Lizabeth
It takes every ounce of Lizabeth’s strength for her to stop gawking at herself in the looking glass.
A porcelain bird the size of her fist rests in her white curls, its feathers painted mint and gold, with emeralds in the place of eyes. Her face has been powdered the color of a pristine petticoat, with two circles of rouge on each cheek and blue lines drawn down her neck to emphasize her veins. Under her right eye sits a single beauty patch in the shape of a heart.
The face and hair are shocking enough, but her dress is something Lizabeth would never dream of owning back in England. It’s a gown of chartreuse satin, embroidered with clusters of golden flowers, each with a pearl sewn in the center. And her panniers are so wide, sitting at any time throughout the night is out of the question.
She’s seen dresses of this caliber many times before, but they were always meant for Jane to wear to balls while Lizabeth stayed locked away in her room. The dress may be intended to make her look like she belongs, but it only transforms her into what she really is—an imposter.
“I, for one, cannot tell you how pleased I am you’ve decided to stop looking so English,” Marguerite says, admiring her own reflection. At first glance, Lizabeth thought the vibrant blue and green swirls decorating Marguerite’s midnight blue stomacher were made of a special multicolored thread. It wasn’t until she got close enough to smell her rose and honey perfume, that Lizabeth realized the swirls were hundreds of tiny beetle wings.
Lizabeth busies herself by adjusting a drooping string of pearls in her hair. “What if I make an embarrassment of myself tonight? I may look the part, but—”
Marguerite smacks her hand away. “You really do drive me mad sometimes. It’s as if you haven’t given a single thought to how expensive your dress is.” She lets out a wistful sigh. “It must be wonderful to be the daughter of an earl.”
Lizabeth downcasts her eyes. There is no way she will be able to blend in tonight. Not even with her dress. She’s never been to a formal ball before and hasn’t the slightest clue what is expected of her. She is sure to ruin it all somehow. Gabriel will see through her in an instant. As will everyone else. They’ll point and laugh at her in the middle of the dance floor. She’ll become a joke. She’ll be ridiculed for the rest of her time in Versailles. She’ll—
“Liza?” Marguerite asks. “You’ll be all right. You look lovely.” She pins a fallen curl behind Lizabeth’s ear. “There. Parfait!”
Lizabeth glances up, meeting the comforting smile playing across Marguerite’s red lips, and a wave of shame crashes through her. Though she had first approached Marguerite solely to get information out of her, the girl had been ready and willing to welcome Lizabeth to court. She took Lizabeth under her wing, brushing off the judging stares like they were nothing and answering every unkind jab with a biting remark of her own.
And now, the closer the two get, the guiltier Lizabeth becomes. Not only for lying about her upbringing and her true purpose in France, but also for the twinge of affection in her chest whenever Marguerite is near—a twinge that makes Lizabeth believe perhaps their relationship has become less a shallow way to gather information, and something far more akin to friendship.
The door to Lizabeth’s apartments is thrown open, and the two girls whip their heads to where Sophie stands in the doorway, wearing a dress the color of fresh caramel. Her brown eyes sparkle, and the blush in her cheeks hints she’s already helped herself to a few glasses of wine.
“Pierre and Monsieur de la Marche are outside, waiting to escort us to the ball!” she says, turning sideways to help her dress squeeze through the door. “We must go!”
A sudden wave of nausea rolls over Lizabeth. She takes in Sophie’s excited expression, wishing she’d downed a few glasses of wine herself. Certainly, it can’t be too late to fake a sickness so she can spend the remainder of her night in bed?
Noticing her hesitation, Sophie marches across the room and takes Lizabeth's wrist. “I can assure you Monsieur de la Marche is as nervous as you are, Liza. But we simply do not have the time for this!”
Lizabeth furrows her brow, refusing to budge from her spot on the floor. “Monsieur de la Marche is nervous? How can you be certain?”
“Well, I don’t know for sure, but I'd assume so considering this is the first ball in which he’s spent time with a lady. Now, let’s away.”
Desperate to find a way to stall, if only for a moment, Lizabeth digs her heels harder into the parquet floors. “Is it because of what happened to his older sister?”
Despite her urgency, Sophie manages a scoff. “Really, Liza, are you still thinking about that?”
“All I wish to know is what happened to her.”
Sophie and Marguerite exchange a look. Then Marguerite latches onto Lizabeth’s other wrist, helping Sophie drag her to the door. “Four years ago, she disappeared in the middle of the night with her husband,” Marguerite says in between tugs. “Neither of them told a soul where they were going, and no one has heard from them since. Practically everyone in court believes they left because her husband had massive debts and was trying to flee. It was quite the scandal. Now, quit struggling!”
