Following their actions in The Golden Girl, Marguerite and Céleste must deal with the repercussions of their recent behaviors.
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Marguerite has landed herself in quite the shameful predicament, but she needs to make priorities; to somehow mainta...
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"What have we done?"
Light poured in from the window, basking King Antoine's still awakening face in a heavenly glow. His hazel eyes closed, opened, closed, then spread so far apart they sent Marguerite reeling backwards. He peered down at his exposed torso and held up the covers to inspect his lower half.
Marguerite fought to push out the shameful thoughts while imagining what he saw—and shuddered.
"What did we do?" He jumped off the mattress, holding the large, furry blanket over his private parts as his brows flew up. "Oh... oh dear." His gaze raced up and down the thin sheet concealing Marguerite's nudity.
She clutched the luxurious fabric tighter, but it was as though he could see through it. As if he scanned every inch of her frame, remembering her, reliving her.
Despite his heaving breaths, his lips tugged into a brief, crooked smile; but he washed it off almost as fast as it had showed up.
"Maggie..." he whispered, stuck, stiff, his bare, muscular chest covering with goosebumps. The subtlest of bulges appeared below his waistline, and Marguerite gasped as she shielded her eyes with one hand, her other clenching the sheet harder.
"Was this your plan? To make me... for us to... to do this?" She chewed her lip; her voice was raspy, her throat burning, yearning for water. Her head pounded, her stomach churned, and when his soft fingertips touched her arm, she scooched away and gasped again.
His breath, hinted with the after-effects of alcohol, whizzed over her shoulders, creating chills that settled at her lower back. "We do not know if anything happened." He inched closer; so close she saw the veins pulsating under his skin.
"We are in the nude! How could you not assume we..." She yanked the cloth up to her neck and winced as she swallowed.
He squinted at her, his lips silky smooth, slowly nearing her jaw. "Well... still—"
"—wait." Marguerite slanted away from him. "You do not remember either? Not a thing?"
Antoine's free hand raised to massage his temples. "I am unsure what happened, how we got to this point." His breaths were deep and solemn; unlike Marguerite's frantic pants.
A whiff of wine-scented breath trailing from his mouth triggered another memory. Her, on the bed, eyes closed, lips parted. With her golden locks spread about the pillow, she giggled. Whispered. Moaned.
Antoine climbed on top of her. He moved, wriggled, rocked her back and forth, and her eyelashes fluttered as she toppled into some trance, some moment of ecstasy—
Oh, Heavens.
The blurriness about Antoine's features dissipated. He'd muttered sweet nothings, collided into her. She'd tousled his messy mane, dug her fingers into his scalp, hauled him closer. She'd moaned, he'd moaned; they'd shrieked, passion oozing from their mouths, sweat glistening their flesh.
When the image faded, Marguerite's knees gave out as nausea bubbled up her throat. "Oh..."
Antoine grabbed her by the elbows, halting her fall, the blanket sliding down his nakedness. She was too woozy to ogle him, too dazed to pay attention to the delicious curves of his body.
He hurried to guide her into a plush indigo chaise by the fire, then retrieved his cover before he kneeled at her feet.
Her heart raced so hard, she worried it would explode. Bile threatened to infest her mouth as she secured the sheet under her armpits and took hold of the armrests, squeezing out her tension, her terror, and the turbulent flashes still haunting her.
She'd known when she'd found the blood, when she'd located him beside her. But the visions seemed to confirm it all.
"We most definitely did something. Something atrocious, we..." She struggled to speak, her vocal cords raw. "The fitted sheets... check them."
She pivoted in her seat to watch him huff as he scurried to her side of the bed, lifted the covers—and shifted away with widening eyes.
"Oh... my God." He dashed back to her, nearly tripping as he again lowered before her. "We... Maggie, I..."
Tears welled at her lash-line as she released the armrests and pulled the satin sheet's fabric up to her chin. She'd never been so exposed, so embarrassed. So unable to remember how they'd got to this; how they'd done this.
"Are you all right? Physically, I mean..." He cringed. "Did I hurt you?"
Marguerite gulped a sizeable lump of angst and agony. "I cannot recall." Liquid clogged her eyes, bracing to slosh down her cheeks.
Disappointment, dishonor, shame; the words echoed within, causing her to hiccup, and smack a hand over her mouth as she cried.
What would the court say? What would Céleste, Johanna, Séb and Jules, and Cordelia say? And Clémentine—
The lump she'd swallowed made its way back up her throat.
Antoine brushed her cheek, hushing her as he took her into his arms. A faint trace of last night's cologne lingered near his ears, and she sniffed it in, praying for it to comfort her.
"There is nothing we can do, then. What is done is done, and we must face the consequences," he said, his voice firm, yet oddly soothing.
Head spinning, Marguerite nestled against his neck, letting her tears flow, her panic unleash. "Consequences," she repeated, uncertain what that meant.
Antoine freed her and stood, fastening the blanket around him like a towel. "But... disrespectful as this is, it might be our way to keep you here. In Totresia. At least, until we find a better solution."
She slouched in the seat, eyeing him, admiring the silliness about the giant cloth wrapped over him. How she missed their innocent days, far from lust and alcohol and mistakes—
She turned from him, unwilling to let his presence trigger more flashes of their sneaky, sultry night.
He crouched again and placed his hands on her knees, prompting her heart to speed up. "We... I will announce this to the nobles." He grasped her chin and spun her to him, a sternness in his eyes that unsettled her and aroused her all at once. "With discretion. I will tell them you are my official mistress, and that is how we stop Cornelius from taking you to Giroma."
Marguerite's muscles cramped as ice flowed through her veins. Her belly ached, her brain throbbed, and all she had drunk the night before wanted to spill out onto the floor.
From Golden girl, to Duchess, to formal royal mistress—oh, my life has turned upside down.
