Charles broke the seal with a sharp flick, the wax cracking like a reprimand. Luc stood beside him, arms folded, expression carved into neutrality.
Charles read the missive once, then again, slower.
“‘…not kept up well with the alliance between the Houses,’” he murmured. “Bold of him.”
Luc’s jaw tightened. “Father, may I handle this?”
Charles looked up, surprised. “We will handle it together.” He turned to the chamberlain waiting by the door. “Summon the young Comte d’Aubigny at once.”
Luc added, without hesitation, “And have him bring his sister.”
That earned him a look — first from Charles, sharp and assessing, then from the chamberlain, who blinked before bowing.
Luc continued, voice even, “And request the presence of Mademoiselle Briony Cameron.”
This time the chamberlain’s composure faltered outright. Charles’s gaze snapped back to his son, a flicker of something between curiosity and concern passing through it.
“You heard my son. Allez.”
“Tout de suite, Votre Altesse Sérénissime.” The man bowed and hurried out.
Only when the chamberlain had gone did Charles speak. “Might I know why?”
“You will, Father. Please trust my judgement.”
Charles held his son’s eyes for a long moment, then inclined his head once. “Toujours.”
Being fetched
I was in the south garden, stretched out on a warm stone bench in a summer dress — the one Luc had given me for my birthday, with lavender sprigs embroidered along the hem — the matching blazer rolled up under my head as a pillow, the skirt pulled up to mid‑thigh so my legs could catch the sun. Not tanning, exactly. More like… charging. Solar‑powered Briony.
I had just reached peak warmth when a voice cleared behind me.
“Miss Cameron—”
I yelped, jerked upright, and nearly rolled off the bench. The chamberlain — the tall, elegant one carved entirely from etiquette and disapproval — froze mid‑step, eyes darting anywhere but my very exposed legs.
He went scarlet. I went scarlet. We were a matched set of mortified tomatoes.
I yanked the skirt down so fast I nearly dislocated something. “Oh my God—sorry—hi—hello—”
He turned sharply, as if looking at me directly might violate a treaty. “My apologies, mademoiselle. His Highness requests your presence in the Sovereign Prince’s study.”
My stomach dropped. That was never casual.
“Now?” I asked, still trying to smooth my dress and my dignity at the same time.
The chamberlain hesitated, then cleared his throat softly. “Immédiatement, s’il vous plaît.”
Which, in palace dialect, meant: don’t change, don’t fix your hair, run, don’t walk.
I sat up fully, reaching for the blazer I’d been using as a pillow. Before I could shrug into it, the chamberlain stepped forward — very carefully, very formally — and lifted it from my hands. His ears were already pink.
“If you will permit, mademoiselle,” he murmured, and with the solemnity of a man performing a coronation ritual, he held the jacket open for me.
I slid my arms in, trying not to die on the spot. He adjusted the shoulders with two quick, precise motions, then stepped back as if he’d just handled a live explosive.
I stood, trying to remember if I’d done anything remotely questionable in the last twenty‑four hours. Nothing came to mind. Which didn’t mean much. In Bellacorde, “questionable” included standing too close to Luc, looking at Luc, breathing in Luc’s general direction if the wrong aristocrat was watching. And then there was the far more likely possibility: Charles had somehow discovered the almost twelve hours I’d spent in Luc’s suite. Twice. Or the nights he’d spent in mine.
My stomach flipped. Fantastic. Guilt — my favorite accessory in Bellacorde.
So yes, my pulse picked up.
We walked in silence through the south garden, the gravel path crunching softly under our steps. The chamberlain kept a respectful distance ahead of me — three paces, no more, no less — hands clasped behind his back, posture so rigid it looked painful. Every so often, I caught the faintest flicker of pink still clinging to his ears, the only evidence that he had, moments earlier, helped me into my jacket after witnessing far more of my sun‑seeking legs than either of us had been prepared for.
The sunlight faded as we reached the colonnade, the cool shade swallowing us whole. From there, the palace corridors opened up in long, echoing stretches of marble and gilt. Our footsteps sounded too loud, too official, too summoned.
As we walked through the corridors, I tried to read the chamberlain’s expression. No luck. He had the face of a man who could deliver news of a coronation or a funeral with identical enthusiasm.
We reached the study doors just as a palace messenger hurried up from the opposite end of the corridor. He spoke rapid French; the chamberlain nodded, knocked, was admitted, and announced:
“Your Serene Highness, Mademoiselle Cameron is here, and the d’Aubignys have arrived.”
Charles looked up from his desk. “Have them seen in.”
He lifted two fingers in a small, sovereign flick — not a wave, but the kind of understated gesture that had opened doors and summoned ministers his entire life.
“Mademoiselle Cameron, come, come.”
Luc didn’t look at the chamberlain.
He looked at me.
“Briony,” he said quietly, “come to me.” His accent was thicker — it always was when he’d been speaking French for a while. The more he spoke English, the softer it became.
He extended a hand — unmistakably claiming.
“Right beside me,” he murmured. “That is where you belong.”
Heat shot up my neck. Wasn’t I still the dirty little secret? The rules here made no sense. But I crossed the room, pulse thudding, and the moment I reached him, he took my hand.
Not discreetly. Not subtly. Just… took it.
Charles’s pen tapped sharply against the desk.
Luc glanced at him.
Charles raised an eyebrow.
Luc raised one back.
Charles tapped the pen again — this time against Luc’s knuckles.
Luc’s hand tightened around mine.
I tried to pull back, mortified — but Luc caught my hand again immediately, fingers firm, expression unbothered.
My face went incandescent.
Charles exhaled through his nose, the royal equivalent of I am choosing not to start a parental war over this with my bratty son, and returned to his papers.
