers. And now, it clung to Marcella’s skin as she sat opposite the former duchess, trying not to visibly flinch with every flick of Elyria’s fan.

Tap. Snap. Flick.

That damn fan.

"Tomorrow night, we are hosting a ball at Ashenholt Duchy." Elyria drawled, voice smooth and unmoved by the tension she knew she was provoking. "A Flameball in honor of the sanctity of your union."

Marcella blinked. "A... ball?" The words scraped out, thin and uncertain. Her throat burned with the sudden dryness of dread.

Elyria’s chin dipped the barest fraction, an acknowledgment cloaked in finality. "It has already been announced. Invitations sent. The entire northern court will attend."

Marcella’s pulse kicked up. The ball night. She remembered it from her last life and it had not been a celebration.

"It’s..." Marcella began carefully, the diplomat in her scrambled to find footing, "remarkably short notice."

"Exactly," Elyria replied, her smile subtle and sharp. "Nothing stirs the nobility like a little urgency and rumor. Consider it... strategic."

Marcella’s stomach dropped before the next words even arrived.

"Cardenia will be in attendance too," Elyria added, the statement dropping like a stone into waters. "Your father, mother, your sister Rachel, Lord Anthony, Crown Prince along with the King and the Queen."

Her fingers curled into the velvet of her gown, the fabric bunched and wrinkled beneath her grasp.

"Your union with House Montclair must appear flawless," Elyria said, her fan snapped open again. "You will present yourself as the perfect duchess."

Marcella raised a brow. "That’s a tall order for fiction."

Elyria’s fan stopped mid-snap. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. "Then act better because tomorrow night, you are the embodiment of House Montclair’s triumph." Her smile widened, cold as winter rain. "And if you fail to convince them... they will begin to ask questions."

Marcella tilted her head. "And if they ask?"

"Then they’ll start to look and when people start looking at Montclairs for too long, they either join us..or they disappear."

The silence that followed rang louder than any scream.

Tap.

The fan resumed its merciless tempo.

"The seamstress will arrive shortly," Elyria said, her tone once again airily casual. "You’ll need new measurements. We want the gown to fit flawlessly, after all."

Marcella swallowed. The taste of iron coated her tongue.

"Of course... Mother."

******

Marcella stood in the center of the fitting salon. Her breath moved in shallow currents, barely disturbing the silk dressing gown clinging to her figure. Around her, the chattering assistants, rustling fabrics, the click of scissors and pins, unfurled like banners before a war.

The door opened, and Madame Rivelin stepped in. The seamstress to House Montclair was a legend draped in charcoal silks.

"Your Grace," Rivelin greeted. "We will begin immediately. The Former Duchess Elyria has requested a gown that will... command obedience."

Marcella’s lips lifted at the edges. "Then I hope it also allows me to breathe."

Madame didn’t smile. She simply motioned, and the apprentices started their work.

Hands tugged, fabric wrapped, pins hovered.

Marcella didn’t flinch as cold metal grazed her skin. She stared past her reflection in the gilded mirror, into the past.

This dress. This moment.

In her past life, the gown they made her for the Flame ball had been sewn to humiliate her. The seams was weakened, the corset stitched too tight, the hem unweighted so it tripped and twisted.

Marcella had smiled through it, she had bled in her shoes.

Not this time.

"Add weight to the hem," Marcella ordered.

A young apprentice blinked. "My lady?"

"The ballroom is marble. The hem will catch without weight," she replied. "A duchess shouldn’t stumble, not even once."

Madame Rivelin tilted her head. "You’ve developed quite the eye for detail."

"I’ve learned to anticipate the floor before it shifts."

The seamstress said nothing, but her gaze sharpened.

Marcella lifted her arms as instructed. Her wrists were measured, her waist encircled. She could feel the ghost of old humiliation brushing her skin like cold breath.

"Double stitch the corset and line it with steel boning. Use crimson silk beneath the velvet, it should shimmer like fire."

Madame’s brow arched. "The former duchess requested silver and black."

"And I’m requesting a crimson one," Marcella replied.

For a moment, silence ruled the room. Then, with the graceful nod of someone who knew where power resided, Madame Riveline gestured to her apprentices. "As you wish, Your Grace."

