3

The ballroom was filled with the most prominent families in France. Every available Lady was in attendance in the hope of catching his Majesty’s eye. The room was cluttered with an array of bright, colourful evening gowns complete with a full-skirted pannier, which was the latest style in Paris.

Pierre had been forced by edict to roam the ballroom greeting his subjects. Early into the evening, he had run into old childhood friends, Felix the Marquess of Dé Béviour and Jean Claude, the Earl of Adron. Both men had come into their titles recently and were enjoying the wealth and influence attached. Much like Pierre, the two were notorious for their womanizing. Each was trying to live life to the fullest before their responsibilities forced them to wed.

“I had never thought you would be the first at the altar,” Felix had said as they stood off to the side of the ball, sharing a glass of wine. Felix had been the only son of the late Marquess Dé Béviour, a fickle penny-pinching old dragon. There was little mourning when the older man died two summers ago. Felix was not a tall man, but between his attractive dark features and his immense wealth, Felix was often hounded by marriage-minded females.

Pierre rolled his eyes at the reminder. “I assure you it is not of my own free will,” he grumbled. “I can only imagine the woman my father has selected,” he said, looking out over the eligible Ladies in attendance. Many were squeezed uncomfortably into their dress with the assistance of their corsets. Their faces painted up, and their hair painstakingly pinned up in precarious towering configurations atop their head and powdered white, their bodies dripping in jewels meant to draw the eye.

“Well, the good news is that you must only tolerate the shrew long enough to sire a son, then you may return to your life of decadence and excess,” Jean Claude said with a smile. He was a tall man with golden hair and blue eyes; he had never had trouble finding female company, even as a young boy. Many a maid had lost their innocence to him. “How was London?”

Pierre was grateful for the distraction. “Lovely, the summer season was just about to begin when I was called away,” he had already had numerous invitations, and the season had not yet begun. As lovely as London was, it did not compare to the beauty of Paris. “It was promising to be quite eventful.”

“With any luck, you will be free to return soon. I may even go with you,” Felix said with amusement.

Pierre picked an invisible piece of lint from the waistcoat of his white silk suit with silver embroidery. His silver and gold sash draped over his right shoulder and tied off by his left hip just above the sheathed sword belted around his waist. Pierre had shaved and pulled his dark ebony hair back in a queue. Unlike many of the pompous aristocrats, neither Pierre nor his friends adhered to the practiced tradition of white wigs and powdered faces. Nor did Pierre particularly like pantaloons. Much to his father’s dislike, Pierre preferred trousers. His skirted waistcoat the furthest Pierre was willing to go concerning Paris fashion; he much preferred the clean cuts and lines of the London fashion.

Out of the corner of his eye, Pierre spotted a vision in gold. Her empress cut gown drew attention to her ripe bust. Her long chocolate hair tied back into a thick, intricate braid laced with gilder ribbon and baby’s breath. The fan in her hand was closed as she strolled toward the garden veranda. Pierre was pleased to see his evasive mystery woman in attendance. It gave him another opportunity to discover her name.

He excused himself and started for the veranda doors he had watched her disappear through just moments earlier. He hadn’t made it halfway when Daniela placed herself in his path. Her brilliant green gown and perils inappropriate for a grieving widow. It was customary for a widow to dress in modest black and refrain from festivities for one year, but it would appear that his sister-in-law had other plans.

Her light blonde hair had been powdered and pinned, as was the fashion. She fluttered her fan and offered him a flirtatious smile. “Oh, Pierre, is this not a fabulous night?”

He offered her a restrained smile. “Forgive me, Daniela, but I see someone I know, and I wish to speak with them,” he said, sidestepping to get around her. Only Daniela stepped with him and remained in his path with her bottom lip thrust out in a moue.

“Oh, but Pierre, I wish to dance. Will, you not oblige me?”

Pierre glanced back at the doors and watched as a young gentleman followed his mystery woman out onto the veranda. He sighed and took Daniela by the hand. “Very well,” he conceded. He drew her into his arms at a respectful distance and began to lead her around the dance floor. One dance, and then he would excuse himself. He was barely paying attention to her nattering as he wondered whether his mystery woman was married to the young man that had followed her out. A strange sense of disappointment filled him at the thought.

The song came to an end, and Pierre released Daniela and offered her a bow. “Now, if you will excuse me I-”

“Oh, Pierre!” He heard his mother call as she strolled over to him in her dark blue ball gown, the crown placed delicately atop her greying light brown hair. Reaching Pierre and Daniela, his mother placed her hand on her son’s arm. “Come now, dear boy, it is time to meet your bride,” she said, lacing her arm with his expecting Pierre to escort her back to the throne.

Pierre frowned as he placed his hand over his mother’s and walked her back to the head of the grand hall. He had dreaded this very moment from the second he heard of Lui’s passing. Reaching the throne, he passed his mother off to her husband and took his place beside his father’s chair.

His parents stood in front of the thrones, and a trumpet rang out. Everyone fell to attention, awaiting the words of the king. They took their seats, and his father began to speak. “This has been a dark time for France. Our Crowned Prince has been taken from us far too early in life, but France is not left unprepared. Tonight, we rejoice in the future union of the Crowned Prince Pierre. I know he will take France into a new era. Tonight, France meets its future Queen. Come forth, child and be known,” the King called out.

Pierre took a deep breath, preparing himself for the worst as he looked at the many faces gathered. The crowd parted, and from the end of the hall was the same young gentleman he had seen earlier exiting out onto the veranda and on his arm Pierre’s mystery woman in gold. The young man escorted her to the foot of the throne, and they both respectively bowed low, their heads hung respectfully. “Philip Donfey, Archduke of Léfebvre and the Lady Isabella Donfey,” the page announced the couple.

A surprised smile turned up the corners of Pierre’s lips as he gazed upon the woman who had been on his mind all afternoon. She lifted her head, and her gaze fell to Pierre. A look of stunned exasperation graced her pretty face as she recognized him from the valley. What an interesting turn of events.