I stood beside Luc, hand in his, heart pounding so loudly I was sure the chamberlain could hear it.
And that was the exact moment the d’Aubignys were shown in.
The d’Aubignys arrive
François entered first — tall, impeccably dressed, pale blond hair and cool blue‑grey eyes that swept the room with aristocratic calculation. He stopped just inside the threshold and offered a deep, formal bow to Charles and Luc. Clementine followed, equally blonde, her green eyes widening when she saw me standing beside Luc before she dipped into a graceful curtsy, the movement tight with surprise. Her eyes hit his hand holding mine and I couldn’t help the glee.
She recovered quickly, but I’d seen the flicker.
Charles began, as protocol demanded. In English, obviously for my benefit, as I knew they normally conducted their court business in their mother tongue. Obviously. “Comte, your letter was… pointed.”
François bowed. “Your Highness, I meant only to express concern that the alliance between our Houses has not been upheld with the vigor it once had. We request preferential export rights for our textile ateliers—”
Charles listened, then inclined his head toward Luc. “Oui, oui, I read your request. My son will soon lead. His judgment matters here. Luc.”
Luc stepped forward, voice smooth. “You shall have the export rights.”
François blinked, surprised.
Luc continued, “But there is a condition.”
François’s posture went rigid.
Charles glanced at him. “Luc?”
Luc didn’t answer his father. He looked at Clementine.
“Before we discuss anything further,” he said, “you will apologize properly to Mademoiselle Cameron. As far as I know, she still has not received an apology. I gave you an entire week.”
The room went still.
I’d seen Luc irritated, annoyed, even angry—but this? This was something else. This was Luc stepping fully into the skin of the man he was raised to become. And God, it was… startling. Impressive. A little terrifying. And very, very attractive in a way I absolutely should not be processing in front of his father.
Clementine’s lips parted, her chin lifting in that delicate, practiced way of hers. Bet she didn’t think Luc knew. Surprise.
“Votre Altesse, je vous assure que ce n’était qu’un malentendu—”
Luc’s head snapped toward her.
“Anglais, s’il vous plaît. English, please!”
The words cracked through the room like a whip.
I felt it in my ribs. So did she.
Clementine froze.
Luc stepped forward a fraction, his voice low, clipped, unmistakably princely.
“You know perfectly well that Mademoiselle Cameron is still learning our language. And seeing how all of us have already mastered her language, it should not be such an inconvenience for you.”
My breath caught. He was defending me—publicly, formally, without hesitation. Not the gentle, quiet kind of protection he usually gave me. This was the kind that could shift political ground.
Clementine’s cheeks flushed a blotchy pink.
Luc didn’t soften.
“Especially,” he continued, “since you argued this very request at your grandfather’s celebration of life right here at the royal residence before, which could be considered insolent. I let it pass then, because we were all in mourning. But I will insist now.”
His eyes hardened.
“I will no longer tolerate any disrespect.”
A shiver ran down my spine. Not fear—just the shock of seeing the line between my Luc and Prince Luc de Beaumont vanish completely. He wasn’t performing. He meant every word.
Clementine swallowed.
Luc’s voice dropped to something cold and surgical.
“State clearly what you did. In English. My father will hear it. Your brother will hear it. And you will curtsy before Miss Cameron.”
Her breath hitched.
“You could have apologized privately,” Luc said. “On your own accord. You chose not to.”
He let the silence stretch, heavy and humiliating.
“Now,” he finished, “you are out of time.”
My heart thudded. He wasn’t angry for himself. He was angry for me. And he wasn’t hiding it.
François turned sharply to her. “Clementine? What is His Highness referring to?”
She said nothing.
Luc’s expression didn’t change.
“Go on, Mademoiselle d’Aubigny.”
Clementine froze.
François stepped forward, voice tight. “Clementine. Answer him.”
She swallowed hard.
Charles’s tone sharpened, quiet but unmistakably commanding. “Your Prince has given you an instruction. You will comply.”
Clementine’s breath hitched.
Luc’s voice dropped to something cold and impeccably formal — the tone of a man who has run out of patience and is now speaking as the future sovereign.
“If you choose not to speak, House Beaumont will have no choice but to revoke the alliance with your family.”
François went white.
“Your Highness—” he began.
Luc didn’t look at him.
“Your sister’s silence would constitute an admission of intent to harm the dignity of this House. And that,” he said, “is grounds for dissolution of all agreements between us.”
Clementine’s knees buckled.
Charles’s gaze hardened. “You understand the gravity of what my son is saying, Comte?”
I stood there beside Luc, pulse hammering, realizing—maybe for the first time—that this wasn’t just a prince defending a girl he liked.
This was a man drawing a line in marble.
And he’d drawn it around me. And with his father’s support, as it seemed. Wow.
François nodded, voice barely audible. “Yes, Your Serene Highness.”
Luc’s eyes returned to Clementine — not angry, not shouting, simply absolute.
“You will curtsy to Miss Cameron and state your wrongdoing. Proceed.”
A ripple of shock went through me. Luc wasn’t raising his voice. He didn’t need to. Authority rolled off him like a tide. I’d never seen him like this — not even close. And the strangest part was how steady his hand felt wrapped around mine, like he was anchoring me while he dismantled her.
Clementine’s hands trembled as she gathered her skirts. She turned toward me, face pale, green eyes shining with humiliation.
She curtsied.
My breath caught. I had never imagined I would see a noblewoman — this noblewoman — curtsy to me.
“Mademoiselle… Miss Cameron,” she whispered, “I misled you about the dress code.”
Luc’s voice cut in, sharp and precise. “You deliberately misled her.”
The correction hit like a blade. I felt it. So did she.
Her eyes squeezed shut. “Yes. I deliberately misled you about the court dress code, and I styled your hair and makeup to make you look… inappropriate. So you would be humiliated in front of His Serene Highness, His Highness, and all the peers present.”
