André sat in his study still chuckling, his shoulders shaking slightly as he leaned back in his chair. The laugh wasn't loud or hearty. It was quiet. The kind that makes a person in the room shift uncomfortably because they're not sure if you've heard a joke or just lost your mind.
The servant standing by the wall kept glancing at him, his brow furrowed. He had been told to stand there in case his lord needed anything, but now he was wondering if "mental health intervention" counted as part of his duties.
The door creaked open and Bernard stepped inside. Bernard paused halfway, taking in the scene: André with that strange smile, eyes on nothing in particular, and the poor servant looking like he wanted to dissolve into the floor. Bernard looked between the two of them.
The servant leaned closer to Bernard and whispered, "I don't know."
Bernard frowned and walked toward the desk. "Your Grace, are you… alright?"
André's laugh softened to a low hum. He blinked slowly, as if coming back from a pleasant daydream, then turned his head lazily toward Bernard. "I am. It's just… really funny."
Bernard tilted his head. "What is?"
André let out another laugh, shorter this time. "Her. She actually believes I'm that stupid." He shook his head in disbelief. "It's quite something, Bernard. Really. She thinks she's playing me." He leaned forward, tapping his pen against the desk. "It's adorable. Like a rabbit thinking it's hunting the fox."
The servant blinked. Bernard tried not to smile because the last time he did, André had asked him, "What's so funny?" in a tone that could have frozen blood.
André stood, taking his time, stretching slightly as if enjoying his own private joke. He picked up his pen, dipped it into the ink, and signed the last parchment on the table with smooth precision.
"I'm done with the signing this garbage," he said, setting the pen down. His tone was casual, but there was that spark in his eyes again — the kind that made Bernard wonder if someone, somewhere, should be warned.
André smiled faintly and started toward the door, heading in the direction of his chambers. His steps were steady and unhurried, but just before he reached the staircase, something caught his attention. A servant was moving quickly toward the servants' quarters.
His lips curved in a sharper smile. He thought of a certain raven-haired troublemaker. He murmured to himself, "I must have shocked her."
---
In Vivienne's room, things were less calm.
She sat on the bed, knees drawn up slightly, hands clasped together. Her body trembled, but not out of fear. No, this was something else. She could still feel the ghost of his mouth on hers, the firm grip, the way it had caught her completely off guard.
Her hand went up to her lips almost without thinking. They were still swollen. She pressed them lightly, remembering the heat of it.
If I hadn't pulled away, she thought, maybe he would have fucking eaten my lips.
The thought made her bite back a laugh. She shook her head, muttering, "Well… it's not a bad thing."
She sat up straighter. This wasn't a disaster — far from it. If anything, it was an opening.
"It means," she whispered to herself, "he's that crazy about you. There's nothing to worry about. This will be easy. You just have to play the part. Even if he's strange."
The door opened and Genevieve stepped in, her face bright and curious. "Who's strange?"
Vivienne's face shifted in an instant. Gone was the calculating glint in her eyes; in its place was the soft, mournful look of Vivienne-the-widowed-maid. She shrugged lightly. "It's nothing."
Genevieve didn't buy it. She came closer, leaning in like a gossip at a marketplace. "Tell me."
In her head, Vivienne groaned. What is it with this bitch? Go away. Go pluck a chicken or something.
Out loud, her voice was smooth. "It's nothing, really."
Genevieve's eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "It's about the duke, right? I heard you're now his personal maid, so you must have met him. Are the rumours really true?"
Vivienne lowered her lashes, voice soft. "They aren't true. He's just… normal."
And fucking gullible, she added silently.
Genevieve looked surprised. "Really?"
Before Vivienne could answer, there was a knock at the door. Genevieve straightened and called, "Come in."
The door opened and in walked André.
For a second, Vivienne felt her chest tighten — not out of fear, but because his presence always seemed to fill the room. She stood quickly, a little surprised, and gave a small bow. "My lord."
Genevieve's mouth fell open. She looked between them like she had just caught the ending of a scandalous play and desperately wanted to know the rest.
André's gaze flicked briefly toward Genevieve, then back to Vivienne. "Can we talk?"
Vivienne nodded.
They stepped out together, leaving Genevieve behind, frozen in place, eyes wide like she'd just witnessed an affair unfold.
They walked through the long hallway in silence for a moment. The air between them felt heavy, but André spoke first. His voice was calm, almost gentle. "About the kiss… I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to go overboard. It's just…" He glanced at her briefly. "I couldn't help myself. I love you that much."
Inside his head, his thoughts were far less tender. I wonder how you'll look when you unravel. When you lose every bit of control. Will you still cry? Or will you beg?
Vivienne smiled at him softly, her expression warm and forgiving. "It's okay. I'm sorry for running away. I won't do that again."
But in her mind, the smile was sharp. That's right. I will. But not from a kiss. It'll be with your gold. Keep falling in love, dear Duke. The faster you do, the faster I get that horse and the hell out of here.
They kept walking, both of them wearing masks — he, the polite and apologetic nobleman; she, the sweet and understanding maid.
Neither said out loud what they were actually thinking.
If they had, the walls of the chateau might not have been able to hold the chaos that would follow.