VERSAILLES || h.s.

XVI

The curtains were ripped apart and the garish light of day streamed in, blinding Harry. He groaned and covered his head with a pillow, rolling over. A splitting headache plagued him, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey lay near his hand on the floor.
"Rise and shine, Vicomte," Jaques called, plucking a suit from the wardrobe. "Today, you attend l'opera."
Harry screwed his eyes shut. "Go away," he whined, his voice muffled by the goose-feather, silk-covered pillow.
"Non, non, non, Vicomte," Jaques tutted, prying the pillow from the Lord Styles' fingers. "You must ready yourself with haste. The carriage leaves within the hour."

Harry grumbled and did not move. Jaques tutted and walked towards the bed, snatching the duvet from under the Viscount. The Lord rolled off the side of the bed, landing on the carpeted floor with a thud.
"Ow!" he yelled. A messy mop of brown curls appeared moments later. His green eyes were narrowed in anger. "God damn you. Remember your place, peasant," he muttered.
"Your lady mother expects you, Vicomte," the footman said, ignoring the lordling's petulance. "Vite."
"What time is it?" Harry asked groggily, letting himself be led to the washroom.
"Five hours past midday," Jaques told him.
"Oh."

The footman bathed and clothed the nobleman in a fine tailored gown made of lush, red velvet, embroidered with gold. He paired it with black breeches and a matching silk cravat.

"What opera am I to see?" the Viscount enquired, fiddling with his white gloves.
"Alcyone, the tragedy piece by Marin Marais, Vicomte," the French servant replied. Harry hummed in appreciation.
"And who shall accompany me, aside from my dearest mother?"
"Oh, the Countess shall not be attending, Vicomte," Jaques chuckled. "Non, you will be attending with the Lady Magdalena Haacke of Austria."
Harry turned to face the footman.
"Who in God's gracious name is that?" he spat.
"A perspective bride, selected by Le Vicomte's very own Lady Mother," the servant explained. Harry chuckled wryly.
"A despicable woman. I refuse to go to this mockery of my position," he hissed. "I spit on her insolence; I am the heir of the Breckenridge legacy. How very dare she."
"You must attend, My Lord," Jaques pleaded. The Lord rolled his eyes and sighed heavily, crossing his arms. He tsked irritatedly.
"Very well," he snapped. "I shall attend, but solely to view the opera. I shan't speak a word to this Austrian whore."

With that, the Viscount plucked his black cloak from Jaques' grip and marched through the door. The footman shook his head and lamented the evening the poor Lady Haacke was about to suffer in the hands of the Lordling of Breckenridge.

•

The red carriage bumped along the road as it had for the past hour. Harry glared out through the curtain, not once glancing in the Lady Haacke's general direction. She fiddled her thumbs.
"Do you... have any favoured pastimes, My Lord?" she asked tentatively, her soft voice coated in a thick accent. Harry moved his scrutinising gaze from the passing trees to the girl across from him.
"Yes," he said curtly. Then, he returned his eyes to the passing view.
"That is... good. It is good to have pastimes," Magdalena said. "I enjoy painting."
Harry scoffed sardonically, saying, "Fascinating."

The carriage continued on its way in dead silence.

When it halted before the Académie Royale de Musique, the Lord of Breckenridge climbed out, leaving the Lady Haacke to struggle on her own.
"Must women always take an eternity to do everything?" he complained.

At the doors to the opera house, a worker led them to their secluded booth, winding around marble stairs and gold-plated walls, and took their coats, offering the Lords champagne and fromage.

Conversation with the Viscount was dry, as the Lady Haacke soon discovered. Oft, his responses were single-worded, and sometimes, even less. When the opera began, the Lord immersed himself entirely, ignoring every question Magdalena might have. He peered through his opera glasses intently, watching the mesmerising performance.

When the first interlude arrived, the Austrian girl tried once more.
"Are you enjoying the play, My Lord?" she asked meekly.
"It is an opera, not a play. But, yes. Tremendously." His tone was flat. Magdalena crossed her arms.
"Have I offended you, My Lord?" she snapped. "For you have treated me with the utmost coldness and disdain since Versailles, and, frankly, I grow tired of it."

