Flattening against her door, Marguerite let out stabilizing breaths, praying for the spinning of her head to cease. Making her way down the stairs had been hard; her fainting spell in the Royal Reading Room had taken a bigger toll on her than she'd expected. To navigate the halls without prompting gossip, she'd battled to pretend like her knees weren't weak, like her heart wasn't squeezing in her chest, like her mind wasn't foggy with flashes of Antoine's arms around her.
When she regained some motion in her limbs, she wobbled over to her bed and leaned against one of the canopy pillars. A small spot of relief seeped into her, eased her trembling... until she closed her eyes and saw him.
His hands dabbing at her forehead, patting her cheeks to wake her, heaving her up and shaking her. His breath whisking over her mouth and nose, rousing her from her unconsciousness. The contact of his skin smoothing against her had nearly driven her to faint again, but she'd refused to succumb to the sensations Antoine provoked.
When he'd kissed her hand and asked if she needed help getting to her room, a part of her had screamed to say yes, to beg him to carry her as she nestled into his shoulder and allowed her emotions to flow free.
She couldn't. She wouldn't. She'd spent years hating him, hurt from his decisions, from his behavior, and one night of drunken deeds couldn't undo her pain.
It was a night that would never happen again.
But how to forget such torrid tosses in the sheets? How to forget those eyes she'd always melted in, those lips she'd internally yearned for since the night she'd ran away? How to ignore these novel feelings, the lust growing inside? A lust that had intensified when he'd slammed against her, protecting her from those who might have broken into the Reading Room to find them.
She'd been adamant on seeking him out, on informing him of developments, but in truth she wasn't ready to meet with him again. The memories were still too vivid, plunging her into a spiraling world of numbness, dulling her logic, dimming her sense of reality. Any moment in his presence, more so when up close and personal, could tip the scale in the wrong direction.
She opened her eyes and could have sworn he was there, at the foot of her bed. Ogling her like he had that night, crawling over to her like a panther.
With a groan, she shoved the image away and stood up, but it was no use; he was everywhere. Lurking by her closet, stooping by her vanity, lounging on her couch. He was behind her, parting her silky strands of hair, planting careful pecks on her neck. His fingertips reaching under her dress, sliding it down her shoulders.
Then he was in front of her, his tongue trailing along her jaw-line. His mouth found hers and feasted on it as his hands pulled her closer, gripping her hips with a force that immobilized her.
Had that happened? With a shake of her head, the ghosts of Antoine subsided, and she was alone in her room again. She touched her lips, her longing so intense it provoked her into falling onto her mattress again.
She tore her hair out of its messy bun and slammed her fists into the soft sheets, harder and harder, punching the mattress as if it would release her angst. Unsatisfied, she reached for a pillow and screamed into it, letting out all the air in her lungs. The sound was muffled, but she feared the entire castle heard it.
Dropping the cushion, fingers throbbing from holding on so tight, she lay against the bed-frame. A few seconds passed before Antoine's seductive silhouette reemerged, gliding across her floorboards.
Her room became his, the hues of cerulean, the darkened walls, the dimmed candelabras reflecting light onto the precious works of art hanging near his armoire. She envisioned him pouring more wine, in the nude, then padding over to her, every curve of his body igniting desire in her lower-half.
The vision shifted to him moments ago, dressed and dreary, fanning her, concern etched all over his face. His voice had soothed her back to the real world, and his firm hold had kept her from collapsing again.
She'd fainted, lost herself because of the way he'd enraptured her, taken her breath away.
Visions of their sultry affair mingled with other memories, from years and years ago. The night of their first Masquerade, when they'd confessed their feelings. The day they'd hid in that same Reading Room to exchange chaste kisses between lessons. The evening they'd embraced near the kitchen door, after their first argument.
Each picture, so clear in her mind, brought her back to that night, to the culmination of years apart.
It was a vicious circle of never-ending connections between their past and what they'd done to sabotage their future. The more she tried to suppress it all, the more it returned to smack her in the face.
Coming to, Antoine's foggy figure dissipating from her vision, she realized she'd been squeezing the pillow and her nails were about to rip through the fabric.
Did he struggle like she did? Did he fight like this to contain his urges? Why did it appear so easy for him to go on without being plagued by the specters of what they'd done?
