Chapter 1: A Dark, Quiet Place
Summary:
These are some of the side stories from “Blooming“ that I could not put in the main narrative for one reason or another, So they are here as short standalones for me to elaborate on a little further. I will put chapter notes at the beginning of each story so that you know in advance if it’s something you care to read. Please keep in mind the trigger warnings if they are included, because some of the stories run a bit dark.
I appreciate your feedback, and as always, I hope you enjoy reading. If you have your own prompts or requests, please drop me a line in the comments!
Notes:
This vignette was the original way that I envisioned queen Marie’s kidnapping in chapter 9 resolving itself. However, this idea in its original conception turned out to be significantly out of step with the rest of the work, and I realized that Marie did not have a definite reason to choose Lafayette in the end if Blaisdell was one of her rescuers (she might very well simply have gravitated right back to him). I liked the idea overall though, so now you get to see it. There was also meant to be an entire section of Lafayette and Blaisdell sniping back-and-forth like a pair of very petty individuals while they beat people up. I may write that, if I can get the humor and the timing down.
Trigger warnings: abuse, near-assault, depictions of trauma, minor character death.
Chapter Text
You’ve been blindfolded for what feels like forever. You haven’t eaten for days at this point, and the water they throw in your face tastes and smells like it came straight from a puddle. An old one, at that. The manacles on your wrists have worn through your fine clothes, and now you can feel the friction bruises growing larger and more weepy every time you shift to take some of the strain off your cramping calves.
Yes, this is an entirely fitting state for the deposed Queen of France on the eve of the revolution.
You wonder, for the fifth or fiftieth time, what has become of poor Louis. You know very well that he would sacrifice himself and gladly to protect you, but you desperately wanted him to live, and now it appears that neither of you have gotten what you wished for. You were captured despite all efforts to smuggle you out the country successfully, and so was he. You feel quite certain that he must be alive because your captors have never mentioned his death, which is certain to be made a public spectacle. But it’s that sense of uncertainty—the not knowing—that is slowly driving you mad.
They know very well how best to unnerve you. At first you were just gagged. Then there was the blindfold. Then the restraints, and the silent rooms with no light, no outside noise, nothing except what they let you hear. Which at first was nothing at all. They could not hazard you learning where you were. “She might be a bitch, but she’s a smart bitch,” you remember one of them growling. “Don’t take any chances with her.”
But now they are less concerned. One in particular seems to be growing quite bold. It’s the youngest, the one who is probably no more than 15 years old, the one who spits in your face at every possible opportunity. While the others hate you on principle, he seems to have a very personal vendetta. He is the one who stole the heavy velvet cloak you were wearing and sold it for a pittance. He took care to sneer at you every time you shivered in the cold as they moved you from one location to the next. “Why, whatever could be the trouble, dear queen? Have you never felt snow before? Prolly feels different without all those fancy clothes, don’t it?”
Lately his tactic is to come to the door of the room where you are being held to stare at you. He says nothing, but you can feel his eyes crawling on you. You are aware—acutely—that he is the one who is tearing your dress from your body. He does it with precision, steadily, once every couple of hours, a slash here and a rip there. You thought that you were cold before, but it feels so much worse with shreds of clothing fluttering against your naked legs.
He is beginning to go higher. The obvious intent is to leave you exposed to anyone who may pass by. You wonder if they plan to take you outside like that before recalling that none of it will matter when you are laying with your head in the trench of a bloody wooden block.
You swallow hard, but all your throat seems to do is tighten dryly. The lack of water is wrecking you. You don’t quite know what is real anymore, other than pain and cold. Sometimes you think you hear bells, but you never ask why you would hear such a thing. There is so much death around, it seems almost perverse to have announcements for it.
But regardless, here you are. In a quiet, dark place. Standing. Hurting. And waiting.
“Wake up, queen.”
It’s him. He’s come back with his knife to strip you further. Your neck has gone completely stiff, which may very well have been the intent all along, so you can’t turn to look at him. Instead, you just rest your head against the wall.
“Huh, so you don’t even fight any more. If this is all it took to get rid of you lot, we shoulda revolted years ago!” Crude laughter, before you feel his face entirely too close to your ear. You instinctively pull away, which amuses him. “What? You still trying to act the part of a noble? Give it up. You ain’t noble now, you ain’t even a lady.“
The knife goes shrrrip. Despite your exhaustion, your heartbeat speeds up instantly.
“I wish my ma was around, I’d show her exactly what you are. To think she actually believed in you. Angel from Austria, she called you.” Shrrrrrip. “Filthy whore is a lot more like it.”
