"The shortness of his breath is brought from the quick tapping of his feet and not by the gentle tendrils of her hair that escaped from the lively dance, brushing against the curve of her neck and begging for a lover's touch. And his heart beats as...
love is something sent from heaven to worry the hell out of you.
-Dolly Parton
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The slightly jolty carriage ride is the least recommended cure for the alcohol-induced ailment that afflicts a certain passenger—by his diagnosis, of course—curled as much into a ball as the seat would allow him. Eyes firmly shut, the deep frown on his fair brow does nothing to shade the rude sunlight from a day just begun, though he does pleasantly enjoy the small breeze fanning through his hair.
"Sit up straighter, Philippe," the older of the two occupants snaps at the other. His cane similarly snap at the younger man's calf to put emphasis on his command. "You are creasing your coat! What if they think we cannot afford to keep our collars starched?"
There is a grunt before a reluctant conformance of, perhaps, just an inch or two. "I told you I am too ill, father," he mutters without cracking his eyes open, his frown etching even deeper at being disturbed.
Baptiste de Gassion, Comte de Tonnere, huffs indignantly at his son's insolence, severely tempted to whack the boy to the head this time. "You attempted to render yourself too ill to attend this visit! Bourbon still on your breath this morning—mercy be granted to you mother, she must be turning in her grave with your antics," he accuses with restrained anger, trying to muster what little calmness he can with their destination drawing into view. "And as with all things," he adds out of spite and, frankly, out of habit by now, "you failed yet again."
The barest of twitches crosses Philippe's upper lip, before he releases an exasperated sigh, blue eyes peaking under lazy lids and a furrowed brow. "The apple never falls too far from the tree, my lord," he quips back lightly, "I am but a humble fruit of your making."
"A humble fruit you will be indeed," warns the count as the carriage finally stops, "you will not embarrass me in front of my associate or I will be 'forced' to relieve a person from our employ. Lorella or Fabienne will have you to thank with your fanciful ideals when they have nothing to feed their children."
Polished boots land heavily on the gravel path as Baptiste turns back to the quickly rising Philippe, who finds a hidden well of energy to join his father, never mind that his jaw is tightly clenched. "Or it could be Urbain," the father threatens as he points to the carriage driver with his cane, which is more for fashion than function. "I have not yet decided who."
The innocent young man with the reigns jerks his head to his master's direction, eyes widening in fright at the implication. Urbain might not have children quite yet—but God in heaven, he might not even afford to marry at all without this job!
Philippe drops from the carriage as well, fingers rubbing his right temple, maybe slightly regretting all the drinking from the night before. "Yes, yes, father, we all know how mighty and powerful you are," he says sarcastically, waving at Urbain without looking to assure the lackey as he follows the count towards the château to meet whoever is unlucky enough to be betrothed to him.
The de Talhouets' home was impressive, even by Baptiste's standards. Each stone was placed thoughtfully, each detail well-tended to-- from matching drapes in each window, to the impeccably maintained grounds. A dense forest stretched for miles beyond the home, a babbling brook marking the divide between civility and sauvage. The robust garden was immaculate, each flower seeming to vie for equal attention from the visitors, while thick green hedges provided the illusion of privacy. A fountain trickled noisily somewhere within, another hidden gem to uncover during their stay.
However stunning the grounds, the home itself was also eloquently decorated-- verdant green ivy crawling up the facade of the building and curling around the railings of several delicate looking balconies. It was a sight that would make a romantic sigh, and one that was entirely ignored by the younger man, in favor of shielding his eyes against the sun, and scowling as deeply as he could.