“What?” Lizabeth freezes, forgetting to keep her feet planted on the ground. With one final tug, the two girls uproot Lizabeth, sending her stumbling through the doorway.
The three girls make such a racket upon emerging into the corridor, everyone walking by stops for a moment to stare. Marguerite is the first to notice the reaction, and she elbows Lizabeth and Sophie. Sophie stops next, attempting to turn her angry scoffs into demure giggles.
Lizabeth is the last to catch on. She tugs at her skirts, trying to get them out from under her feet. In the commotion, a pin falls from her hair and clatters to the ground. A single pearl breaks off, rolling underneath the shoe of a passerby.
“Look at what you’ve made me do!” she snaps. “How am I to retrieve that pearl now when it’s—” Lizabeth stops, only then noticing the gathering crowd. She swallows, wishing to shrink into herself.
Behind her, there is an all too familiar laugh. She spins around, setting her eyes on Gabriel de la Marche. With an amused smile, he walks over to the man who stepped on her fallen pearl and taps him on the shoulder.
“I’m terribly sorry, but there is something I’m in need of underneath your shoe,” he says.
The man is clearly confused but takes a step back nevertheless. “Ah, yes, of course, monsieur.”
“Thank you,” Gabriel says, plucking the pearl off of the ground. He walks over to Lizabeth and sticks out his hand, palm up. “If you hand me your broken pin, I can mend it for you. Anne seems to always be breaking hers, so I’ve become an expert at fixing them.”
Lizabeth stares at him in silence, handing over her pin. Why does this keep happening to her?
All around them, people have resumed walking toward the ball, no longer interested in the hallway spectacle. Even Sophie, Pierre, and Marguerite are ahead of them, too eager to wait for the pair to catch up.
With another smile, Gabriel offers her his arm. “Shall we?”
She glances up at him, her gaze only then falling on his dress coat. It’s the exact blue of his eyes, embellished with fine stripes of silver and buttons carved into the shape of lions heads. A gleaming sword hangs at his side.
Swallowing back her nerves, she lays her hand over Gabriel’s elbow and allows him to lead her through the gilded hallways of Versailles.
***
Music carries through the air the moment she steps outside. The night smells of spring, and the unseasonable warmth brushes past her skin like silk. The garden is littered with guests—both residents of the palace and aristocrats from throughout France. All the unfamiliar faces are overwhelming, and Lizabeth finds herself unconsciously sidling closer to Gabriel as the pair walk toward the ball’s main dancefloors.
On the south side of the palace, a series of wooden rooms have been constructed for the occasion. They will be taken down once the ball is over, but when Lizabeth enters the rooms, she wishes that wasn’t the case. They are hand-painted on the inside with murals of cherubs dancing across a candy-colored sky, all brushed in a fine layer of gold. A large pane of glass bisects the main area, so guests enjoying fruit, pastries, and liqueurs on one half of the room can watch people dance on the other.
Along the back wall, fountains of glistening water trickle down in a constant stream to keep the space inside the rooms cool. Lizabeth tips her head back as the chilled air blows past her face, flyaway hairs tickling her cheeks. Multicolored silks drape from the ceilings and shimmer in the muted light, and candles are attached to wooden support beams with strings of gold. She can almost see faeries darting in and out of the silks and disappearing into the night sky.
Unfortunately, the magic in the room does little to calm the wild beating of her heart. As she and Gabriel make their way through the front room, hundreds of eyes burn into her back, seeming to follow her every move.
“Everyone is staring at me,” Lizabeth says, tightening her grip on Gabriel’s elbow.
He leans down to whisper, “They're staring because you look beautiful.”
His breath is warm against her skin, and a shiver creeps up her spine from somewhere deep in her bones. She flicks her eyes to him, his face barely centimeters from her own. Her first instinct is to step back, but she finds herself meeting his gaze. Tonight, surrounded by music, candlelight, and the sweet smells of spring, it’s impossible to look away.
Gabriel breaks eye contact first. “Would you like to dance?” he asks, holding out his hand.
“Oh,” Lizabeth says. “I’m not certain I can.”
“You needn’t worry. Follow my lead.”
She takes a deep breath, holding it in for a few moments. Then, she places her gloved hand into Gabriel’s and allows him to lead them onto the dance floor.
