Geneviève
Versailles Gardens, shortly before the inquiry
"Must you pace like a widow in mourning? You'll wear a trench into the gravel."
I didn't turn around. "And you'll wear out your welcome, if you keep sneaking up on me like that."
"I wasn't sneaking," came the voice—smooth, amused, and far too at ease. "You were sulking too loudly to notice me approach."
I turned slowly.
There, beneath the arched trellis of climbing roses, leaned the bastard son of the Duke of Lévignac. Bastien De Rouchefort. His coat was dark, perfectly tailored, his cravat tied just loosely enough to suggest irreverence but not rebellion. And, of course, the signature mark of his blood: no signet ring. No crest. No claim.
Only a smile too charming to be trusted.
"I didn't realize bastards were allowed to stroll the Queen's gardens unchaperoned."
"Only the decorative ones." His gaze flicked over me, deliberate and amused. "And the disgraced ones, I hear. Are we not both rare breeds?"
I sighed through my nose and resumed walking. He fell into step beside me.
"I'm not in the mood for games, Bastien."
"Then you're in the wrong palace."
I hated that he had a point. Worse, I hated that he was here.
"What do you want?"
"Conversation. Sunshine. Possibly a scandal, depending on how the day goes." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "And you, dear countess, are more entertaining than the doves or the fountains."
I stopped walking and faced him.
"Someone is dead, Bastien. Murdered. And now I have a threat in my bodice and a summons to explain myself before people who would rather see me hang than sip wine."
He blinked, then smiled softly, as if I'd confirmed something he'd already guessed. "Ah. So it's true."
"What is?"
"That the red rose wasn't just part of the decor."
A breeze stirred between us. Rose petals danced at our feet. For a moment, Versailles was silent.
"You're not just here for idle flirting," I said, watching him. "They sent you, didn't they?"
"I'm here for a hundred reasons," he replied, too gently. "Flirting was just first on the list."
He stepped back and offered his arm with an elegant, mocking little bow. "Shall we walk, Countess de Marçay? There are ears behind every hedge and eyes behind every curtain. Best look like we adore each other."
I didn't take his arm.
But I walked beside him anyway.