Chapter Text
The queen sat adjacent to the king at the small breakfast table that they sometimes dined at when no court business obligated them to eat with others. She stared at him as he stared at his meal. “Your majesty, pardon me … you say that Interior Minister Blaisdell has invited us to his house? But … why?”
“He has. Does that disturb you, my queen?”
The king continued to look carefully at his meal instead of at his wife, and Marie sighed. “Of course not, but … it doesn’t strike you as rather peculiar? I mean to say … well, most of the court keeps to themselves, but suddenly one of the most secretive members wants us in his home?”
“My queen, do not concern yourself about that. Perhaps they are finally willing to put some faith in you.” Louis had begun to eat, and Marie knew from experience that the conversation was over. Once Louis began to eat his meal, he no longer wanted to talk about anything but the food. She smiled thinly and went back to her coffee, which had no taste now.
All the rest of the day she thought about it, through the parade of morning visits from the court ladies and the mandatory cup of tea to be taken in the presence of that horrible bitch Princess Adelaide, through the noon time meal presented with all of the gravity of a formal court supper, through the afternoon conference with the financial cabinet, where three hours passed in tedium and a significant amount was said to reiterate a pathetically straightforward statement—“We have no revenue.” She glared at Blaisdell as if he were personally responsible for the waste of time. Predictably enough, he took no notice of her foul mood until the meeting adjourned with absolutely nothing resolved. Then he met her eyes, mockery in his own. “Your majesty, you seem a little different today.”
“Please cease, sir,” Marie said in tight tones. “Explain your meaning in inviting the king and myself to your home so abruptly.”
“Must there be a reason for me to extend hospitality, my dear queen? I merely wish to see yourself and the king at your best, and to that end you two need time away from your daily responsibilities. In my home you may be at ease to enjoy what relaxes you most, with no interference.”
Marie stared at him distrustfully, but his placid face betrayed nothing. She sighed, accepting with visible reluctance, and he smiled at her in such an unassuming manner that she was immediately on edge again as she bid him farewell and quickly left the salon.
But though she had no answers, she continued to wonder, to herself, to Louis, to the room she slept in alone, to the carriage taking them to the Interior Minister’s home. She looked at the large country estate with a great deal of curiosity as the horses came over down the tree-lined avenue. She realized for the first time how very little she truly knew any of her subjects, and for a moment, she felt rather small and hopeless, despite her royal robes.
A servant had the two of them inside and served them light refreshments with cool mineral water while they looked over their surroundings and waited for the master of the house to appear. He took his time about the matter, long enough for Louis to become interested in a book. And much like when he was absorbed into his gastronomical pleasures, once Louis began reading, he became deaf to the world. This inattendance included his wife, much to her annoyance. She sat across from him, her expression growing steadily darker, until she stood abruptly and announced that she might amuse herself by exploring the house and grounds, if she might be excused? And the king murmured back in inattentive tones that she ought to be cautious if she went outside, it looked like rain.
Marie changed quickly from her touring clothes into a more practical riding habit and went directly to the stables, where servants prepared their master’s best mare and pointed out a well-known riding trail that led into silent woods. She rode away at a swift canter, the strong steed carrying her away from the choking heart of luxury until she was surrounded on all sides with tall, gnarled trunks, sparkling foliage, sunlight filtering through rustling leaves, and the quiet sounds of a living, breathing grove.
She rode on down the trail that others had trod before her for quite some time before she realized that the manor house was now completely out of sight, she had no real idea of where she might be, and worst of all, Louis had been entirely correct about the inclement weather. By the time she found her bearings and managed to blunder back to her host’s home, the horse was steaming and she looked a fright, her false hair wrecked and her new clothes sodden through with dirty water. She led the patient, steady mare back to her paddock, where a stable hand stood, pitchfork in hand. Apparently he had been pitching the straw just before she arrived.
“Ya get wet?” he asked.
Marie huffed tiredly at the utter stupidity of the question. “I did. Would you mind tying her up so I can rub her down?”
“Ayup,” the man drawled.
Marie averted her eyes upon coming closer. She reminded herself quickly that a man who pitched dung had no reason to dress in the multiple layers required for court etiquette, but it still felt more than a bit indecent to be so near a man wearing nothing but his outer shirt and top coat. Then she recalled that she was so wet that her clothes hid nothing at all, and she swallowed thickly, suddenly obsessing over the details of caring for the sopping mare.
