Adeleine Winters - casually known as Adele, is a lady like never before.
Unlike most young women her age - raging for wealth and prestige; Adele seeks independence, and suffrage, which in society is considered merrily wishful thinking;
But Adele ha...
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"Come on Adele, it's time for the last dance."
Claire and I approach the dance floor and stand await the procession of men to be our partners.
Deep regal notes of several cellos sound, and floating from the thrones are Prince Nathaniel and my newest acquaintance, Princess Amelia.
We applaud as they glide towards the endless line of women, undoubtedly searching for whom they'd begin the most anticipated dance of the evening with.
Amelia receives first choice. She approaches a handsome man with a smile suitable to perfection and he bows deeply.
As they walk to the ballrooms center, the line of prestigious men, who remain a few respectable steps behind, follow calmly.
Prince Nathaniel's eyes roam as he continues to observe. His head is high and his jaw is delectably defi-No!
No matter how gorgeous this man is, and I will admit he is gorgeous, I will under no circumstances spiral into the likes of this pony show called a season.
I wasn't here to fawn over the Prince, and lord knows I wasn't supposed to find companionship in the princess. I am already too involved for my liking, and I had to escape, now.
There is a persistent pinching on my arm, and I gasp while a deliciously scented prince is standing before an awestruck Claire expectantly.
"Oh my god." I whisper.
"May I have this dance, Miss?" Something unfamiliar within the pits of my stomach riles at the sound of his baritone voice, tickling my chest unexpectedly.
Claire's mouth opens and then closes. Her skin flushes and she releases scattered pants as her oxygen to brain percentage noticeably lacks.
For ages, this moment in particular has been all Claire could ever discuss, and now is the time she's chosen to go dumb? I won't allow it.
My fingers snake slyly to her backside, working quickly to give her a hearty pinch that whips her back into reality with a jump.
She doesn't pause another beat as she speedily clasps his hand with her own. She smiles broadly like the natural she is, and follows his lead to the rooms center.
Atta girl!
The piano chimes, and each debutante is greeted by yet another male companion hurriedly. I'm approached by an older gentleman with an impossibly pregnant stomach. His is undeniably faux and glued sloppily. He reeks of tobacco and his yellow teeth glaze with saliva as he smiles.
