VERSAILLES || h.s.

I

The sun sparkled over the lake in the early hours of the morning as the first rays of light broke over the horizon. The dewdrops on the grass and tree leaves sparkled like diamonds and illuminated the scenery.

The young Viscount sat atop a blanket on the bank of the lake, watching the serenity before him. The birds began their morning song as the sun rose, and the thin layer of mist that covered the landscape slowly dissipated.

The cool spring breeze nipped slightly at his skin as he bit into an apple. The birds and rustling leaves were the only sounds that could be heard. The noble boy whisked out his pocket watch. Not for long, he thought, sighing. Two minutes ticked by and then the ruckus began.

"Lord Breckenridge!" a servant called. "My lord, you must hurry. The Lady Breckenridge awaits most impatiently."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Albert, my father is the Lord Breckenridge. For the thousandth time, you are to refer to me as the Viscount Breckenridge," he huffed, standing up. The middle aged servant looked down, embarrassed.

"A million pardons, Lor– um, Viscount Breckenridge," he fumbled. "If you will, follow me, Viscount." Albert scooped up the blanket and scurried back towards the manor. Harry followed leisurely, dragging his boots through the damp grass.

They arrived at the great Breckenridge Manor, where the hustle within could be heard through the grand oak doors. Albert deviated and scrambled through the servants' entry as the major-dormo opened the large doors.

"The Viscount Breckenridge, the young Lord Harry Edward Styles," he announced. The maids and servants immediately ceased their work and bowed as Harry walked through them. He did not so much as acknowledge them. At the end of the hallway lined with portraits of the Breckenridge lords since 1521, the Countess Breckenridge stood in a splendid green gown embroidered with gold. Her auburn hair was fastened on her head in an intricate braid by a gold headpiece, and her face was stern. Her grey eyes watched Harry as he moved, and occasionally flicked down to grimace at the mud stains his boots left in the lush crimson rug.

"My lord," she greeted coldly as she curtsied.
"Mother," he replied and bowed, his tone equally frigid.
"Put on some decent garments. We leave for Versailles within the hour," his mother said curtly, straightening her posture. "I have selected the suit from Italy. That is all."
She turned and walked away with not another word. Harry watched as she disappeared around the corner.

"You, maid," he called, signalling a young servant girl. "Take this." He tossed her his apple core and continued on his way to his chambers. He climbed the marble stairs that took him to the large room. A maid opened his door for him and he observed the clothes on his bed. Italians have no style.

"Albert!" he called down the hallway. "Take my things to the carriage."
The servant appeared immediately and began lugging the trunks. "And fetch servants to assist me."
"Yes, Viscount. Right away."
Moments later, four young maidens curtsied and walked though the door.
"Not that one," Harry instructed, dismissing the Italian suit. "I want the German one."
"But, Viscount... the Countess specifically said—"
Harry cut off the handmaiden with a sharp look. "The German one," he repeated, enunciating each word.
"Right away, Viscount."

•

The Earl examined his son as their carriage bumped along the road. The resemblance was uncanny; they shared the same dark, curly hair and green eyes, and had the same rare but mischievous smiles. The only difference was that his son had the insatiable thirst for insubordination. He observed the dark blue tailored jacket embroidered with silver and white that his son wore.

"You are not wearing the suit your mother chose," he commented.
"I am not, Lord Breckenridge," Harry replied quietly, studying the gold buckles on his navy blue shoes intently. "Is there a problem?"
"Yes. Your mother had that imported for you, my son."
"I found it looked quite cheap, Father," Harry responded nonchalantly.
"Cheap? Harry, it was handmade Italian silk," his father growled, growing tired of his son's insolence.
"Well, it was ugly," Harry said.

His father hit the plush sofa of the carriage angrily. "God damn it to Hell, Harry! Why do you insist on infuriating that woman?" he snapped, raising his voice. Harry was taken aback by the sudden outburst.
"I have had it with your disrespect. A godforsaken suit, boy! Upon arrival Versailles, you will go to your chambers, rid yourself of that German filth, and wear the damn Italian suit to the wedding. Have I made myself abundantly clear?" The Earl of Breckenridge roared.
Harry looked up at his father's dark green eyes. "Yes, Fathe— Lord Breckenridge. My apologies," he murmured.
"And when we arrive at Versailles, you will apologise to your mother."
"Yes, Lord Breckenridge."

The rest of the two hour ride was silent.