The measuring continued.

She was a duchess reborn from ruin, a girl who remembered everything and would not fall twice.

Just as the final measurement was recorded and the assistants began gathering their tools, a soft knock echoed at the threshold.

A maid stood there—nervous, wide-eyed, wringing the hem of her apron between trembling fingers. "Your Grace," she called, curtsying so quickly she nearly lost her balance. "A message. From... His Grace, the Duke."

Marcella turned slowly. "Berith?"

The maid nodded, hesitant. "He requests... that you meet him in the south garden. He would like to take a walk with you."

The apprentices froze mid-step. Even Madame Rivelin blinked.

A walk?

That wasn’t Berith’s way. The man she had married had never requested anything. He had summoned, ordered, ignored.

And yet now... he was asking for a walk? In the daylight? In a garden?

Marcella narrowed her eyes slightly, suspicion tightening her shoulders.

Her tone remained carefully neutral. "Did he say why?"

The maid shook her head quickly. "Only that it would not take long. And that... it was important."

That word again.

Important.

Marcella exhaled, glancing out the tall window toward the distant stone arch that marked the entrance to the south garden.

Something had changed in him.

Since last night as he barged into her chamber and kissed her. He had looked at her differently.

Marcella dipped her chin in graceful acknowledgment. "Very well. Prepare my cloak."

*******

The air was cool with the scent of white jasmine and earth. The gravel path crunched beneath Marcella’s heeled boots as she walked past the carved archway into the south garden.

Berith was standing by the oldest ash tree, not his usual looming silhouette of cold nobility, but a softer one. Shoulders drawn in, his hands were clasped behind him.

"You called for me?" Marcella halted a few steps away.

Berith turned. He looked at her the way one might look at a painting they didn’t realize had changed. His eyes, a stormy gray so pale they almost looked silver as they traveled over her face, her shoulders, her breath.

"Yes," Berith said, then immediately cleared his throat. "I thought... it might be good to get some air."

She raised a brow, amused despite herself. "You don’t usually call for walks in the garden. I suppose the apocalypse truly is upon us."

That almost earned a smile. Almost. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "No. I wanted to see you alone."

Marcella had never seen him hesitant, not once in her past life. Berith Montclair had been the perfect phantom—elusive, dangerous, impossibly controlled.

"How was the... measurements? Were they... alright?" Berith asked again.

Marcella blinked. "That’s an unusual concern for a man who once said ball gowns were a waste of good coin and patience.’"

He actually flushed. Flushed.

Oh gods, Berith Montclair flushing?

She tilted her head slightly. "The measurements were fine. I made some changes."

He nodded too quickly. "Good. Did you speak with my mother today?"

Marcella gave a soft snort. "Yes, she was like a snake politely reminding me about how I should behave tomorrow."

The gravel crunched underfoot as they walked deeper into the garden.

"Lovely afternoon," Berith commented like a man trying to remember what small talk was. "The sky is so clear, isn’t it?"

Marcella raised a brow. "Are you truly commenting on the weather now?"

Berith sighed. "I just.." He stopped, looking both exasperated and uncertain. "This is difficult."

"What is?"

Berith glanced at her, and there was something strange in his eyes—like a man looking for a door in a house he’s lived in all his life and never realized was locked.

"I keep thinking about things that haven’t happened. Or maybe they have." He frowned. "It sounds insane."

Marcella stopped walking.

Berith’s words lingered louder than any birdsong or rustling wind.Things that haven’t happened. Or maybe they have.

Her pulse skittered. Her head snapped to him, eyes scanning his face. "What did you just say?"

Berith looked away, his jaw tightening. "Forget it. It’s... probably just exhaustion or too much time spent in council chambers with half-mad nobles."

But she wasn’t letting it go.

"No," Marcella retorted, stepping closer. "Tell me exactly what you meant. What things?"

Berith hesitated, "I had a vision or maybe it was a memory. You were wearing a silver gown, it tore," he continued, his voice distant now, haunted. "right down the back. People laughed. You ran and I..." He faltered. "I didn’t follow you."

Her heart slammed in her chest.

That wasn’t just any incident. That was the incident of Flameball from her past life. The very one she remembered so vividly.

No one else could know that.

Unless...