The stable hand was excellent with the horse, despite his lack of attention to his own appearance. Marie started at first when he spoke to her directly without any of the usual pleasantries, feeling almost offended by his informality, but soon enough she was able to remove herself from her royal dignity and accept his advice and corrections. Between the two of them, the horse was soon comfortable and went away to her accustomed stall all on her own. Marie watched her go with a vague sense of regret. That ride had felt like a lost freedom, a luxury too dear for even a queen to purchase.
“And now—“ she jumped, that forward stable hand was right behind her— “How ‘bout you, marm?”
“Sir, excuse me?”
“Y’r all wet,” he said, grinning.
Marie’s temper flared for an instant before a detail struck her—those mocking gray eyes—and then she was absolutely livid, raising her hand to slap the Interior Minister full across his face. She missed, of course, and then came a full ten minutes of her raging helplessly as he laughed at her, one of his hands more than sufficient to hold both of her arms. Finally she fell silent, embarrassed but still utterly furious. “Mr. Blaisdell, this is a very poor joke.”
“A joke, your majesty?” His long drawl was gone now, replaced by his usual tone of polished culture interlaced with sarcasm. “What joke is there in properly caring for your animals? A thoroughbred mare is quite valuable, it does not do to be completely out of touch with how to handle matters for oneself.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “And I feel certain that the downpour of rain has nothing to do with why you are here personally, dressed like a lewd ruffian?”
“But of course, I take personal responsibility for my own mount, and naturally I am more concerned when the weather becomes bad. As for my dress, surely you didn’t expect me to stand around in a stable wearing my usual clothes, your Majesty? I would never get the scent out.” He held a blanket out to her; she stared at it aghast, a very fine horse blanket, but something that she would normally never have in her sight.
“Am I actually meant to use that?”
“Unless you enjoy being completely wet? And rather cold, I’ll be bound.”
“Turn around, Blaisdell.”
“Of course, your majesty.” As he did, he continued, “But you might find you need assistance with those clothes.”
He was right, of course. The fine leather laces that normally loosened readily when she needed to change her outfit were waterlogged, so swollen that they couldn’t be undone. She tried several times before giving up with a huff.
“Your majesty?” Blaisdell called. He was facing away from her, but Marie knew all too well exactly what his face would look like. Smug, insufferably triumphant. “Do you require assistance?”
“I—“
She stopped, realizing that her voice had given her away. She was chattering and numb and miserable and yes, she needed help, and she wasn’t about to ask, no she wasn’t, but it didn’t matter as the Interior Minister towered over her with the musky blanket held at the ready. She looked down, admitting defeat in silence, and he wrapped it around her shoulders before undressing her in the middle of a horse stable.
The fabric was rough and prickly. He did not take liberties, but it did not seem to matter. Marie found that she could not look at him directly without feeling uncomfortably fidgety. The blanket shifted as she twisted her hands in it, nervous energy driving her to nervous motions. She stepped out of the saturated boots and her drenched pantalones fell to the dusty floor as she wobbled backwards, unsure of her footing. Blaisdell immediately had her by the arm, his touch pressing the smelly blanket into her. She instinctively shied away and slipped. He was right there to catch her, not by the arm but around the waist, pulling her in too close and holding her upright and she gasped, her body reacting to the feeling creeping over her unbidden: the blanket abrading her skin, her subject daring to handle his queen as if she was little more than a task to complete. Her breaths stuck, her nipples stiffened. She dared not think about the sudden ache in her core as Blaisdell leaned down to continue opening her clothes, and her eyes slid away. He did not look directly at her, either, as he pulled the wet fabric apart and exposed her completely, but that small nicety did nothing to lessen her mortification. She stood awkwardly rigid as he dried her with his hands decidedly on the exterior of the blanket, and he murmured that she needed to go in quickly and return to her chambers before she caught cold, his voice gone as harsh and rough as the fabric covering her. She gave him one final glare—it was all she could do to recover some semblance of dignity—and fled inside with a burning face.
