Princess Marie, a renowned troublemaker of Paris has entered the Ton. Marriage, children and any prospect of love have always been a 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 thought. This Author can sense a love story brewing from the moment she steps off that boat.
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Marie had her hair done in the bath by Bea, who honed deep circles under her eyes and was so obviously ill from drinking too much. "I do not understand why you refuse the day off," Marie chuckled at her stubborn sisterly maid.
"It will teach me to drink less next time," Bea shook her head, drinking the tea left for her on the side. "What am I doing today?" Marie queried, whistling whilst she read through Lady Whistledown's new article. It spoke of Daphne and Simon predominantly.
"Painting in the morning room for most of the day and then your neighbours have invited you for tea," Bea told her, pulling her hair into a plait. "Please tell them I am busy, I am not dealing with that merde for a while," Bitterness obvious in Marie's tone.
"Miss Bridgerton issues her apologies and assures that he will not be present," Bea explained her, watching Marie's expression soften. "Fine. I shall meet her for afternoon tea," Marie decided, grabbing the towel next to the copper tub and standing, draining the water off herself.
"Take a nap whilst I paint for the morning, Bea, it is deserved," Marie smiled, walking to her wardrobe and staring at the intricately painted designs before opening the wooden doors.
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► Marie's hair
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► Marie's dress
Marie patted down her dress before tying her brown painting apron over it and pulling out a new canvas - many of which had been shipped over for her to use. She swirled the paint on her glass palette, placing herself in front of her paint-covered easel and setting herself on a wooden stool.
She called in her Godmother's favourite violinist, attending to the classical tunes played when she played around with colour and precision. Bea woke up a few hours later, bringing in tea and a cheese board - gifted by the Addington's.
"Ah, what a lovely family," Marie pointed out to Bea as she nibbled gracefully on a thick biscuit. Per Marie's request, Bea sat down, and the two spoke for the next few hours whilst Marie painted. Strokes of green and brown fell onto the canvas.
Bea was like a sister figure to Marie, caring for the girl informally. The pair had a special bond which no other maids and mistresses in the Ton had.
"Bea, undo me," Marie requested, gesturing to her apron and wiggling her paint-ridden hands. Bea loosened the knot on the back of Marie's apron, watching her hurry to go and scrub the paint off her hands. Marie took herself to her bathroom, using the cooled bath water which Bea had yet to get rid of, as a lukewarm base to scrub off the paint.
Bea shuffled to the front door when a knock sounded through the house, her stern eyebrows raising as Benedict Bridgerton stared back at her. She reached her full height, squaring back her shoulders. She looked up at the stairs, listening to the sweet hum Marie was singing.
"Good day, Ma'am. I'd like to see Miss Howard if that is alright?" He stepped forward but was blocked by Bea's tough figure. He stopped, his warm face unsettled. "She has declined your presence, Mr Bridgerton," Bea declared, glaring at the man who had damaged Marie's feelings.
"I must see to her," He barged his way past Bea, her petite frame no match for his strong figure. "Excuse me-" Bea shouted, but stopped when he did, waiting for him to move. She stepped in front of him angrily but Benedict was frozen. He entered the drawing-room, his whole existence in awe of her unwarranted talent.
The entire room was covered, every space on every wall plastered in canvas'. Each one hand-painted by her fingers; each one burst with passion and flavour as they presented a story.
A woman lying on the beach, a child playing with a dog, a bride running in a field from a wedding, an angel falling from the clouds - its wings turning dark.
Every painting was thought through with an image branded in his mind. He turned, seeing the stacks of paint, canvas' painted and blank filling the floor's space. A half-eaten cheese board and cups of tea were placed on a mahogany table, the only thing free of paint.
He gasped, his heart thrumming in his chest when his gaze ascended. He was swept away at the paint gracing the ceiling, every stroke a part of a giant picture which was heavenly to an artist like himself. He was speechless - as he always was once he breathed in her stupidly recognisable scent.
It infuriated him. She'd infected his mind, with ungodly thoughts. His dreams left him fatigued, never sleeping from the endless images of her. He hated her, she vexed him. And yet something about her flushed cheeks and mischievous eyes that sent his stomach tumbling in jittery nerves. Anger or desire?
"Bea, what is it?" Marie questioned, breaking him from his trance. His doe eyes observed her body, stripped in a pale blue dress that complimented her undertones. She rushed forward to the maid who stood watching him with her hands on her hips.
He gazed as her eyes fluttered to him, her oil-black eyelashes casting shadows under her eyes. Her expression went cold and distant. Mouth shut, she glared at him. "Did you paint all of these?" His voice was soft, gesturing to all the pictures, his eyes returning to the room.
"Get out of my home," Marie told him sternly, sending Bea to clean her chambers. Something stirred in her when she watched him spin in her circles to take in her art. It felt as though he was looking into a deeper part of her. "You have no right to come here after insulting not only me but my family and country," She stood her ground, her mouth stuck in a sneer.
"Oh please, you know it's true" Benedict retorted, closing his eyes in regret - he had come to apologise and had already begun another argument. She was irresistible in that way, brought him in for more.
"You are in my house, on my land. I can ruin you instantly with my connections, and the rest of your family," She stepped forward, watching him stay firmly where he was. He knew she would never do anything to hurt the rest of the Bridgerton's but her threat was enough for him to remain silent.
"Do not test me," She warned, taking another step, "I am a Princess. Treat me like one!" Her throat was raw from all the shouting she had done in the previous few days. Her mother would have had a stroke by now.
"All you have is that title. You will never rule France, your parents will forbid it," He stepped forward, his own voice raised. "You know nothing about my family, or me. I do not understand what could make you so arrogant, Mr Bridgerton," She yelled, overtaken by anger and shock when his lips graced hers.
They stayed there, their hearts beating rapidly whilst they both kissed, his hands wrapped around her waist, the rings bejewelled over his fingers catching on her dress. They stayed there, desire and hatred pouring into the connection between them. Marie pushed him away, her hand staying on his chest. He looked down at her. Her heart thumped in her chest and her pulse began to ring in her ears.
