VERSAILLES || h.s.

VI

The room fell into shock silence, giving way to the palpable tension forming in the air. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and faced the French doors, wondering if this day was doomed to become worse still.
The maid expeditiously collected her fallen items, and attempted to soak up the tea stain with her apron.
The young footmen continued to gawk, their hormones cancelling out any form of decency.
Their eyes were wide; they had quite clearly never seen a woman in such a state.

Jaques still held the canopy, his mouth opening and closing as he scrambled to find any words to say.
Odete had exhausted her daily, perhaps even yearly, quota of embarrassment, thus found herself unable to blush. She simply averted her gaze from the butler and mindlessly fiddled with the fringing on the pillow. He is more distressed than I by this ordeal, she told herself.

The air grew thin. None had a clue as to what should be said.
That is, until the doors swung open again.

"What in bloomin' 'ell is this?!" the handmaiden roared, placing her hands on her hips. Harry recognised her as the one that awoke him that morning. Her black hair was slicked into a tight bun, and her pasty completion was contorted into an outraged scowl. Her plump figure marched into the room. Four other maids followed her, carrying all sorts of things for the Lady Beauchamp.

"My Lady, what on earth is happening?" the maid that had left to retrieve her dress piped up.
"M'Lord," the first maid curtseyed to Harry, "forgive me for speakin' out o' turn, but I must request that you leave the room for her Ladyship. This's been a most humiliating experience for all, M'Lord."
Harry said nothing, but left the room as he was told. He called for Jaques.

"Forgive me, Mademoiselle," was all the servant managed to say before the maid pulled him out of the room by the collar.
"Out, ya measly French rat!" She then turned to the footmen.

"YOU!" she yelled. Apparently, there was no courtesy among the lowest class, Harry mused. "Get your filthy arses out of this room AT ONCE! One more look at M'Lady and I'll 'ave your eyes, ya hear?!"
The footmen clambered out of the room, fear dancing in their eyes and... an apparent disturbance showing through their breeches.

Harry rolled his eyes at the lack of control these lowly, virgin footmen displayed. Children, the both of them, he belittled. They were no older than sixteen, judging by their... excitement upon viewing an almost-nude woman. At sixteen, Harry already knew how to control himself.

The door was slammed shut, leaving Harry, Jaques and the two footmen stranded in the hallway.
"What now?" Harry demanded, returning to his typical self. "I can't possibly go to a wedding looking like this." He gestured to his elaborate clothing with disgust. "I shall be dubbed a plebeian."

The footmen attempted to hide their little perturbation. Jaques gave them a reprimanding gaze, followed by a dismissive shake of the head.

"Well, Jaques? What now?" Harry reiterated. He, too, glanced at the footmen. He allowed himself a cocky grin at their blatant discomfort.

"Now, we wait," Jaques sighed, resting his back against the wall and sliding to the floor.

•

The wedding ceremony was due to start in forty minutes, and the maids were clamouring. Odete was thrown into a dress faster than she could say, "Versailles," and the women proceeded to combing her hair and applying her makeup. Their efficiency was astounding.
"Margaret, s'il vous plaît, loosen the corset this time," Odete muttered, mulling over the morning's unfortunate sequence of events.

The day had been destined for failure, she thought. From the moment she entered the family carriage and ripped her sleeve, to the moment she set foot in Versailles and almost fell face-first before the Dauphin himself.
"Your shoes, Mademoiselle," the maid said, holding a pair of heeled, rose satin shoes with a bow fastened on top of a slightly darker shade of pink. Odete stepped into the shoes, her stocking-clad feet fitting snugly into the custom-made pumps.

Her chocolate-brown tresses were fashioned into a pompadour, and tightly wound ringlets bounced above her collarbones.
A fine layer of white powder was dusted over her face and neck, and soft rouge was patted onto the apples of her cheeks.
Sweet-smelling perfume was spritzed around her, and a diamond and poudretteite necklace was fastened around her neck.

"Mademoiselle, you look beautiful," the quietest of the maids quipped. She looked no older than fifteen. Odete smiled graciously and faced the mirror. The dress was truly gorgeous; it had been her eighteenth birthday present, imported from Persia.
The collar was riddled with pink ruffled roses, and the ruching bodice was embellished with gold beads and embroideries of flowers. The sleeves flared at the elbows, and light pink ribbons hung loosely over the bell-ended design. The wide, deep pink hoop skirt featured the same roses that decorated the collar.

Odete moved to the door and opened it.
"You are not dressed," she pointed out, looking at Harry. He was seated on the floor, legs outstretched.
"If you do recall, My Lady, I was banished from my quarters," he said, arching an eyebrow.
"My most grievous fault, My Lord," she replied. Harry's lips parted into an angelic smile. Odete offered a hand and he took it, hoisting himself up.
"I suppose I must change," he declared, studying the Lady's face. His servants rushed into the room to prepare his outfit.

He stepped around her Ladyship, his gaze never leaving her. "I thought it impossible," he orated, "but you look even more tantalising than this morning." He bowed at the waist and gave her one last fleeting look before closing his chamber doors.

The blood that rushed to her face and scalp was involuntary, and Odete scolded herself for being such an utter fool. He truly is good, she thought.
The voice of her governess back at Marseille suddenly entered her head; Il est un chasseur, et vous êtes sa proie – he is a hunter, and you are his prey. Do not fool yourself, girl.

"My Lady," the young maid called, "the ceremony. We must move with haste to the Chapel."

Odete glanced back at the shut door of Le Vicomte's room and took a deep breath. The action caused her sore torso to ache slightly.
"Beware the charms of men, ma cherie. They wish for one thing from you, and one thing alone," the Gouvernante had forewarned. "Lordlings at Versailles are wolves in sheep's clothing. Cunning as snakes, handsome as peacocks, and more licentious than all the Erotes combined. They will take your virtue and leave you for the next man, like some common whore."

She picked up her skirts and walked down the hallway, turning her back on the Viscount's quarters. She had already awakened nude in the Lord's bed once. She would not allow it to happen again. No amount of flattery nor coquetry could change her mind, she decided firmly.