The King's Eye

Chapter 51

The room was already filled with dancing and laughter as I stood outside in the hall, pacing.

My mask suddenly felt too heavy, it's smell too familiar with that of pain and tears. Just for a little while, I kept trying to breathe through the thought. I tried not to think of my reflection staring back at me. Tried not to imagine Francis standing there looking back.

"Duchess," Jacques's voice came from the other end of the hall.

I was thankful this was the last night anyone would call me that other than him. Thankful that I was no longer obligated to noble pursuits and could go back to being the girl I lost sight of.

Walking towards me I took him in in one steadying gasp, his towering frame was clothed to compliment my gown, his mask a fox of its own. Grabbing me by the waist, he lifted his mask up. "You are making quite the statement," he said, eyes hovering at my too low neckline.

I smoothed down one of his curls, internally cursing him for not listening to me and wearing a wig. "I told you I would be."

The steward cleared his throat to remind us he was there. "Guyenne, correct?" He looked me up and down in disgust, making my face dimple into a smile.

"Yes," I said, ducking my chin down. He rolled his eyes, making Jacques grab at his dagger. Gently I pulled his hand away from it, our eyes locking. The night ahead already had him on edge, we could not risk his aggression.

As the steward announced me to the room, I let my husband's hold on my hand guide me into the hall of mirrors and watched as all the eyes moved to me instantly.

"I think I've made a mistake," I said, trying to step back.

Jacques held onto my hand firmly, his other hand stopping me from turning. "Your beauty is no mistake."

"And my plan?"

He leaned so that edges of his mask brushed against me. "Just look at your sister in law's face."

Dressed in black head to toe, Therese gaped at me. A black veil acted as her mask, its lace not covering any of her shocked features. Meeting us at the bottom of the steps, her slight curtsy was followed by glaring eyes. "Your mourning period was not long lived?"

"I had no mourning period," I said, trying to hold my convictions. "It would take me mourning him to do so."

Her green eyes narrowed. "You do not mourn the man who gave you a title despite your lowly—"

Jacques stepped between us. "She does not mourn a man who beat her to an inch of her life." His voice was that of violence, creeping up on victims in alleys. "He only made my wife flinch at my touch and deserves nothing but to rot in the depths of hell."

Spitting at her feet, Jacques pulled me through the crowd toward the rest of the room's prying eyes. Watching their gazes dip down and back up, I chanced my own reflection.

A blur of white moved across the mirror in phantom like fashion, a cape of gossamer flying up behind me. The inverted v of my corset sat atop bulging layers of petticoats. An open robe pinned along its outer boning shaped my waist in smooth curves, allowing my chest to be pressed upward.

White. The color of nobility. Of equality. A perfect match to the white cockades all of the nobles were wearing on their chests. My dress was the color in every layer, making it beam under the chandeliers, and as I walked through the translucent fabric that flowed behind me turned me into a mirage of dreams.

The opposite of a widow, because Francis was never truly my spouse. My husband was standing next to me, eyes straight ahead, and although tensions still left a fissure between us. I loved him.