Once they pass the pane of glass intersecting the room, Lizabeth is taken aback by the volume of the music. A large orchestra is stationed in the corner, playing a piece from one of Jean-Philppe Rameau’s ballets. Les Surprises de L’Amour, perhaps. Though she can’t be certain. They stay by the side for a few minutes, watching the current dance alongside the guests whose stations aren’t high enough to enter the dance floor. When the music comes to a stop, the guests clap politely, waiting for the next song to begin.
The ending of the current song means she’ll have to dance next, and she takes a panicked peek at Gabriel, only to be met by his gentle smile. He nods once, encouraging her with a twinkle behind his mismatched eyes. She returns the nod, though she isn’t able to return the smile.
Though as the next song starts to play, Lizabeth’s entire body washes over with horror. “It’s a minuet,” she hisses. “Everyone will be watching us, and I’m not sure I know all the proper steps! What if—”
“Keep your eyes on me,” Gabriel says, walking her onto the dance floor. “I promise you’ll be all right.”
The dance floor is spacious but crowded, and Lizabeth glances around in a frenzy, trying to locate a familiar face. However, she spots no one she knows. When she directs her attention back to Gabriel, she’s faintly aware of how hard she’s gripping his hands.
She desperately tries to keep count as the music plays, whispering one, two, three, four, five, six to herself, but the warmth of Gabriel’s hand in her own overshadows any attempt at keeping the beat, as well as the knowledge that if she misses a single step, the entirety of court will know she doesn’t belong.
“Distract me,” she pleads. “I feel as if I’m going to go mad.”
The two plié, and Gabriel brushes his hand across Lizabeth’s wrist as he passes her, his fingers light as morning mist against her skin. She doesn’t know if the touch was intentional or not, but her cheeks inflame at his nearness all the same. She closes her eyes, focusing on her breaths and the music as she moves through the dance.
“One of Madame de Leon’s dogs peed on her dress minutes before the ball started,” Gabriel says. He’s close—too close to be considered proper—but he doesn’t seem to care.
Lizabeth’s eyes fly open. “What?”
Gabriel laughs and twirls around as the music continues, whispering over his shoulder, “There was an attempt to remove the stain, but it’s still visible.”
Lizabeth manages a glance behind Gabriel to where Madame de Leon dances with her husband. Her dress is a brilliant baby blue, trimmed by white ribbons, pearls trailing along the fabric like white teardrops. The most noticeable thing about the dress, however, is the wet patch that creeps up the hem and stains one ribbon a faint yellow.
“My God,” Lizabeth exclaims, biting back laughter. “The pee is still there!”
Gabriel grins. “And Monsieur de L’Adanet’s wig has come loose. I don’t believe he’s noticed yet, but everyone else has.”
Near the edge of the dance floor, a plump man is hand in hand with a lady far too young for him, his lopsided wig creeping down farther and farther on his face with each step he takes. The lady bites her lip and does her best to avoid his gaze, but her embarrassment over the wardrobe malfunction is obvious.
Lizabeth returns her gaze to Gabriel before the man can catch her staring, a hysterical laugh bubbling up on her lips. “Why are you telling me these things?”
“You’re not alone,” he says simply. “Everyone here has something to be nervous about. Myself included.”
“What do you have to be nervous about?”
He gives her a quick smile but doesn’t respond.
The music comes to an end, but Gabriel and Lizabeth remain on the dance floor well after the song finishes. All around them, people leave to wait for the next song, but neither she nor Gabriel move from their spot. One of his hands tightens around her own while the other comes up to brush the single curl trailing down her neck, leaving behind pinpricks of fire where his fingers graze her skin. Again, the closeness is entirely improper, and again, Gabriel doesn’t seem to care. Is it because his family standing is already so high that he feels he hasn’t a thing to worry about? Or is it because, being this close to her, he simply cannot help himself?
“I need something to drink,” she blurts.
Blinking, Gabriel detaches himself from Lizabeth. The sudden absence of his warmth is like ice. “Of course.”
As they walk through throngs of party guests, Lizabeth spots Sophie and Pierre in the crowd, feeding each other strawberries. But she doesn't pause to greet them. She’s hot and flustered and doesn’t wish for anyone else to see her in this state. All she wants is to have a drink near the gushing streams of water in hopes the cooled air will help to alleviate the fever festering inside her heart.
Once they reach the liquors, she’s so desperate for a drink, she half considers snatching an entire bottle off the table and drinking it in one go. She reaches out hungrily to a large bottle of raspberry liqueur, but Gabriel pushes her hand away before she can make contact.
“Not that one,” he says. “It’s far too sweet. Try this.”
