VERSAILLES || h.s.

XXXI

Louis' breath trembled as he raised his hand to eye-level and saw it coated in glistening red. He gasped weakly as he clutched his side once more. His heartbeat echoed in his ears loudly, and he was acutely aware of the thick blood slowly seeping out of his wound. The pain was so intense he was unsure if he could even feel it. His eyes were wide as he lay crumpled on the marble floors of the palace, his gaze blank and glassy. Millions of thoughts raced through the Earl's mind, but he could only focus on one: he was dying. Time moved strangely, as if everything was coated in thick honey. He was unaware he was crying until the hot, salty tears dripped into his mouth. Louis looked up, and was met with an array of angels and cherubs painted on the ceiling, perched on clouds, guarding heaven. He scoffed at the palace's desire to mock him, but the action instantly caused a a blow of red-hot pain through his body, and a splatter of blood to shoot out of his mouth.

The Earl wheezed and panted until the pain subsided some, or was at least overcome by the horrific burn of the stab wound. He released his shoulders and let them slump as he stared at a painting of a young woman hanging on the wall across from him. It was always believed that one's life flashed before one's eyes when the time came for Death to collect his debt, but the same could not be said for the Lord Tomlinson. In fact, he could scarcely remember anything before Lorenzo's arrival to the Palace of Versailles. It was as if he had possessed no life before then. Is this how I will be forced to live out the last hours of my life? he thought bitterly. Thinking of the wretched man who killed me? He tried to gather his voice to call out for help, but to no avail. A second wave of pain shot through his body, and he began to convulse as he went into shock.
"Louis? Where are you, old friend?"
The world around him seemed distant, as if he was not present within himself. A disembodied voice was calling his name. Was it God? The Devil? He knew he would soon find out.
"Louis," the voice repeated. It sounded strange, as if it came from underwater. The Earl closed his eyes and let the tears roll down his cheeks as he felt the last of his strength seep out of him, accepting his fate.

Louis' head lolled to the side and his hands fell slack onto the floor, landing in a puddle of his own fresh blood. In the distance, a figure turned the corner. "Louis!" It called out. "My Lord, it is I, the Baron of Albany—"
Niall faltered as he stepped closer to where the Earl lay on the floor. His eyes widened as the puddle of blood inched close to his feet. "My God," he murmured, falling to his knees beside his friend. Frantically, he searched for the wound, his hands turning deep red as he pat down the Earl's bloodied torso. His fingers met the deep cut, and Niall felt his stomach churn. He turned away and breathed shakily, praying he would not retch before he could help Louis. He moved his blood-stained hands to the Earl's neck and removed his silken bow, pressing it onto the gash to slow the loss of blood.

"Jesus Christ," the Irishman swore under his breath. "Lord Jesus, help me." He looked around in a panic, his hands still firmly pressed to the Earl's side. "Help!" he yelled. "Somebody, anyone— help!" He shouted for what felt like an eternity, and not a soul responded.
"Louis, wake up," he choked, holding back another wave of nausea. Despair was rapidly setting in, and the Baron's hands began to tremble. "Lorenzo," he muttered, anger making his voice waver. "That vile beast will pay for this, my friend, I swear it." He watched as the Earl's breathing grew dangerously shallow. "No, no, no," Niall begged desperately. "Please, someone, anyone in this God-forsaken place help!"

"Monsieur?" squeaked a small voice behind him. Niall turned to see a mousy servant girl with wide eyes watching him. Her gaze fell to Louis' dying figure, and a gasp parted her lips. She looked back at Niall with fear in her eyes, uncertain of what had happened or what she should do.
"He's bleeding–there is too much... Please, help," the Baron stammered, struggling to articulate himself. "We need a medic, a nurse– A physician! Fetch a physician!"
"Un...un médecin?" the girl managed, unable to move. Her face was devoid of colour, and her eyes were locked on the bloodied body slumped against the wall.
"Yes! Oui, fetch him! Hurry!" He shut his eyes tightly, struggling to find the words in French. "Erm, I– vite!"
The servant's lip trembled as she stumbled back the way she came, murmuring a prayer in French for the Earl of Dartmouth's soul to find peace in heaven.

