There were clusters of pillar candles, white orchids that looked like they’d grown there by accident, and a string quartet playing period pieces Lizanne recognized from her own show. Every detail was sharp—the wax seals on the menu cards, the bunches of dried lavender, the calligraphy that looked like it had been hand-inked by someone who cared.
Rose hadn’t cut corners. She had built a Regency fever dream in the middle of California.
Dana Maloney caught up with Lizanne near the terrace entrance, a glass already in hand.
“It’s remarkable,” Dana said. She played Lizanne’s daughter onGilden Duchesswith a commitment that sometimes made Lizanne feel genuinely maternal—an unsettling feeling, considering Dana was barely ten years her junior. “The muslin on the chairs is actually period-accurate. And where on earth did she find white peonies in October?”
“I’ve learned to stop asking,” Lizanne said. “She just makes things happen.”
“The cake,” Dana said, gesturing toward the display. “Please tell me that isn’t a real Regency cake. Those things are—”
“There’s a traditional one and a regular one,” Rose said. “The traditional one is for the cameras and anyone who wants the authentic experience.”
“What’s in it?” Dana asked.
“Suet. Dried fruit. Enough brandy to concern a doctor.”
Dana’s face contracted and she shuddered, her blonde hair wafting in the air. “And the other one?”
“That one’s for eating.”
“Flavor?”
Rose’s mouth twitched. “It’s a surprise….”
Lizanne looked at her. “We agreed that anything was fine as long as it wasn’t lemon.”
“We did agree on that,” Rose said, her voice smooth as silk.
The cake cutting happened at nine, while the light was still holding for the crew. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, hands overlapping on the knife, while the cameras circled like sharks. Rose was close enough that Lizanne could smell her—something floral and warm that didn’t come from a bottle. It was an awareness that hit Lizanne in the center of her chest before she could build a defense against it.
They cut the cake. The crowd cheered. Someone in the back was clearly three glasses of champagne ahead of everyone else and whooped. Rose plated two slices and handed one to Lizanne.
“If you put that cake in my face,” Lizanne said, smiling for the cameras, “there will be consequences.”
“I would never,” Rose said. “I’ve always hated that. It’s food. It’s meant to be enjoyed.”
Lizanne looked at her and thought:This is real. Or at least I want it to be.
She took a bite.
The lemon hit her right in the taste buds—sharp, sour, and unmistakable. She held her expression through sheer, professional grit. She had twenty years of acting experience behind her; she wasn’t going to give Rose the satisfaction of a flinch while the red light was on.
She took a second bite.
“Delicious,” she told the room, smiling broadly while the citrus made her molars ache.
Rose leaned in, her voice a low murmur meant only for Lizanne’s ear. “You forced me into this show,” she said. “Eating a piece of lemon cake is the absolute least you can do.”
Lizanne swallowed the cake with as much dignity as she could muster and said nothing. Rose smiled, satisfied and amused. There was no malice in this.
As far as pranks went, it was actually pretty damn hilarious.
The waltz was also Rose’s idea. Regency-appropriate. The quartet had been briefed and the guests formed a loose ring around the floor. Lizanne put her hand at Rose’s waist and Rose’s hand went to her shoulder. They found the beat withintwo bars—Rose could dance, a fact Lizanne added to her mental ledger.
Lizanne’s focus narrowed until the only thing in the world was the woman in her arms. She was aware of her hand on Rose’s waist in a way that had nothing to do with the steps; she wanted to pull her closer, to close the gap. Rose seemed to have the same idea. Her hand on Lizanne’s shoulder shifted from a formal grip to a flat, warm palm against the silk of Lizanne’s dress.
They turned. Rose’s fingers pressed in, just slightly.