A cold wave rolled through me. Hearing it out loud — in this room, in front of these men — made it real in a way it hadn’t been before.
Luc didn’t blink. “State why.”
Her voice cracked.
“If she looked ridiculous in front of the entire court…” She swallowed hard, then forced the words out. “Your Serene Highness and Your Highness would have felt disgraced, and she would have been sent away.”
François gasped — a sharp, horrified sound. He looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Clementine’s breath hitched again. “And then Luc would have had to end it with her. And I… I thought I might have another chance.”
The room froze.
My stomach dropped. Luc’s hand tightened around mine — not possessive, but protective, grounding. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. My face was burning.
Luc’s fury ignited — not loud, not explosive, but cold and princely, the kind of anger that made the air itself tighten.
“There was never a chance,” he said, voice low and lethal.
A shiver ran through me. He wasn’t saying it for her. He was saying it for everyone.
He paused — not for drama, but because he was about to state a fact he had avoided giving voice to for years.
“Yes. When we were very young, we were… involved.” A formal, aristocratic euphemism. Cold. Clinical. Final.
I felt something twist in my chest — not jealousy, but the strange ache of hearing a piece of his past spoken aloud.
“A brief, youthful arrangement between our families,” he continued. “Nothing binding. Nothing lasting.”
Her breath hitched.
“We did not suit then,” he said, voice sharpening, “and we do not suit now. Not in temperament. Not in values. Not in anything that matters.”
Clementine flinched.
I exhaled slowly. He meant it. Every word.
Charles’s tone followed, quiet and devastating. “To speak of a place at my son’s side as though it were a prize to be won… you disgrace yourself. And you insult this House.”
François bowed his head, mortified.
Luc’s gaze returned to Clementine, unblinking. “You sought to destroy her reputation to elevate your own. That is not ambition. That is cruelty.”
Clementine’s knees buckled.
My pulse thudded. He wasn’t just defending me. He was condemning her.
“That was not the extent of it,” he said.
Clementine’s head snapped up. “Luc—”
Charles’s voice cut across hers, quiet but razor‑sharp. “You will address the heir properly, Mademoiselle d’Aubigny.”
She froze, color draining from her face.
Luc didn’t give her time to recover.
“No.” His tone cut like a blade. “You will not hide behind half‑truths.”
He turned to Charles.
“Father,” Luc said, his voice controlled and impeccably formal, “I withheld the full account until now in the hope that the two ladies involved might seek to remedy their conduct of their own accord. They have not. And since Mademoiselle d’Aubigny did not act alone, it is time you were apprised of the entirety of what transpired that night — without omission.”
My pulse thudded.
I felt suddenly exposed — not in a bad way, but in the way someone feels when the truth is finally being dragged into the light.
“Clementine acted in concert with Dominique Gauthier,” Luc said, his tone cool and precise. “Philippe’s sister. He is unaware of her conduct — for now. But he will be informed, and I will expect him to address the matter within his House. Justice will be done. I know Philippe won’t stand for this.”
François looked sick.
“They coordinated the misinformation,” Luc continued. “They intended to humiliate Miss Cameron publicly at an event honoring your reign. They wanted her to appear disrespectful, out of place, ridiculous — so the court would turn on her. So she would be forced out.”
Charles’s expression darkened.
My throat tightened. Hearing it laid out like this — the strategy, the intent — made my skin prickle.
“And yet,” Luc said, “despite their efforts, Briony was assisted by the kind Duchesse Eloise de Villeneuve, who stepped in just in time to salvage the situation, which Mademoiselle Cameron then handled with more composure than half the court could have mustered. The commoner showed more nobility than most of the nobles combined. Disgraceful — especially for House d’Aubigny.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to glow. I wanted to kiss him. Not in that order.
Charles’s brows rose.
Luc’s voice warmed — proud, fierce. “Mademoiselle Cameron is nineteen. The youngest in the room by a considerable margin. A commoner. Not born to Bellacorde, nor raised within its traditions. And yet she handled a near‑scandal with more grace, dignity, and intelligence than those who have been bred to this court for generations. She protected our House’s reputation when others sought to tarnish it.”
My heart hammered. He wasn’t just defending me. He was honoring me.
“I am appalled,” Charles said, the words resonant enough to make the d’Aubignys flinch.
“As am I,” Luc added, his voice a cool echo of his father’s judgment. His fingers tightened briefly around mine—subtle, steady, a reminder that this entire reckoning was being carried out on my behalf.
Luc turned back to Clementine, eyes cold. “You did not merely seek to embarrass her. You risked making the House of Beaumont look incompetent. Divided. Foolish. On my father’s final big event before stepping down. I have no words for it.”
Charles’s expression hardened into something glacial.
Luc finished quietly, “And she — the girl you tried to humiliate — saved you from succeeding.”
I swallowed hard. I had never felt so seen. Or so overwhelmed.
Charles’s judgment
François bowed again, stiff and pale, Clementine trembling beside him. Luc’s hand was still wrapped around mine, steady and unyielding.
I clung to that steadiness. It was the only thing keeping me upright.
Charles rose from behind his desk.
“Comte d’Aubigny,” he said, voice cool as winter stone, “you have your answer. And you have my disappointment.”
François flinched.
Charles continued, each word precise, princely, and cutting without raising his voice. “Both of you are well aware how vital reputation is in Bellacorde — and beyond it. Yet out of petty jealousy unbecoming even of a young teenager, your sister risked discrediting the House of Beaumont.”
Clementine’s breath hitched.
Charles’s gaze sharpened. “Such behavior is beneath your House. And beneath mine.”
I felt the weight of those words. They weren’t just reprimand. They were judgment.