All that evening she continued to feel it—the harsh, lingering feeling of something prickly and unpolished touching her. Washing thoroughly, even to the point of immersing herself in a tub of hot water, could not make the sensation leave. Neither did putting on silk and letting her hair loose to caress her shoulders, two indulgences that in times past, never failed to dispel a foul mood. She paced slowly, her night dress rustling as she turned about again. Again and again, that strange feeling playing on her nerves and making her body restless when she ought to be deeply content.
Was it because he saw her nude? … or because he saw her nude and chose not to react?
She might be young, but she was not a fool. She knew very well why he had been present in that stable, and no one else had. Perhaps he truly was that invested in his horse, but it was hardly difficult to imagine that he had come to see her as well, see all of her … which he had. So why had he just …
She had just managed to work herself up to a point of great aggravation when a tap at the door and a sweet, deferential voice informed her that supper would be served in the next 20 minutes. She quickly did her hair up before checking her face in the mirror. She looked the same as she always had, and yet she was different now, intangibly different, indelibly changed.
She went to the dining room and ate with her husband. They sipped their after-dinner cocktails at separate windows, quietly commenting on the day, and Marie assumed that soon she would be left alone, left to wander the house by herself. But perhaps the change of venue had done Louis some good, for he stepped over to her to brush stray hair away from her neck and ask if she might … join him this evening. And Marie set down her glass (she hardly knew what was in it to begin with) and gladly went to the chambers of the king, where she received his gentle kisses, felt his smooth hands, embraced him in silk and velvet, and writhed beneath him until he gasped and slowly sank down to the bed and went to sleep. And she was not satisfied in the least.
She slipped down the halls, looking through the large windows over the misty grounds, when she saw a dim light ahead and heard the faint, but distinct sound of a pen scratching on paper. A shadow crept along the opposing wall, pantomiming a man standing to burn papers in the fire. An office. Curiosity got the best of her and she approached, noting the number and volume of books that she could see even from a distance. She had known Blaisdell to be intelligent, but the store of knowledge here took her aback.
“Come in, your Majesty.”
Marie started. How had she gotten into the room without even being aware of it? She stood sheepishly as the Interior Minister continued to sort through his correspondence, setting some aside and putting most of the others in a pile that he periodically destroyed in the blazing hearth, and so many questions about this brilliant, secretive man entered her mind, with no hope of an answer.
He was looking at her now. “You seem perturbed by something, my queen. Was your supper not entirely to your taste?”
“The supper was excellent, Mr. Blaisdell.”
“I am pleased to hear that. I confess that I am surprised to see you here. I believed that you were spending your evening with your husband.”
Marie felt her mouth quirk. Of course Blaisdell would know very well why she was standing in the open door of his office at this time of night when she had been seen going into the chambers of her spouse earlier. She tried, but failed, to make a light jest about the matter. The joke withered in her mouth, unspoken, and she instead just shrugged. “I was … not inclined to rest afterwards.”
Now Blaisdell looked at her with one of those unreadable expressions. “Meaning?”
“I … I wished to see more of the house. I have been known to wander aimlessly through Versailles in much the same manner, as I feel certain you are well aware of.”
“The house is yours, my queen. Please come in.”
She came into the library, looking around with some surprise at the space. The ceiling was high and the bookshelves were vast, but the books filled every nook and cranny regardless. The shelves were arranged in such a way to offer a quiet privacy to a person who wished to read in a quiet corner, and she realized with a sudden twist in her stomach that it was exactly the type of space that Louis would be glad to have for himself. Something dark and private.
Dark. Private.
“Is there something in particular you’re looking for, your majesty?”
He was nowhere near, but he was already too close. Her eyes darted from his ruffled cravat to his face, quickly dropping from his eyes to his mouth—no, his chin, his chin, she wasn’t thinking about his lips—then, she turned away completely and sighed long. But she did not leave. She wasn’t sure that she could.
Another step forward behind her, then two. She was aching all over and part of her was screaming Do it, get it over with, you already know why I’m here—
“I … am … searching for something.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Now he truly was too close. She turned back to face him with a faltering gaze and she realized that she could see the graying stubble on his cheeks and chin, and it made her tingle, the way she had as he undressed her. A feeling that she had longed for while in Louis’s arms that had never come.
That was what she was looking for, with specificity. And she had the impression that Blaisdell knew it very well.