•

The Viscount stared at Odete in awe, his mind simultaneously blank and filled with thoughts. Locks of her deep brown hair fell over her shoulders and skimmed her collarbones, and her skin appeared blurred, almost iridescent under the moonlight that broke through the thick trees overhead. It was a chilly Spring night, and with each gentle whisper of the cool breeze, goosebumps riddled their forearms and necks. At least, that is what Harry would attribute them to, for he would much rather believe he was suffering a natural reaction to the weather, and not that he was simply overwhelmed with new and intense emotion in that moment, the likes of which he had never experienced before. An inexplicable warmth filled his chest, yet his stomach felt cold, and churned with the flutter of a thousand butterflies. He had a tingling sensation in his toes, but his hands felt shaky and numb. Was he ill? Had he eaten something different? No, certainly not. Of course, he knew what it was – plainly, he was nervous. The bold, arrogant, and suave Lord Styles had never experienced such a feeling, much less at the hands of a woman. It was foreign and somewhat uncomfortable, yet he could not bring himself to dislike the sensation. Perhaps it was because he was a known and keen collector of new experiences. Or, perhaps, he realised it was symptomatic of love.

Harry was snapped out of his thoughts by a cold splash of water to his chest. The Lady of Mallard giggled as the water rippled around them.
"Good heavens, Vicomte," she said, "never have I witnessed you in such a pensive state."
"I tend to lose myself in thought when faced with beautiful, naked women," he smirked playfully. He pulled Odete close and felt her shiver as she moved through the water. "You're cold."
"Nonsense," she muttered. As if on cue, her teeth chattered involuntarily. Harry let out a hearty laugh that reverberated through the Lady Beauchamp, whose head rested on his chest. "Alright," she conceded. "Perhaps it is a bit cold." The Lord of Breckenridge smiled as he led Odete out of the water. The pair stumbled for their clothes in the dark as the cool breeze turned icy against their exposed, wet skin. They fumbled around in the dark, attempting to dress themselves before a cold could set in, and occasionally stealing glances at one another. In those moments, giggles would fill the air, reminding nature that these were still only two young lovers, filled with more innocence than customary aristocratic debauchery could tarnish.

"No peeking, My Lady," Harry called out as he struggled into his breeches. "I'm saving my virtue for marriage."
"Mon cheri, I fear you may misunderstand what virtue means," Odete sighed, her remark tinged with humour. She finished fastening the bodice of her gown and turned to face the young Lord, who was slipping into his satin blouse.
"Where to next, Mademoiselle?" he asked, offering his arm to Odete.
"This is your specialty, My Lord," she grinned, slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow. "You tell me."
"Well, there is a long list of wicked things we could do tonight," Harry sighed. He began walking Odete out of their little clearing, their steps back towards the palace slow and deliberate. "We could steal sweets and cakes from the kitchens, or we could pick flowers from the Queen's prized greenhouse, or we could even—"
"Harry," Odete interrupted, a coy smile playing at her pink lips, "there must be something else. Perhaps something more...aligned with your reputation." She looked up at him and saw a boyish grin slowly spread across his face, showcasing his dimples under the pale moon.
"I see," he responded. "I suppose I can think of something." He and the Lady Beauchamp shared a knowing gaze, and Odete burst into youthful laughter, breaking into an excited run.
"Come!" she yelled, making her way back to the palace at a far quickened pace, the thrill of the evening ahead filling her with an ebullience she hadn't felt in days. The Lord Styles sighed and chased after her, his smile never once faltering.

They dashed across the magnificent gardens of Versailles, with moonlight guiding their path and a heavenly weightlessness under their feet. Their laughter fluttered into the night sky and was swept away with the gentle kiss of Spring's breath. Enveloped in the warm and comforting arms of young love, the Viscount Breckenridge and the Lady Mallard revelled in the elation of their steps, the erratic beating of their hearts, and the raggedness of their breathing, almost as if they knew that such bliss could never last – at least, not at Versailles.