Charles’s judgment concluded, and François bowed again, stiff and pale, Clementine trembling beside him.
But before Charles could dismiss them fully, François spoke — voice shaking, but clear.
“Your Serene Highness… in light of what has been revealed today, I withdraw my earlier request. It would be improper for my House to seek advantage after such conduct.”
I blinked. That… was actually honorable. Or at least damage control disguised as honor.
Charles’s brows lifted — not in surprise, but in acknowledgment of the only intelligent move left to the young Comte.
Luc said nothing, but the faintest shift in his posture told me he approved.
Charles inclined his head once. “A wise decision.” Charles’s tone did not soften. “You are dismissed.”
François bowed deeply, guiding his sister out, their retreat quiet and unsteady. The door closed behind them with a soft click that felt louder than a gunshot.
Silence settled.
Luc exhaled slowly, but Charles lifted a hand — not to stop him, but to speak first.
Charles’s gaze lingered on his son, something proud and solemn settling behind his eyes. “Luc,” he said quietly, “the way you conducted yourself today… I am very impressed. You handled this matter with restraint, clarity, and authority. You showed me — and everyone present — that you are ready.”
Luc’s breath caught almost imperceptibly. My heart did too.
Then Charles turned to me.
“Briony,” he said softly.
Just my name. No title. No distance. It landed like a hand on my shoulder — steadying, reassuring.
“I owe you an apology.”
My breath caught. “Your Highness, you don’t—”
He lifted a hand — gentle, sovereign, final.
“Behind closed doors and among just us, please call me Charles, as I offered before. And yes, I do. What was done to you was cruel, calculated, and beneath the dignity of Bellacorde. And I regret that you were subjected to it.”
My throat tightened. I hadn’t expected this. Not from him.
Then his voice shifted — lower, warmer, the tone of a man speaking off the record.
“There are things I must say as Sovereign Prince,” he murmured. “And then there are things I may say as a father.”
Luc’s hand tightened around mine.
Charles’s expression softened into something I had never seen directed at me so openly.
“You are a breath of fresh air, Briony,” he said. “Your honesty, your courage, your… occasionally disarming directness.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “I find it refreshing. Vraiment.”
Heat rose in my cheeks.
“I could not have hoped for a better match for my son,” he continued. “Not in spirit, not in heart, not in the way you steady him.”
My chest tightened. Luc’s thumb brushed my hand — slow, reverent.
Then Charles’s gaze drifted — not away from me, but inward, toward memory.
“I once loved like that,” he said quietly. “A woman the court did not approve of. A commoner from a wealthy family, but still not titled. They discouraged the union, whispered, schemed, tried to steer me elsewhere.”
Luc’s breath stilled beside me.
Charles’s voice thickened, just slightly. “But I would make the same choice again. Sans hésitation. She gave me nearly two decades of pure love. And two beautiful children.” His gaze lowered for a breath, the grief old but still sharp. “There was an age between us, as there is with you two. It should not have been she who went before me.”
My heart ached for him.
He inhaled, steadying himself, then met my gaze again.
“So when I see my son look at you the way I once looked at her…” His voice gentled. “Ma chère, I understand. More than you know.”
I swallowed hard. My eyes stung.
“And while I must, for a little while longer, uphold certain rules and appearances,” he said, “I look forward — truly — to the day when no protocol, no title, no veil of discretion will prevent me from embracing openly the happiness you have brought into his life.”
Luc’s thumb brushed my hand again, a silent vow.
Charles smiled — small, paternal, real.
“Until then,” he said softly, “know this: you have my respect. My gratitude. And, in time… my open affection. Among family, you already have all of that and more.” His expression warmed. “Speaking of family, I am very much looking forward to meeting some of yours soon. I trust they will attend my abdication?”
“Oh yes, my mom is very much looking forward to it. As is my stepdad.”
He hesitated — just a breath — and when he spoke again, it was lower, meant only for me.
“And off the record, Briony… in my book, you are already as good as part of this family. Titles will catch up when they may.”
My breath hitched. Luc’s fingers tightened around mine.
Luc whispered, “Father…”
Charles placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Take care of her, Luc. Protect her.”
“I will,” Luc said, voice low.
Charles nodded once, satisfied, then turned back to me.
“You are safe here, Briony,” he said. “And know you are welcome. Toujours. Always.”
My heart felt too full for my chest. I asked to excused, cos guys, after all that I needed a minute, but Charles told me to stay.
“We are not done here. Luc,”
My head flicked to Luc, who nodded, apparently he was in on this, when I clearly didn’t know what else was going on. He stepped toward the chamberlain and rattled down instructions in rapid French, at some point the man grabbed his tablet and started taking notes, nodding repeatedly. Then he left.
Luc told his father “I dictated the missive to the Comte strongly suggesting {???} to be considered. It would be mutually beneficial.”
Charles shook his head, smirking, while writing something on his notepad. I couldn’t make sense of it.
Another Private Audience
The chamberlain opened the door with a soft knock, bowing as he announced her.
“Duc de Villeneuve and Viscountess Gauthier.”
Oh crap! I thought. So that’s why. Luc was doing his private reckoning here and wanted me present for it. Okay. Why not? As Eloise said, Clementine and Dominique would never be my friends anyway. So why not enjoy seeing them roasted.
Dominique stepped inside.
Her chin was lifted, but only barely — the kind of brittle posture that looked like pride from a distance and fear up close. Philippe walked beside her, jaw tight, eyes forward, his hand hovering near her elbow as though he wasn’t sure whether to steady her or let her fall.
Charles sat behind his desk. Luc stood at his right. I stood at his left.
Dominique stopped three paces before us. Her breath trembled.
Charles spoke first, voice cool and ceremonial. “Viscountess. You have been informed of what is required, so you may proceed.”