You can’t move and you know you can’t move, but you fight just the same as he begins to get close to the top of your thighs. He is your size—hunger and lean living have not allowed him to grow properly—but he is a whole league stronger and you are restrained by chains. You’re struggling only amuses him. And to your horror, arouses him.
“Dumb bitch. You’d-a done better to just stand still. Now you’ve got me all happy, guess you know what you’re going to be doing for the next hour or so? Or whenever I get tired of you.”
He yanks hard on your matted hair, grunting with pleasure when he hears you yell through the dirty gag, and rubs himself firmly against your damp crack. You fight and flail and screech, and he laughs, literally rocking against you as you buck and twist against the wall trying to shake him loose. He bores of the game within two minutes and leaves you alone again, but it’s only a slight reprieve.
He’ll be back.
You're feeling the exhausted delirium setting in again, when a noise interrupts your dark quiet place. A most unexpected noise, something that you never heard within the sheltered walls of Versailles.
Gunfire.
It’s close. And it’s finding targets.
Your ears twitch as you hear the distinct sound of bodies hitting the walls. Hitting the floors. There are screams and curses and the wet sound of secondary bullets, entering and leaving.
“Bloody hell!“ a young voice shouts, and he’s back, running into the room, trying to conceal himself behind you. “Who the hell got in here? Damien! Jacquez! Thierry! Where are you?” He grabs hold of you and shakes you hard. “Are these your people? Who’s in here?“
You give no answer besides quiet panting, because naturally you have no idea yourself. He seems to realize his mistake and lets go of you with a sound of disgust before addressing himself to whomever is outside waiting.
“You listen to me! I have your precious queen in here with me. And if you value her life, you’ll do exactly as I say. You need to leave this place immediately, and make sure I don’t see you on the way out, or I assure you, you won’t make it until the dawn! We are the sons of the revolution! Coming to save her will not stop us, but it will identify you as an enemy of the people! Now, leave as I said, or—“
You hear his voice choke off abruptly, and then you hear the unforgettably horrid sound of a human being actively being beaten to death. It’s muffled, because whoever found him has dragged him from the room, but you hear of the shrieks of pain and the final screams for mercy just the same. If there was anything at all in your stomach, it would be all over you by now. Your body goes through the motions repeatedly anyway, finally leaving you with a dull ache in your midsection and the distinct knowledge that your wrists are bleeding from all of the involuntary struggling you’ve just been doing.
There are voices now in the hall, indistinct but definitely male. They sound cultured, nothing like your captors, and you cannot begin to imagine whom it might be.
“Get rid of those bodies,“ one says, to which the other responds, “Gladly.“
Perhaps you have cracked completely from the ordeal, but you could swear that you just heard Lafayette and Blaisdell. But then you hear the sound of grunting, and the noise of something heavy being dragged away again, and that is what your mind chooses to focus on, the knowledge that directly outside, the walls are painted red.
"… oh, here she is then.”
“Yes.”
Blaisdell first, Lafayette second. You turn your head towards the sound of their voices, as much as it hurts. But there’s no additional sound, and for a terrifying moment you think that they left you. Or worse, that this never happened at all— that you are just going mad as you wait for the end, the end of the night, the end of a knife.
“Forgive me, Marie.“
You feel Lafayette’s rough, stubbly cheek against your damaged skin, and you could weep with joy. You also feel him brushing up against you, the exact same way that that boy had done, and your body instantly reacts the exact same way—you fight and writhe hopelessly. The burning hardness against your hip vanishes immediately and there’s apologetic babbling. “No Marie, no no no, hold still now. Forgive me, but trust me too. I will not hurt you.”
You pant frantically as you try to regain control, but it’s hard, and he knows that. He keeps his hips away from you as he holds your midsection with huge hands. No Marie, you are cutting yourself more. I know you are afraid, but you must hold still. I am trying to get the lock open—it’s rusted—Marie, don’t do that. Marie. Marie!
He’s in just the wrong place—the hot bulge in his breeches brushing against you body—and you’re fighting reactively as he holds you tight. He’s so much bigger than you that it should be a simple matter, but you are pulling too much and shredding your wrists. He continues on trying to console you regardless. Marie, please. Let me hold you steady while I open the locks—oh, damn it. Blaisdell, the key is twisting apart. The lock is too stiff. You must find a pick. I will keep trying. Marie, darling, please don’t do that. You’re making this … quite difficult …
You can hear the subtle pant in his voice. That hardness has not eased in the slightest. If anything, it feels damp now.
