The governess, Countess Eliza Beaumont entered the annex parlor with effortless poise and offered a deep bow.
Serena stood still for a moment, caught off guard. A strange unease settled in her chest.
She's so much older than me… yet she has to bow because of my title? It didn't feel right.
"You don't have to be so formal," Serena said gently.
Eliza straightened and smiled politely. "As long as you are the Dowager Duchess, etiquette demands it."
Her voice was light, but the message was firm. She stepped forward with quiet assurance.
"I'll be instructing you, Your Grace. We'll start with everything you'll need to present yourself properly at the imperial banquet."
Serena returned the smile, this time more naturally. "Thank you, Countess. I'll be in your care."
Soon, the parlor was filled with the soft sounds of instruction: steps measured across the floor, the occasional rustle of skirts, and Eliza's steady, patient voice.
"Keep your shoulders relaxed. That's right—chin up, but not too much. Yes, like that."
Serena followed diligently, correcting her posture, refining her movements, and repeating gestures that had once seemed foreign. She stumbled at times, but there was a natural grace in the way she moved—something unpolished, yet captivating.
Eliza watched her carefully, her tone always calm and encouraging. As the lesson continued, a quiet thought surfaced in the countess's mind.
She's beautiful.
Serena's radiant pink hair caught the sunlight filtering through the windows, casting a gentle glow around her. Her pink eyes, carried both softness and intelligence. She had never stepped into the glamorous world of nobles, never waltzed under chandeliers or whispered behind fans—yet she moved with a dignity that couldn't be taught.
She's not just elegant. She's… different.
Eliza corrected her again, this time with a gentle touch to Serena's wrist. "The angle—just a little more inward."
Serena adjusted, giving a small nod.
Though they were teacher and student in that moment, something unspoken passed between them—respect, perhaps, or quiet curiosity.
And in the soft stillness of the afternoon light, the Countess couldn't help but think:
The duchess… is not what I expected at all.
Days blurred together in a haze of curtsies, corrected posture, and endless corrections. Serena had never imagined the life of a noblewoman could be this exhausting. Every detail, from the angle of her fingers to the arch of her foot during a bow, was a lesson in precision.
She barely had time to rest between etiquette, dancing, and social rules—all of which she had to master in a matter of days.
On this particular afternoon, she stood in the annex's drawing room, slowly repeating a set of dance movements Eliza had shown her. Her limbs ached slightly, and her balance wavered as she tried to mimic the graceful steps.
Across from her, Countess Eliza maintained her usual composed expression—but Serena noticed something. A subtle trembling in her hands, a slight wince as she stepped forward.
"Countess," Serena said, her voice soft but firm, "why don't you take a seat?"
Eliza hesitated, her back still straight. "I'm fine," she replied quickly.
Serena offered a gentle smile. "You don't have to act tough, you know. Even instructors need to rest."
For a moment, Eliza looked surprised—caught off guard by the concern in Serena's voice. Then, her expression softened, and she allowed herself a small, tired smile.
"…Thank you, Your Grace."
She walked over to the nearby chaise and sat down slowly, exhaling as if she had been holding her breath for hours.
Serena approached and sat beside her, not in the rigid posture Eliza had taught her, but comfortably, as if simply two women were having a moment to breathe.
"You work harder than anyone I've met," Serena said.
Eliza chuckled lightly. "You're one to talk. Most ladies can't memorize a dance pattern in two days. You're doing far better than I expected."
There was a brief silence, not awkward, but companionable. The afternoon sun filtered through the window, casting golden light across the room, and for a moment, there was no duchess or countess—just Serena and Eliza, tired and human.
"You know," Eliza said quietly, "I think the nobility could learn a lot from someone like you."
Serena blinked at her, surprised.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you don't pretend. You don't hide behind formality. That's rare here."
Serena smiled, touched, but said nothing.
Because what could she say? That she had never belonged to this world, and maybe never would?
Still, it felt nice—this moment of truth shared in the quiet between lessons.