Dominique curtsied — a deep one, the kind reserved for sovereigns and for penance. When she rose, her eyes flicked to Luc, then to me, then away again as though the sight burned.
Her voice shook. “Your Serene Highness. Your Highness. Mademoiselle Cameron.”
Luc’s reached for me behind his father, his hand brushed mine — not for comfort, but to remind me I wasn’t alone.
Dominique swallowed. “I am here to… to acknowledge my wrongdoing.”
Philippe closed his eyes.
“I knowingly participated in a scheme to mislead Mademoiselle Cameron regarding the dress code of the event held in Your Serene Highness’s honor,” she said, each word dragged out like it weighed something. “I intended to cause her embarrassment. I intended to make her appear disrespectful. I intended to harm her standing with the Crown.”
My stomach tightened. Hearing it spoken aloud — formally, in this room — made the memory sharper.
Dominique’s voice cracked. “I acted out of jealousy. Pettiness. And a misguided belief that I had some claim to the favor of the Heir.” Her gaze flicked to Luc, then dropped instantly. “I did not.”
Luc’s expression didn’t change. He was stone.
Dominique turned to me fully for the first time. Her face crumpled. “Mademoiselle Cameron… Briony… I wronged you. Deliberately. Cruelly. And I am ashamed.”
Philippe’s breath hitched — a small, broken sound. He shook his head ever so slightly, his lips pressed into a thin, tense line.
Dominique continued, voice barely above a whisper. “You showed more dignity that night than I did. More grace. More nobility. I humiliated myself, not you.”
Silence pressed in.
Then she curtsied to me — deeply, fully, the kind of bow that stripped her of every scrap of superiority she once wielded.
“I ask your forgiveness,” she whispered.
I exhaled slowly. “I accept your apology,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “And I hope you choose better from here.”
Dominique’s eyes filled, but she nodded.
Charles spoke next, tone formal and final. “Your apology is entered into record. You will withdraw from court engagements for the remainder of the season. Your House will be informed of the Crown’s disappointment.”
Dominique flinched — that was the true punishment.
Philippe bowed his head. “Understood, Your Serene Highness.”
Charles’s gaze softened slightly — for Philippe, not for her. “See that she is guided better, Philippe.”
“I will,” he said, voice rough.
Dominique curtsied once more, then stepped through the door. Philippe took a single step after her, then stopped. His shoulders rose with a slow, steadying breath.
“A word, Your Serene Highness, if I may?”
Charles inclined his head. “Of course, Philippe.”
Philippe closed the door and bowed — deeply, sincerely. “I wish to offer my apologies,” he said, voice low. “To you, sir. To the Heir. And to Mademoiselle Cameron.”
Luc’s posture eased, but he remained silent.
“I had no knowledge of my sister’s actions,” Philippe continued. “Had I known, I would have stopped her immediately. I am ashamed she acted under my House’s name.”
Charles nodded once. “Your sincerity is noted. And accepted.”
Philippe turned to Luc, something raw flickering in his eyes. “Luc… you are my brother in every way that matters. I would never allow anyone — least of all my own family — to harm what you hold dear or sully House Beaumont’s good name. I failed to see what she was doing. For that, I am truly sorry.”
Luc’s expression softened. “I know you would never condone this. And I know you will see to it that it never happens again.”
“You have my word. I had a long talk with her and her husband. There will be no repeats,” Philippe murmured.
Then he turned to me.
“Briony.” My name left him on a breath. “I am deeply sorry. You do not deserve such cruelty.”
My throat tightened. “Thanks Philippe… you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “But I should have known my sister and what she is capable of. I should have protected you. You matter to Luc. And to Eloise. And if I may be so bold, to me as well.”
A faint, rueful smile touched his mouth. “She is furious, by the way. Eloise. She wanted to come in here herself.”
Luc huffed a quiet laugh. “Eloise said that?”
Philippe’s smile warmed. “Mais oui. She said — and I quote — ‘Briony taught me how to be someone worth choosing, to stand up for myself. The least I can do is stand up for her.’”
Heat rushed to my cheeks.
Charles’s brows lifted. “Pardon?”
Luc shot me a sideways look, amused. “Long story, Father. Briony has a way of… inspiring transformation.”
Philippe let out a soft laugh. “That’s one way to put it. She gave Eloise a sense of self-worth she’d never been allowed to have. I hardly recognized my own wife — in the best possible way. And I had to rise to meet her.” His smile turned sheepish. “Still working on that.”
Charles blinked, surprised but pleased. “I see.”
Philippe bowed again — to all three of us. “Thank you, Briony. For the grace you extended to my sister today. And for what you’ve done for my wife.” He smirked, winked. “And me.”
Luc smirked too, winking at me in solidarity.
Philippe straightened. “Your Serene Highness. Your Highness.” He bowed to Charles and Luc. “If you will excuse me, I must see to my sister. Your punishment is only the beginning of what she will have to answer for. I am not quite as forgiving.”
Charles nodded, holding back a smile. “Go on, Philippe.”
He gave me one last, gentle look — protective, grateful — then left.
The door closed behind him.
Luc exhaled slowly. Charles leaned back, studying us both.
“I would like to hear about this… transformation in Duchess Eloise,” he said. “I can see in your faces there is more to that story. I expect a full brief. And what is going on with all that winking?!”
I blushed — deeply.
And deeper still when Luc said, with far too much delight, “Oh, Briony must tell you all about it. She was the driving force behind guiding Philippe from his devious ways and helping Eloise find her own self-worth.”
I shot him a glare that was essentially a raised middle finger in look form.
“Why don’t you tell him?”
“Oh, mon coeur, you tell the story so much better than me.” he grinned. I thought a lot of things right then, none of them anything I could say out loud. That little …!
