The scent of beeswax and rosewater clung to the marble halls of Versailles, where golden chandeliers shimmered like a thousand stars suspended from the heavens. Beneath the glimmering facade, servants glided like ghosts, their presence barely acknowledged unless summoned. Among them was Marie.
She moved silently through the Queen's wing, balancing a silver tray laden with delicate pastries and steaming tea. Her linen apron, though freshly pressed, bore a faint stain from the morning's scullery work. Her gaze remained lowered, trained on her steps—until a flicker of movement caught her eye.
At the far end of the corridor, sunlight broke through stained glass and haloed a man in gold-trimmed blue. He stood tall, arms crossed behind his back, observing the artwork with a disinterest only the wealthy could afford. The Duke of Montmorency.
Marie's breath caught. She knew his name, of course—everyone did. Rumored to be as cunning as he was charming, the Duke had returned from a campaign in the colonies not two months past. And yet here he was, seemingly alone, blocking her path.
He turned slowly, his gaze meeting hers—not with the contempt common among nobles, but with curiosity. Amusement, even.
"You walk like you carry secrets, mademoiselle," he said, his voice smooth, laced with idle nobility.
Marie dipped into a curtsey, keeping her eyes lowered. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I meant no offense."
"None taken," he replied, and to her astonishment, stepped aside to let her pass.
She moved quickly, cheeks flushed, heart pounding. As she vanished around the corner, she could still feel his gaze—curious, calculating—following her.
And in that moment, something fragile and dangerous bloomed in the silence between them.
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