VERSAILLES || h.s.

XXI

Odete struggled to pry her eyes open. Her head felt heavy, and the light streaming into the room burned her vision. She groaned softly as she raised a hand to her face. The Lady Beauchamp sat herself up slowly, feeling unusually groggy. Her mind swirled as she attempted to piece together her surroundings; the room was unfamiliar, but certainly, she was still at the palace. She squinted at the walls around her, faintly making out the golden swirls and roses painted across them. As she adjusted to the brightness of the single stream of light pouring into the quarters, she realised this was not her room.

Mayhap her parents' chambers? Or her brothers' room? Or... the Viscount's? No, it couldn't be; the room was in delicate shades of pink and blue, with angels painted on the ceiling. The Lord Styles' bedding quarters were wicked – devilish, even – shades of crimson, blended with opulent, gleaming golds; an imagery that captured his essence quite poetically. Besides, Odete hadn't been in that room for some time.

No, this room was completely foreign to her. The air smelt heavily of roses, and the bed beneath her was plush and pink. The canopy around the mahogany structure was diaphanous; an ethereal creme-toned silk that draped over the posts in delicate creases, muting the sunlight flowing through the curtain.

Odete glanced down. She wore a magnificent yellow gown that almost appeared molten gold... but she had no recollection of owning such a piece. The fabric felt new, but she noticed a splatter of red by the hem, most likely wine. Wine... Fragments of the night before flashed through her mind, but the memories were far too vague and much too fast for her to piece anything together.
"Lorenzo," she muttered, rubbing her eyes. Why was he on her mind?

The Lady Beauchamp clambered out of the bed and trudged towards the mirror in the room. She looked a mess, but passable. Odete glanced around her. "Lorenzo," she murmured again. A queasy feeling twisted her stomach into knots, but she didn't know if it was fear or simply indigestion. A knock at the door drew the Lady of Mallard out of her thoughts.

"Qui est-ce?" she called out tentatively.
"It's only me, darling," a Frenchman's voice rang out. Odete frowned.
"Identify yourself," she commanded sternly. The man laughed.
"Ma cherie, it's me! You do not remember me?" he chuckled, his voice muffled by the heavy oak door. It sounded awfully familiar, and yet Odete had not a clue who it was.
"Oh, mon amour, I see. Hold on," the man said, clearing his throat. Then, he spoke in an all too familiar Italian accent. "It is I, Principe Lorenzo," he drawled. Odete's heart all but stopped.

The doorknob rattled, and a key was heard on the other side. Moments later, the door opened slowly, and surely, there stood Lorenzo with a grin plastered on his face – though once it would have looked charming, now, Odete found it sinister. The man carried a silver tray with platters of food covered by a silver dome.
"Are you hungry? There were some delightful pastries in the kitchens—"
"Your accent," Odete interrupted. "It is gone." Lorenzo rolled his eyes.
"Well done, you are highly observant for a woman. You must believe me, these pastries are truly divine—"

"Who are you?" the Lady asked, stepping away from him. Lorenzo sighed and placed the tray on the dresser, lifting the dome and plucking a pastry from the platter. He bit into it and sat lazily on the soft pink divan.
"I am many people, Mademoiselle. I am, to some, the saviour. To others, I am the Devil. I am a criminal, a tyrant, and sinner and a saint."
"That is not an answer. Tell me your identity, Monsieur. You are most certainly not an Italian prince," Odete said sternly. Lorenzo sighed.
"Women are no fun unless they are in bed," he muttered. The Lady Beauchamp bit back a most unladylike remark about the average male's performance in the act of coitus.

"Mon amour, all that you must know for now is that I am your ally. You are a beautiful woman, and I believe in preserving beauty." He stood and walker towards her, lifting her chin with his tanned hand. Odete tensed her jaw at the action. "If you do as I say," Lorenzo continued, watching her with cold brown eyes, "I will spare you. Truly, I mean you no harm. Your... magnificence captivated me from the moment we first met."