♦YOU MUST HAVE READ THE PREQUEL, THE GOLDEN PRINCESS, TO READ THIS BOOK!♦
BEWARE--spoilers in this blurb, for those who have not read previous books! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
Kings. Queens. Princes & Princesses. Duchesses and Dukes. And... regents?
Eve...
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After her meltdown in the Study, Marguerite requested a stroll through the gardens. Sébastien the worrisome and Henry the charming accompanied her, keeping her steady.
The fresh air put out a few of the fires in her lungs, but one still lingered, flaring higher and higher, bright and tormenting; the one representing her future, and how she had no say in it.
As she sucked in the snowy breezes, the men babbled on about the ball, its theme, the guest-list, and suggested they might invite Terter—so that he might decline and show his true intentions. At that, she'd released an ear-piercing shriek that might have shattered glass were they inside instead of braving the icy pathway.
Sébastien shooed Henry off and proposed a break in the conversation for a bite to eat. Marguerite's stomach gurgled too much to reject the proposal.
An hour later, sipping on her watered-down wine, Marguerite peered across the somewhat deserted Dining Room.
"I need you to value me, Séb. If you do not respect me, I cannot be certain other nobles will."
Perched beside her, Sébastien finished chewing his bite and swallowed, then curved to her. "I cannot apologize enough, can I? We would never contradict you in their presence. We would never shame you."
She deposited her goblet so fast, some of its contents splashed onto the ruby-colored tablecloth. "But you did! When you offered me up like a choice piece of pork, during my first meeting with them."
"That was a mistake," said the Prince, patting her hand while narrowing his gaze at the soldiers lining the dais, a few of which shuddered at Marguerite's tone. He dipped his spoon into the soup and blew on the meat stock. "But you must understand Henry and I... what we discuss when you are not around... we are trying to help. These are essential steps to take and we seek to be prepared."
The steam from her potage wafted to her chin, coating it in tiny beads of sweat. "So you will proceed meeting in my absence to confer about my life when I asked you not to?" She glared into the murky liquid and imagined herself flinging the bowl at his face.
Sébastien ripped into the bread by his soup, and the doughy scent reached Marguerite's nostrils, jerking her to the present—where she couldn't throw objects around when irritated.
"We may tackle certain matters without you, yes. But we hold no power to decide, you do. Are we not your advisors? Are we not to debate our concerns, whether or not you are near? We must act in a hurry, sometimes, to ensure your safety, and be on alert should someone or something compromise it." He squeezed his bread a tad too tight. "Which we are not. All is well. Look," he craned his neck to her, "I never mean to offend, and neither does Henry. But we have more knowledge on these issues. Him with Giromians, me with political experience, thanks to Father, and Antoine."
"Fine, but," she sneered at his peachy skin and perfect complexion, yearning to throw something at him, "stop demeaning me. Shoving lists of prospects under my nose and expecting me to pluck one out with a smile? It is crude."