“Well?”
“I need something … more … than what the King offers.”
The Interior Minister said nothing as he arched a sardonic eyebrow at her, and she stammered, “I just need …”
Her voice trailed off as her eyes locked onto his large hand, approaching. Too close—oh god—as he boldly caressed her right breast, stroking the warm soft mound before drawing his fingers to a point and tugging her nipple to stiffness. She took a strangled breath as he rolled his thumb over the tiny peak standing out through her dress, torn between closing her eyes to enjoy the sensation more, and looking up into his face to see if this forbidden action was driving him to the edge. She found she could not do either; her eyes could not focus, not with this hand skillfully caressing her and making her burn, the soft sound of his dry, calloused skin scraping against the costly fabric of her clothes tearing her nerves to pieces. He was killing her by degrees; she could hardly stay upright, her legs were trembling so violently. He came closer still, steadying her with his hand on her waist and his body pressing against her own, her need so intense that she could feel his muscles through his clothes every time he inhaled slowly.
Her own breaths strangled and fitful, she finally dared to return his lewd touch, running the tips of her fingers over his outer garments, blushing at her own daring as she slid her hands under his coat and felt his hard chest properly through the fine, thin linen shirt he wore. He was not nearly as hesitant as she was. His eyes closed and his head lowered to meet hers as she explored, and though he waited at the ready, they did not kiss until she initiated. But he rapidly took control afterwards, drawing her up to the tops of her toes, holding her stable as his tongue coaxed her lips apart. Their lips met and she moaned as he deepened their kiss and rocked his groin into hers, leaving no doubt at all between about his response to her presence. Finally he released her, and she stumbled backwards, clutching at his desk as her heart hammered. He followed, towering over her, no longer trying to hide the smoldering heat in his eyes or expression.
“Why didn’t you do this in the stables?” he asked in a low voice, his face still right next to hers. “You knew very well why I came down there.”
“I didn’t know then,” Marie murmured. His hands were on her again, opening her clothes now without her express permission. This was intolerable; this was a gross trespass against her royal person; this was treason, to be frank. “I didn’t know how much I wanted … to have it rough.”
She felt it rough then—his fingers directly on her burning skin, artfully fondling her sensitive areas, and not just the ones that she had always been scolded not to touch for herself. She felt his heated hands and his soft, wet lips trailing all over her face and neck. He left pressure marks across her back, the gentle imprint of his desire leaving a mosaic next to the friction burns left behind by the coarse horse blanket. She watched him kneel before her reverently before he dove onto her muff with carnal eagerness, an excitement that her legally-wedded spouse never displayed for her, as he reserved that emotion solely and exclusively for mechanical pursuits.
“Look at you,” the Interior Minister murmured after running his tongue down her erect clitoris and receiving a delighted squeal. “All this wonderful honey running completely to waste. My poor queen. So misunderstood on so many levels. You can’t get anything you want, can you?”
“I just … I just want …” Her voice was not her own as she whined her pleasure and he continued, adding to the torment by tracing lines over her aching labia. She felt the scars on his fingertips as he edged her closer and her body tried to comply, trembling with the effort.
“Be easy, dear Marie.” His tongue flickered over her body again and she gasped aloud. “I think I am beginning to understand my queen. I think … for once … she will be very pleased with me.”
He took his time, his fingers and tongue performing a work that she had never experienced personally. She could hardly comprehend what she was doing, her thighs spread wide with her husband’s senior advisor crouching before her and driving her to utter madness as he licked her, their desires mutually filthy and inescapable. Finally, after exploring her thoroughly and stimulating her so completely that she felt she must faint from the pleasure, he allowed her to finish, her release coming in a wave so intense that she sank to the floor after letting out a scream that rocked her slender frame from head to toe.
Still visibly shaking, she reached out for his trousers, clumsily trying to open them, but he brushed her hand away. “Your majesty, that won’t be needed. Consider this simply another example of a loyal servant meeting the needs of his monarchs. Perhaps you should return to your chambers now. It is rather late.”
Marie did not argue, closing her nightdress and climbing to unsteady feet with the help of the sturdy desk. As she stumbled from the library, the Interior Minister called after her, “Sleep well, my queen.” And then, in a lower voice that made her tremble all over, “… we will see each other again.”