Charles’s brows rose higher.
Luc’s grin widened.
And my soul attempted to leave my body. I swallowed and tried to give a very cleaned‑up, aggressively censored version of the truth — blushing so hard I was basically a human brake light — while Luc pretended to browse the bookshelves. Pretended being the key word, because the man was making these strangled little snort‑chokes that were absolutely him trying not to laugh. His shoulders were shaking like he was silently dying. He was fooling no one. Not even the books.
Charles wasn’t much better. He sat very still, very regal, very composed… except his jaw was clenched in that “I am a monarch and I refuse to laugh at this nonsense” way, and his eyes kept flicking between me and Luc like he was watching a comedy show he wasn’t allowed to admit he enjoyed.
It was humiliating. And also, somehow, weirdly affectionate. And still humiliating. Like… Olympic‑level humiliating.
You don’t think so? Oh, please. I dare you — I double‑dog dare you — to stand in front of a literal king and explain that you were giving one of his most tightly‑laced noblewomen a full‑blown marital CPR tutorial. Go ahead. Try telling His Serene Highness that you were discussing nookie logistics, seduction strategies, lingerie shopping, and the fine art of being “just unavailable enough” to activate her husband’s primal hunting instincts like he’s some kind of aristocratic bloodhound. And then, for extra spice, explain that you were basically performing emotional defibrillation on a marriage that had been on life‑support since before the vows were even dry — while she was miserable 24/7 and he was out there enthusiastically sampling anything that didn’t sprint away fast enough. Go on. Give that speech. I’ll wait. I’ll even hold your bag and offer moral support while you spontaneously combust.
Aftermath
Once the two royal gentlemen were done torturing me and the door shut behind Charles, I marched across the room and shoved Luc so hard he actually stumbled — laughing, the menace — and then I grabbed him by the collar and kissed him. Quick. Reckless. Pure adrenaline and residual humiliation.
When I pulled back, he looked genuinely startled. Then amused. One eyebrow arched, that slow, dangerous smile spreading like he’d just discovered a new favorite hobby: flustering me.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “The last part was very… uncool. But the first part? Really — thank you.”
He shook his head. “The first part wasn’t as bad as you think. My father adores you, and your… nonchalant ways and creative storytelling amuse him.” He said it like creative storytelling was a diplomatic euphemism for unhinged chaos. “And don’t thank me. It was necessary.”
He still had that edge in his voice — the one he’d used minutes earlier while verbally executing two noblewomen. “They committed a serious offense against the Crown. What they tried wasn’t just about you, Briony. It could have damaged the House. That is what the leader in me has to see.”
His jaw tightened, the heir-mask slipping just enough to reveal the man underneath.
“The man in me,” he said quietly, “is livid. I want them burned at the stake for it.”
A shiver ran through me — not fear, but the honesty of it. And, okay, maybe a little bit the “my boyfriend is a medieval prince and it’s hot” of it.
“But what my father and I did today is already severe,” he went on. “You may not understand the weight of it yet, but banning Dominique for a season is harsh. And the d’Aubignys losing preferential export rights? That is a blow. I know François and Philippe had no idea. But Philippe will be merciless with his sister. Consider Dominique punished sufficiently.”
He paused, eyes narrowing with that calculating, princely glint. “Clementine, however… I still have plans for her. I’ll handle them quietly with François. They were outlined in the missive I had sent over.”
“Can I ask what?”
“Of course.” His mouth curved. “I am strongly suggesting a marriage with a nobleman from Verdemar who is highly motivated to find a bride.”
“Meaning old and hideous.”
“Something like that,” he said dryly. “It would strengthen the alliance. And she would be married — and no longer able to dream of marrying men who are unavailable.”
He stepped closer, voice softening. “Which brings me to the next topic. My father’s abdication is fast approaching. That means you will soon be made official. Are you ready for that?”
“I don’t know. Anything is better than this game of lame charades. Former classmate, my ass. Nobody is buying that bullshit, Luc. And you holding my hand in front of Clementine and François as an extra F.U. didn’t exactly help. I really don’t understand court rules at all.”
He huffed a laugh — that low, warm, Luc sound. “Me holding your hand was my statement to them — my personal merde alors, as you would say, your F.U.” His mouth twitched. “It was absolutely against code, but I could not bring myself to care. Not after what Clementine did.”
He stepped closer, brushing his thumb along my cheek, the gesture soft even though his voice still carried the steel of the heir he’d been five minutes ago. “As for us being official, oui, it is better. But please understand — there will still be no public affection. Not even after we are married. Hand‑holding, on occasion, yes. But no making out, no… how do you say… PDA.” He said it like the letters personally offended him. “Nothing that may seem normal to you.”
His thumb traced my cheekbone again, slower this time. “It will make certain things easier. But it will also put a spotlight on you.” His gaze searched mine, steady and serious. “Which is why I have been thinking of an alternative.”
“Oh yeah?”
“How opposed would you be to staying here permanently?” he asked. “In your own suite — not mine, malheureusement. No shared quarters until after marriage, at least not openly.” His eyes flickered with mischief. “But we could arrange for your studies to shift to remote. You would not have to travel so much. You would be here, learning what you need to know. And your mother could visit.”
“Remote uni? With a degree from Britechester though? I’m dead‑set on it being from there.”
“Yes,” he said immediately. “Many royals do it. Most begin covertly, but once discovered, they have no choice. And you — you are not a stranger to public attention because of your family, but there is a significant difference between that and attention for a royal.” His voice softened. “There is a program for it. I would have no issue requesting it for you. If you want it. I am asking, not demanding. This is your choice.”
I gave him a slow, wicked smile. “What do you think?”