—Marie, stop it—
But you’re too far gone, because all you feel is the chains holding you and the hands on your body and the erect member at your back and everything within you says fight it. And you fight it, you fight him, even though he’s not at fault.
No, Marie. His voice catches and sticks every time you smash into his arousal, but unlike yourself, he remains infuriatingly calm. Stop. Stop, Marie. You will hurt yourself. Please listen to me. I am not the man who hurt you. Please just stand still— and his voice cuts off abruptly as you manage to stomp on his foot. It’s nothing that should actually hurt him, but it makes him lurch because it is so unexpected and you feel exactly what you’ve expected to feel as he presses against you completely. The trembling gasp in his voice cannot be hidden. Nor can the way his hands tighten on you meaningfully.
Will you—The struggle in his voice is noticeable. What can I get you to do to stop this madness? If I—
He stops and sighs heavily. He clearly understands, but he is not entirely at peace with the knowledge. If I do this, will you hate me later? Is this truly what you want?
You twist backwards as best you can to look at him. Whatever he sees in your eyes clearly hurts him, and his face becomes very tight. He puts his hands on top of yours, and carefully balances you against the wall. You feel him positioning himself behind you, and you hear the scrape of skin being freed from fabric.
Think of me, then. Think of me … when you remember.
His drive forward pins you hard to the wall and leaves you gasping. He takes charge quickly, his big hands engulfing your hips, the hard steady motion making the tatters of fabric swim in the dim light, scraps of silk and tulle drifting in an emotional storm. His voice stays low, but you have no control at all over yours as you wail for him, the non-stop pain in your arms utterly forgotten as your body refocuses on him and only him, his erratic breathing and his enormous arms and his body burning alive with suppressed lust.
You spasm repeatedly, clenching him, and he answers you with a shuddering moan every time, sometimes moving faster and sometimes stopping completely, resisting the urge to finish. You hear the catch in his breathing and you push backwards, a feeble motion that nonetheless makes him hiss.
He replants his feet, standing wide, and you feel his hands grip your shoulders hard as he drives in hard, once, twice. Your trembling sobs rapidly reach crescendo along with his own roar as you come, collapsing helplessly into the arms waiting to catch and hold you, your body’s tension finally unwinding and bringing him to his own devastating conclusion.
As the two of you stand there, sweating heavily and breathing hard, you hear a whistling sound and a soft whump. Lafayette pulls away in confusion. In your peripheral vision, you see a cascade of drab brown fabric fall from his head. A maid’s dress?
“Put that on the queen,” Blaisdell orders from his position at the door. Judging from the smug grin on his face, he has been standing there the whole time. “Oh, and Mr. Lafayette, you need to twist the key in the opposite direction to open those manacles.”
There is a very awkward pause before Lafayette tries turning the key in the opposite direction. The lock immediately pops loose and you stumble forward. You and Lafayette stare at each other, and then you simultaneously turn to the door, mutually furious. But Blaisdell has anticipated this reaction and has been wise enough to leave. The only sound you hear now is his faint laughter.
Chapter 2: An Understanding
Notes:
The first part of this story originated when the official TP discord had a writing contest for Pride month. I did not post it here then because it directly contradicted what I was doing with "Blooming," but I always liked it and hoped I would be able to post it at some point. Happily, it actually works pretty well to explain a little more of the backstory that Louis put before Marie in chapter 5. I have more of THAT to post about as well, but we'll get to that later.
No major trigger warnings, though an unhappy marriage is never good times.
As always, I hope you enjoy reading. :)
Chapter Text
The Dauphin lay in a bed gilt with gold, staring at a dim room awash with luxury. This particular room had a splendid exterior view that was currently hidden by heavy embroidered velvet curtains. He had not seen sunlight nor lamplight for days, it seemed; the doctor insisted on reduced light to allow him to sleep.
He sighed irritably. He was still a complete nervous wreck despite the laudanum, he was not permitted to eat anything he actually enjoyed, everyone tiptoeing through his room looked at him as if he were a half-drowned puppy and refused to answer basic questions, and somehow he was supposed to sleep through all of this?