Harry looked at her, slightly shocked at her sudden outburst.

"Well? Speak!" she cried, pounding her lap with closed fists. "I, too, harbour no desire to marry, and especially not a man with petulant mannerisms such as yourself.
"Now, we can either treat this evening with the courtesy of adults and offer another our sincere apologies, or we can both behave like children and pout about the cruelty life has thrust upon us that forces us to spend an evening together."

The Viscount was now truly shaken. None had ever spoken to him in such an openly brazen way except for... well, except for the Lady Beauchamp. He let the corners of his lips twitch upwards.
"I understand, My Lady," he said, softening his harsh tone. "Do forgive me. I fear I have taken out on you the anger reserved for my Lady Mother."
Magdalena smiled gently. "I suppose that is as good an apology as I shall ever receive from the fabled heir to Breckenridge manor."

The pair chuckled lightly. The lights began to dim and flicker, indicating the beginning of Act II. Harry leaned over and handed Magdalena his opera glasses.
"Mayhap My Lady would like to watch the play."

•

"For the love of God, Desmond," the Countess said brusquely, "it's time."
"He's a boy, Anne!" the Earl of Breckenridge argued. "Stop pushing him! He shall marry when he sees it fit; it's not as if he would struggle to find a woman."
"He will never amount to anything unless I push him!" his wife shouted back. "He makes a mockery of us all! It is time for him to grow up. His days of promiscuity and profligacy must be put to an end. What say the people in the streets of your whoremongering son?"
"You forget your place, woman," the Earl roared, standing angrily.

The Countess flung the covers off her body, leaping off the bed and marching towards her husband, her nightgown swaying at her ankles. "He will shame us all!" she wailed.  "His name is whispered by women near and far alongside words like hedonist and depraved! He taints our family name; the boy needs a wife!"
"Silence yourself, you insufferable woman! Do not dare to speak of shame!" Desmond yelled, balling his fists. "You, most of all, know shame when it is brought to the family name. The unchastity of our son pales in comparison to your sins."

The Countess breathed shakily. "Do not make this about me—"
"What? Does morality shatter under your gaze?" the Earl spat. "Are principles no longer the matter here? Or is that only the case when you forget to mention your infidelity?"
Anne glowered at her husband. "Shut your mouth, Desmond," she barked, tears welling in her eyes.
"Why? You ride so high and mighty on your white horse," he hissed, stepping close, "preaching of chastity and honour, and yet, you are too proud to admit to your own corruption."
"Who are you to speak of corruption? You bed a new whore each month!" the Countess retaliated.
"And I have every right to do so!"
"Since when?" she screamed.
"Ever since you disgraced our marital vows and had a child out of wedlock! Ever since you made yourself a harlot to the King of England, and stained the Styles name for eternity, damning us to this life of mediocrity!" the Lord Styles howled, throwing his crystal glass of wine against the wall. "I was a Duke! My children would have had the titles they were born into if not for the ignominy of your adultery! Being demoted from the King's court – now there's a case of dishonour."

The chalice shattered into thousands of pieces that sunk into the lush carpet, and the room grew quiet.
"You sent my son to an opera with some woman, hoping that he does what – marries her?" Desmond laughed wryly. "Because you are ashamed of being degraded by his lechery? That woman will change nothing. He is the way he is because of you. Your resentment towards him is enough punishment for his ways, and it has turned him into the worst monster he will ever be."

"Oh, really? And what would that be?" the Countess pressed, her voice wavering. The Earl leaned so close to her that their noses were almost touching. In the eyes of her husband, she saw a cold and stony rage – the same she saw on her wedding day, the same she saw in the eyes of her son, and the same she saw in the face of a mirror.

"You," the Earl breathed. "The poor boy is just like his mother. I, my dear, can think of no harsher punishment, and I am sure the Devil agrees."
"Indeed, he should," the Countess hissed, a single hot tear escaping her eye, "For the Devil stands before me now."