He mirrored it, that dangerous, princely smirk. “Oh, I do not know. You are very independent…”
“Yeah, but I’m also tired of your stalker chick knocking on my door every damn day. Remember that girl from my French class with the major crush on you? I’d rather stay here. So… do it.”
Luc’s smirk deepened — satisfied, relieved, a little possessive — and he pulled me into a kiss. Deeper this time. Certain. Claiming.
A knock interrupted us.
Luc groaned — actually groaned — and muttered, “Merde… qu’est‑ce que c’est maintenant? What now?”
The chamberlain appeared, already blushing. “Your Highness, Mademoiselle d’Aubigny is requesting a private audience.”
Luc’s eyes flicked to me. “What would you have me do, chérie?”
“Aren’t you curious?” I asked. “I say see what she wants.”
“Oh, I can guess what she wants,” he said dryly. “My missive certainly reached them by now.”
He nodded once — first to me, then to the chamberlain — and the door shut again.
I started to leave, but Luc caught my wrist and tugged me back, guiding me behind a tall presentation board tucked into the corner.
“Stay,” he murmured, voice low. “I want you to hear this.”
My pulse jumped. I slipped into the shadowed space just as the knock came again.
Clementine entered.
The chamberlain lingered awkwardly until she requested privacy in French. Luc’s eyes flicked toward my hiding place; I shrugged. He nodded, and the chamberlain withdrew.
Clementine approached, and Luc stepped back. She stopped a few paces away.
“Luc, please,” she said. “Reconsider. You know me. We were close. So close. Please do not ruin me publicly.”
“Me?” Luc asked, voice cool as cut glass. “Moi? You did this. And why not speak English? You will need the practice — I will hold everyone to it until Briony feels comfortable.”
She swallowed. “All right. English, then. Luc, please. Do not make me marry that awful man. I understand now. You have moved on and I will as well. But not like that. I beg of you.”
Luc’s expression didn’t soften. “I am not insisting. It was a strong suggestion, since you seem so desperate for a mate.” His tone sharpened. “I need you to understand that Briony is here to stay. She is whom I have chosen. Whom my father approves of. She will be your superior before long. I want support, not mutiny.”
He shook his head, disappointment flickering across his features. “I held you in high esteem, but you truly disappointed me. More than Dominique. I knew she was… épice.” His mouth twitched. “But you, Clementine… I remembered you as a sweet girl. Evidently, that was also in the past.”
Her voice cracked. “No, Luc, I promise — it was one failure of judgment. I am sweet. Ask anyone. And I am so sorry. I still… I was hoping.”
“Why?” Luc asked, genuinely baffled. “I never led you on. I was always perfectly clear. At least I thought. I believed what we shared for a decade was genuine friendship. You never let on there was more.”
“You were clear,” she whispered. “But I foolishly hoped anyway, after you parted ways with Dominique. She is so extroverted, confident… I thought maybe when you didn’t want her, you wanted someone gentler. Like me. I see now it was misguided. Please, Luc. If I ever meant anything to you, please show me mercy. Let me find my own happiness. Please.”
Luc let her words hang — not cruelly, just long enough for the truth to settle.
“Clementine,” he said finally, “you did mean something to me. Once. When we were children. When we did not understand the world or our place in it.”
His expression stayed firm.
“But that time is gone. And what you did proves why. I would never stoop that low to win someone’s favor. It would never occur to me that stepping on someone after tripping them would be the way to someone else’s heart. I still do not comprehend how sullying my family’s name — my father’s final major event — would bring any good to anyone.”
She flinched.
“You did not simply lash out at a rival,” he continued. “You attacked the dignity of the Crown. You endangered the reputation of my House. And you tried to destroy a young woman who had done nothing to you except exist in a place you wanted.”
Her eyes filled, but she didn’t look away.
Luc exhaled slowly. “I am not without mercy. I will not force your hand. I will not ruin you publicly. If you choose not to marry the man I suggested, then do not. Unlike you, I do not allow bitterness to make me cruel.”
She swallowed hard. “Thank you, Luc. And please… tell Briony I am truly sorry. Make sure she knows I am not like that, normally.”
“I think actions should speak for you,” Luc said. “If you are sincere, she will notice — in time — that you are friend, not foe. But it will take time. Do not rush her.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it.
“So Briony is the one…?” she whispered.
Luc’s answer was immediate. “Briony is the woman I love. And the future sovereign princess of Bellacorde and Ondarion. You will treat her accordingly.”
Clementine nodded — small, broken, sincere. “I understand.”
Luc inclined his head once. “Then we are finished.”
She curtsied — deeper than she ever had — and left the room without another word.
The door clicked shut.
Luc waited a beat, then turned toward the presentation board.
“You can come out now,” he said softly, holding out his hand.
I stepped from my hiding place, heart pounding, breath caught somewhere between relief and awe. I took his hand and stepped closer. Luc watched me with that look — the one that said he knew exactly what I’d heard, and he didn’t regret a single word.
“Well?” he asked, voice low.
I kissed him again — not impulsive this time, but deliberate. Certain. His breath caught before he kissed me back.
“You sounded like a kind and just leader,” I whispered. “And — uh — I appreciate the ra‑ra‑Briony talk at the end.”
“Good,” he murmured against my mouth. “Because that was the last time anyone will ever speak of you — or attempt to treat you — as anything less than what you are. Me asking you so many times if you were sure, giving you opportunities to bow out… those are over. You made your choice, and we have set it in stone who and what you are.”
“And what’s that?” I whispered.
He brushed his thumb along my jaw, eyes warm and absolutely certain.
“À moi. Mine. And the future sovereign princess of Bellacorde and Ondarion. They will respect you as such. Anything else is disrespecting the Crown. You moving in here will send another very clear signal of our intentions. It is my father and me bending the rules without breaking them.”