He wondered, not for the first time, if Marie might visit him today. They were not on the best of terms, and he could hardly blame her for that. They were both young, too young, and the marriage that they were obliged to participate in for the future well-being of their countries was not going well. They had little in common; she was fond of noisy group activities and being the center of attention, celebrated for her wit and beauty, and rightfully so. By contrast, he was fond of eating and quiet, solitary endeavors, activities hardly to her taste. She was lonely; she felt abandoned and ridiculed; and ever since the assassination attempt she had made herself more scarce than ever. The rumor mill of Versailles, ever unkind, held it that she was entertaining herself with Count Axel von Fersen. Even if that was true—and it very well might have been—Louis found that he held no resentment towards her for it. He just hoped that his wife still cared enough about him as her husband to actually come see him. But that sentiment, like so many others, was lost in turmoil.
He saw a shadow moving swiftly along an adjoining wall and his heart lurched sickly for a moment—no, not again!—before his most trusted advisor came into view. Auguste fell backwards onto the pillows, gasping with relief. "Mr. Blaisdell. My god, you frightened me."
The older man immediately made a gesture of deference. "Forgive me, your Highness. We had a recess in the proceedings, I came to see how your recovery was getting on."
"The salons are a great distance from here," the King protested. "You might have sent a servant for a progress report."
"I preferred to visit with you personally, my prince." Auguste blinked as his crabby and frequently-cold Interior Minister kindly squeezed his hand and asked in a gentle voice, "How are you? Truly?"
Auguste forced a smile onto his face. It hurt, for more reasons than one. "Do ... you have time to hear this?"
Blaisdell shoved a pillow into the crease of one of the patently uncomfortable chairs and pulled it up to the edge of the bed. "It can't be much worse than the drivel that I've been listening to all morning, but I'll be certain to call for a bottle of wine if you drone for too long." He winked impishly. "Do go on, your Highness."
it took time, but Auguste opened his heart after countless encouragements to speak up, and soon the tears gushed as freely as the words. Sometimes he could say just what he intended to, but more often than not his words came tumbling out smothered in sobs. He was wounded in spirit even more than in his body, and he had never been able to confess his unhappiness so frankly before. And Blaisdell listened. Sometimes he was reserved, and sometimes he asked questions, carefully teasing the truth free from the sad memories where it had rusted over. But he was always listening. Auguste had not felt so personally cared for in months. It was a great shame to be a king at times.
A knock on the door interrupted them, and a servant's muffled voice called,"M'lord Blaisdell, the ministers are ready to reconvene, and they are requesting your presence immediately."
Blaisdell took one look at the ailing young man in front of him and replied, "I'm afraid they must do without me for now, I have a much more pressing matter in hand. Monsieur Marquis de Lafayette can preside over the conference for the afternoon. The secretary will reduce the arguments to writing and I shall review them later."
"But, my lord—"
"That is an order," Blaisdell said shortly, and the servant hastily retreated with the ill news. Auguste stared, more than a little surprised. "You ... you're deferring duty to the country? ... for me?"
The Interior Minister reached out for the Dauphin's hand, and after a moment of confusion, the Dauphin reached back.
"My lord," Blaisdell began after taking a deep breath. Auguste was startled to feel the tremors running through his hand. "I ... I confess that I have not done as much as I might have to help you grow into a man. I mistakenly believed that you had to forge your own path, and that the adversity would benefit your character. But I see much more clearly now that you have needed a friend, and you have not had one when you needed one most of all. I believe that the best duty I can perform for this country is to support her future king. And I swear, from this moment going forward, that I will support you."
"But you have always supported me in times past, Mr. Blaisdell," Auguste said, not entirely understanding.
"I suspect you will see a marked difference in the days to come, Your Highness. But for now, please try to sleep."
... oh, not that word again. Auguste sighed as he lay backwards, staring up at the ceiling. Not another miserable evening alone, smothering in pain and sorrow, forgotten. The tears began to prick the corners of his eyes.
"Your Highness, may I remind you, I have offered to support you however I may."
Auguste half-smiled. "Can you help an insomniac invalid go to sleep?"
He heard the soft sounds of clothing being shed, and felt the pressure of the mattress shifting, before Blaisdell lay down next to him and embraced him from behind. His hands were rough and his arms were as hard as wood, and to Auguste they felt more comforting than the softest pillows. He listened to his cynical advisor's slow, steady breaths and murmured an exhausted thank you to the brush of lips against his temple, and feeling some of his perpetual doubts begin to fade away, he finally slept.
Blaisdell continued to return to the King's chambers, long past the point which Auguste had been pronounced well. On most evenings he made simple inquiries and left quickly.
Sometimes he lingered.
On one of the nights that he chose to remain, he made up the fire carefully and made a great show of walking slowly around the room, claiming in a voice rather too loud for the occasion that he was checking to be certain that there were no intruders present. Then he sat down next to the fireplace, opened a dry volume of financial statutes, and began to read to himself.