He hands her a glass flute filled to the brim with amber liquid. She takes it and sniffs, reeling at the pungent scent of alcohol. Lizabeth doesn’t wait for Gabriel to drink first. She lifts the glass to her lips and downs the entire thing in a single swallow.
It doesn’t take long for the alcohol to take effect. In mere minutes, it has traveled to her head, clouding her worries and sending her fingers and toes tingling. While it succeeds in calming her discomfort, it does quite the opposite when she looks at Gabriel. Her heart beats like a trapped hummingbird in her chest as she takes in the candlelight flickering across his eyes and sharp planes of his face, outlining his features in muted gold.
“Damn,” she mumbles into her empty glass. “It didn’t work.”
Gabriel finishes his first glass of alcohol and sets it down. “Come with me,” he says, taking Lizabeth’s hand and leading her to a table filled high with pastries and a miniature garden, fashioned entirely from spun sugar and marzipan wildflowers.
“Jean and I used to spend our nights here during balls when we were younger,” he explains, plucking a croissant covered in layers of chocolate from a gold serving platter.
“You spent the ball eating pastries?”
“Not eating.” Gabriel’s smile is wicked. “Observe.”
He glances around the room before tossing the pastry onto the floor. It slides across the dark wood, coming in contact with a lady’s shoe.
“A mouse!” the lady wails, clawing in desperation at her escort’s sleeve.
An older gentleman takes notice of her outburst and frowns. “Madame, please quiet your screaming. It is only a croissant.”
Lizabeth claps her hand over her mouth to staunch her manic laughter. “Hand me one.”
“Gladly, mademoiselle,” Gabriel responds, placing a bread sparkling with raspberry marmalade into her waiting hand.
Lizabeth spots Charlotte de Fontin standing near the other side of the table, flirting with an unsuspecting young man, her small chest bursting out of her bodice like two rotting peaches. Without hesitation, she launches the pastry at Charlotte’s pristine saffron dress. It lands on her back, staining the fabric with a gunshot of red. Charlotte yelps, whipping around and locking eyes with Lizabeth.
“Oh no,” Lizabeth gasps. “We must leave.”
She dashes for the entrance, pulling Gabriel along with her. The two crash through the doors and spill out into the night, Lizabeth laughing so hard her stomach hurts. But she keeps running until she comes to a set of stairs near the side of the palace, high enough for sufficient cover.
She drags Gabriel behind the stairs, where the two spend the next few moments desperately trying to catch their breath.
“That,” Gabriel bursts out with labored pants, “was brilliant.”
Lizabeth falls into a deep curtsy. “Why, thank you, monsieur.”
When she straightens up, Gabriel is looking at her with a grin that stretches from ear to ear. She’s never seen him act so light and carefree, without that perpetual frown tugging at his lips, or his ever encompassing silence. Though, incongruous as it all is, something about the way he’s acting now seems real, as if Gabriel finally trusts her enough to show her who he truly is. Her body moves before her mind does, reaching out to lace her fingers with Gabriel’s. His eyes travel to their intertwined hands for a heartbeat before they move to her face.
“Liza? What are you doing?”
Lizabeth leans close to him, whispering, “Distract me again.”
Gabriel hesitates, his gaze flitting about Lizabeth’s features in a longing caress. Slowly, he lifts her hand to his lips, pulling her lace glove off and tossing it to the ground. Then he brings her fingers to his mouth, placing a soft kiss on each one.
The lilt of music and chatter swirls around them as Gabriel lowers Lizabeth’s hand back to her side. Her eyes fall on a tiny scar running along his throat, and she traces it with her thumb. He lets out a gasp, quiet as an angel in prayer.
After a few breathless moments, Gabriel lowers his head, his lips coming to a stop centimeters from Lizabeth’s. “Is this all right?”
“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, it’s all right.”
Then his lips are on hers. His touch is warm and gentle, from the fingers that brush against her cheek, to the hand that tilts her head up to deepen the kiss. He tastes of alcohol and chocolate, and Lizabeth takes a small nip at his bottom lip, wanting to become closer to him. To meld herself with him.
Gabriel pushes her up against the wall with listless breaths, remaining tender despite the hunger in his touch. Lizabeth revels in the softness of his second kiss—the way he handles her as if she’s a rose, and he’s going through great lengths not to crush her petals. She shivers, pulling him closer still.
“I beg of you, don’t stop,” she mumbles against his mouth.
He laughs but concedes, making no move to pull away. At least, not until the snap of a twig brings them back to attention. Lizabeth breaks away, banging her head against an outcropping of stone.
“Oh my.” Marguerite giggles behind her fan. “Have I interrupted something?”
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