Following their actions in The Golden Girl, Marguerite and Céleste must deal with the repercussions of their recent behaviors.
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Marguerite has landed herself in quite the shameful predicament, but she needs to make priorities; to somehow mainta...
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Every action after Marguerite left the Ballroom and hauled up to her room was a blur. The grumbled pacing in front of her hearth, the screaming into a pillow, the slamming of her fists on the coffee table.
Somewhere amidst her chaos, she recalled that she needed to speak to Antoine, and she dashed out of her suite, breezed down the hall, and climbed the stairs to the Royal Floor—where she froze, halfway up. Her heart thumped with such intensity she imagined the serving staff in the basement heard it.
She realized that before seeking Antoine, she had to chat with Adelaide. To pretend to be friendly, comforting, offer a shoulder, so she might figure out what she knew about her husband's potential affair. And what she planned to do now that the rumor had spread.
Marguerite was sure her breaths would give away her panic to the guards, which would make them refuse her access. But she was a Duchess, the Duchess of Torrinni, meaning she had every right to visit the Royal Floor.
But did she have a right to visit with Adelaide? To play the sympathetic friend card when she didn't have an ounce of sympathy in her soul for the woman?
On the last step, she halted again, biting her lip.
The two guards swiveled to her with a bow. "Your Grace," said one, as the other moved aside.
The road ahead was open—the vast, decorated landing with dimmed candlelight dancing on the walls, intricate paintings cluttering near doors, and lavish carpeting she remembered running on barefoot in the middle of the night.
As she inclined her head at the guards, swallowing her dread, she trod onto the carpet and breathed in the evocative smoke and peach scents that she knew Edouard had loved.
A few paces down, she peered across the way at two ornate doors she recognized as Sébastien's, and Jules' to the left. Down the corridor were more rooms, including Cordelia's, and the one she used to sleep in. She wouldn't let her intrigue draw her to it; she had to push forward, towards where Antoine and Adelaide's private quarters were.
Before she made it any farther, a force drove into her, nearly sending her crashing against the wall to her right. The motion was so swift that she didn't get a chance to catch who had caused it, nor to yell at them for not apologizing. She also had no chance to straighten up before something draped around her wrist and smuggled her into the nearby Royal Reading Room; a small but comfortable room located before the corridor leading to Antoine's room.
She stumbled inside, jamming into the burgundy couch as the door slammed behind her. "What on earth?"
After a quick glance at the black marble fireplace she'd often sat before to read, she redressed herself, flipped around—and immobilized.
Shaking out his mop of short brown curls, a navy coat trailing down to his upper thighs, the King extended a hand to help her stabilize. He seemed so casual, so unconcerned that he'd thrown her into a private room, so uncaring how he frightened her.
