[The Armoire Estate, Next Morning]
Morning light filtered through the silk curtains of the Armoire estate, soft and golden—but Lucien looked like death lightly dusted in rose powder.
He sat at the edge of his bed, robe half-draped, skin ghostly pale with a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead. His once-impeccable hair now looked like a bird had tried to nest in it. He blinked slowly, trying to remember how to breathe through the nausea twisting his stomach into knots.
Marcel burst through the door like a man who'd just heard the estate was on fire. "My lord! You didn't come down for morning tea! Are you—"
He stopped. His eyes took in Lucien's pallid complexion, the hollow under his eyes, and the sickly shade of green tinting his cheeks.
"My lord…?" Marcel's voice pitched an octave higher. "Oh dear heavens. You look like a poisoned ghost!"
Lucien groaned, cradling his forehead. "I'm fine."