With a growl, she threw the cushion across the room. It thudded near the floor-length mirror and almost toppled the thing over. She imagined the reflective surface shattering, shards burrowing into the floor, mimicking the agony that pierced her insides. She pictured glass everywhere, imitating her emotions spiraling out of control.
Raising a fist to her mouth, she bit down on her knuckles. Something about the taste of her own skin—a mix of her perfume and the musk she'd smelled on Antoine's coat—produced chills that vibrated up and down her neck.
Shivering, she jumped from the bed and hastened to the fireplace, rubbing her hands together for warmth. Her body temperature went from scalding hot to frigid in seconds, and she glared at the flames as if they'd tell her why.
Her past kisses with Antoine had, at some point, grown beyond the innocent stage; but never had they been so ardent that they'd struck her down.
They'd never desired more than what they had; never yanked each other's clothing off, never yearned to see more than an exposed hand or a collar-bone.
Despite her time despising him and how he'd shunned her in front of all, she'd never gotten rid of her physical feelings for him. Not only had they lingered, but they'd changed.
Hunger. Desire. Lust. Sin.
Disgraced, shamed, she envisioned angry faces swimming before her. Noblemen barking at her insolence, ladies accusing her of breaking a marriage, serving girls and squires calling her a harlot.
One face overshadowed them all, frowning.
Edouard. Oh, Heavens.
Were he alive, he'd be furious. He'd ban Marguerite from Torrinni, and lock Antoine in his room to send priests and physicians to talk to him. He'd never tolerate such blasphemy from the two people he trusted most.
She wiped her cheeks as tears drizzled from her eyes. Sensing the skin below her lashes turning puffy, she hurried to her vanity, eager to fix herself in case Céleste arrived. She couldn't see her so distraught, so racked with worry and embarrassment.
As she attempted to ease through her tangles, more past recollections surged into her brain. That one glance that she and Antoine had exchanged as teenagers, the day Clémentine had sent her on her first pilgrimage. The tingling jolt in her belly the moment she'd realized how much she missed him, and cared for him more than she'd ever anticipated.
She dug the bristles into her scalp as more unwanted tears clogged at her lash-line.
The first time they'd danced, nervous, unsteady, but so happy. The world had disappeared around them, and their feet were on a cloud. Antoine had said he loved her, and she loved him back, and neither had any clue of the troubling future ahead of them.
How she wished those days had lasted longer, that their youth hadn't run out, that she hadn't run out.
A thrumming in her stomach caused her to abandon her brush and gasp. Something woke inside; something she hadn't felt in years and never thought to feel again. The same sensation she dreaded and loved all at once—a lurching, nauseous pinching that amplified with each breath she took.
Butterflies. Not those from a few nights ago, filled with a flesh-craving yearning; these were the real butterflies. The ones she'd stomped on, spat on, set fire to when she'd departed Torrinni three years prior.
Why had they reanimated? Had she not destroyed them properly?
She knew what they meant, but she didn't know how to make them go away.
"I still love him."
It was too much and too little all at once. Too late and too soon, too painful and too relieving.
They'd never be what they once were.
Biting the insides of her cheeks to hold in her moans of displeasure, she gripped the edges of her vanity, puffed out breaths—
And stilled as someone knocked.
"Royal letter, Your Grace," said a muted voice from behind the door.
With an exhale of exhaustion, she breezed over, opened the door, and picked up the message.
The royal emblem glowed golder than ever at the bottom, and at the top, her gaze stopped at her title, official, on paper.
To Her Grace, Duchess Marguerite of Torrinni,
It pleases us to announce a Royal Dinner tomorrow night, January the third, seventeen-ninety-eight, at seven o'clock, in the Dining Room.
Bring your appetite, because along with delicacies and delicious dishes, we have a major announcement to make!
Looking forward to hosting you,
Kind Regards,
Their Majesties
King Antoine & Queen Adelaide of Totresia
Closing her door, she scanned the words once more, narrowing on the letters' curves and the exclamation point and the hasty signatures by the Totresian seal.
What events would warrant a Royal Dinner? Whatever they were, had Antoine been aware of them when he cornered her in the Reading Room?
After setting the note on her coffee table, she crossed her arms and tapped a foot to the ground.
They argued, but now they want to host dinners together?
•••