Auguste lay there with tired, dry eyes that would not close. He listened as the clock in the adjacent chamber struck 1 AM. By then the fire had burnt itself low. Blaisdell smothered the last of the flickering flame before turning to look at his young king, his face hidden by the darkness, only a faint orange outline tracing his strong features.
“My king, shall I stay?“
Auguste knew that he ought to say no. He was the king now, not a callow youth. Regardless of how he felt about the unwanted responsibility, it was his to shoulder, and his closeness with the Interior Minister had become cause for great suspicion. Blaisdell was frighteningly intelligent, his rise to power seen as too sudden, and his attachment to the King considered unseemly. Cousin Rohan had never missed an opportunity to scold Auguste about it. “That man is ambitious and immoral, dear cousin, and I fear nothing beneficial will come of you clinging to him in this childish manner.“ The implication was unspoken, but clear. Continued affiliation could not continue, for the sake of the king's good name. "Despite what he has done for you in the past, you must see past it. You must rid yourself of that man, Auguste."
But right now, with the darkness surrounding them, it seemed as though this indiscretion—this sin—could yet be forgiven.
Auguste said nothing—no encouragement, but no denial—and gradually, Blaisdell stalked closer, his silver eyes narrow and hungry, his breeches jutting outward as he came forward to lay claim. He knelt before his king and kissed his hand, as was proper; then he looked up into his monarch’s face, boldly displaying the greedy lust that lay just under the placid surface. As he rose, his hands brushed upwards to the king’s shoulders, and he held Auguste for several seconds, staring down at him, silently reiterating their contrasting positions: the passive King and the commanding servant, the man who bent the knee because he chose to, not because he must.
Auguste closed his eyes.
The lips brushing against his own tasted faintly of whiskey and pipe tobacco, the tongue waiting to meet his own was as cool and submissive as the man who wielded it. Their kiss lingered, then deepened.
Auguste broke it first, separating their mouths with a soft pop but Blaisdell pursued immediately, his heavier frame easily pinning the young king down. He hovered above the younger man, waiting to be told no, and when the rejection did not come, he lowered himself down, cupping Auguste's soft face in his rough hands. With a needy growl, he pressed their mouths together again and ground his swollen crotch against the king's, tensing appreciatively at the sudden clutch on his shoulders, slowly rolling his body to encourage further exploration.
Despite his innate timidity, Auguste took the broad hints and ran his fingers down the solid back before letting his hands come to rest atop tight buttocks, growing tighter still at his touch. He sighed his advisor's name to the ceiling high above, welcoming the rough contact and ferocious heat. They had not undressed completely—Blaisdell’s breeches were still laced and Auguste’s nightrobe remained in place and intact—but these minor details made no difference in the face of such overwhelming longing. The friction between them smoldered, then burned, and Auguste writhed and moaned in the heat, rubbing their clothed groins together and whimpering for release until Blaisdell finally brought him to the end, with only the sticky smear of the king's warm seed on his calloused hand to witness against them.
Whether this behavior was more an error of judgment or principle, neither of them could say. Perhaps it was basic human perversity that they continued to seek each other out despite the obvious danger it presented, or perhaps it was easier to rationalize away when the evidence was so easily disposed of. As it was, the king continued to hope for the queen’s affections even though it was apparent he had no idea what to do with them when they were freely offered, and Blaisdell continued to encourage the royal marriage in public even as he lay claim to one half it in private, and they continued just as they were until scandal broke, and the court became awash with the rumor that the king had a mistress. The truth of the matter was hardly relevant, as the delighted courtiers now had a new opportunity to mock Marie directly to her face. Auguste was finally forced to acknowledge the depth of his neglect towards his queen, and act the part of an attentive and loving husband, at least in public. Marie finally felt entitled to make a very definitive claim on his time, and he felt obliged to offer it to her.
Gradually, the king and the interior minister re-acclimated to the new roles placed before them. Instead of warm embraces, they now had to make do with making eye contact across a hallway, or a chance meeting at a supper. There were no more accidental brushes, no hands surreptitiously sliding under a coat, no more secrets smiles to remind the other of the night before—or the night to come.
Neither of them was pleased, but they both knew how to bear it in silence. Their time would come again.
Chapter 3: Rough
Notes:
When I was writing “Blooming,” a reader expressed some doubts about whether Blaisdell actually had the king’s permission to offer himself to the queen in chapter 3. At the time I was aghast at the idea—“Of course he did!”—but, well …
… what if he hadn’t?
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.”