The words hit me like a physical thing — not heavy, but anchoring. Final. A vow spoken in the quiet aftermath of judgment, when the room still held the echo of his authority.
My pulse tripped. My breath caught. Something fierce and bright tightened in my chest.
He wasn’t saying it to impress me. He wasn’t saying it for effect. He was stating a fact — one he had already begun shaping the world around.
“Luc…”
He leaned his forehead against mine, voice softer now but no less certain. “You stood beside me today. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t falter. Your words to Dominique were excellent. You belong here — with me — and they will learn it. I made your position in this court absolutely clear to everyone today. And my father approved. It may have been subtle to you, but it was a neon sign to any noble. They have all been put on notice. There is no doubt left now.”
Moving On
By the following week, I was officially enrolled in the remote version of my degree program and living in my very own private suite at Beauvigne Palace — which, by the way, was roughly the size of an entire lecture hall at Britchester. Maybe bigger. Possibly the size of the entire humanities building. Hard to say.
I had just finished setting up my online university portal — which took three attempts, two password resets, and one minor meltdown. Not because I’m technologically inept, thank you very much, but because their security system required codes, fingerprints, facial recognition, and probably an arm, a leg, and my firstborn hidden somewhere in the fine print — when there was a knock on my door.
“Yeah? I mean… oui?” I sounded unnerved and exhausted. Exnerved? Is that a word? Should be.
The door opened and the chamberlain announced, in his usual solemn, ceremonial tone:
“Duchesse de Villeneuve.”
“Oh—yeah, she can come in.”
He blinked. “Mademoiselle, she is waiting for you in the formal sitting room.”
“Oh. Right. Yes. Obviously. Thanks. I’ll be right there.”
Of course. That’s why I had a suite the size of a city block — so I could run downstairs to hang out with my best friend.
He stepped out and then… just stood there. Waiting. Like a very polite, very well‑dressed statue.
Argh. Pushy much?!
I got up and followed him like a lost puppy being escorted to obedience school, because apparently even though I lived here now, I still had to be announced before entering rooms, and having my friend in my own room required me to go fetch her and invite her in person. And even then, I wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t some sort of palace misconduct. Mental note: ask Luc later. My life had become one long, exhausting game of Simon Says: Royal Edition.
Eloise was perched on one of the chaises, but she rose immediately and curtsied.
“Eloise, seriously now? You really don’t have to do that.”
“Oh, but I do,” she replied, her voice warm and impeccably composed — the kind of voice that had been trained by governesses and echoed through English palace corridors. “You must grow accustomed to it.”
She crossed the room with that effortless, floating grace she had, kissed me on each cheek, and then requested tea. The chamberlain turned to me, awaiting my approval. For a pot of tea. Okaaaaay.
My brain went to take a nap. Come on, brain, work!
“Umm… oui. Du thé… et aussi du café, s’il vous plaît.” I stuttered out.
He bowed like I’d just recited the entire Ondarian constitution and closed the door.
Eloise giggled behind her hand. “Your face, Briony.”
“That made no sense. Please tell me I actually ordered what I think I ordered.”
“You did,” she said, amused. “Coffee and tea. Perfectly. And they’ll bring light refreshments as well — it’s customary. But do remember, my dear, you give the orders here.”
“Hm. Well, my brother would tell you that should come naturally to me.”
A knock, and then refreshments arrived — a silver tray with delicate pastries, Eloise’s tea, and my blessed, life‑saving coffee. These people understood the assignment when it came to strong coffee. The chamberlain poured for us with the solemnity of a coronation.
I took a sip and nearly moaned. “Okay, this I can get used to.”
Eloise smiled, lifting her saucer with the kind of elegance that made me feel like a feral raccoon. I had just grabbed my cup off the table, but I corrected myself and mimicked her. I didn’t grow up using saucers. We used mugs. Dented enamel ones at Dad’s ranch.
“So,” I said, grabbing something flaky and probably illegal in several countries, “what’s new?”
Eloise set her teacup down with the kind of grace that should be studied in museums. Then she casually detonated a bomb.
“Dominique is pregnant.”
I choked so violently I nearly died. Pastry everywhere. Eloise lunged forward with a napkin and my coffee like she was about to save my life. Honestly, CPR might have been necessary.
Through watery eyes, I stared at her. “What? How? I mean—no, wait. Why? Two weeks ago she was pining after Luc and now she’s starting a family? What the—?”
“Precisely because of that.”
“I am not following. Luc told her no to her face — humiliated her — and now she’s suddenly madly in love with her husband and wants his babies? Huh?!”
Eloise folded her hands primly, her expression the picture of patient aristocratic explanation.
“Not quite. Consider this: she has been married for three years. She has avoided beginning a family — which Alexandre has wished for. Then she receives a letter from the Crown informing her husband that she attempted to humiliate the young woman His Highness is clearly courting — risking defamation of the Crown — all because she still harboured feelings for our future sovereign. What, then, would a respectable nobleman do?”
“So Alexandre put the proverbial baby‑machine gun to her head? That’s… a bit extreme.”
“Perhaps for you,” Eloise said gently. “Here, it is a perfectly reasonable ultimatum. Have the child, redirect your loyalties, preserve the line, and all will be forgiven. Refuse, and you risk dishonour, the loss of your marriage, and the loss of your home. Technically, Philippe and I would be obliged to take her in, as she is his sister and would become his ward — but given her actions against the Crown, we could, quite justifiably, decline.”
I blinked. “Wow. That’s… medieval.”
“Welcome to Bellacorde,” she said sweetly. “Besides, Philippe and I are planning to add to our family as well.”
“What? Whose idea was that?”
“That is the loveliest part — Philippe’s.” Her smile softened into something luminous. “I have always wanted a large family, perhaps even a little girl one day, but Philippe would never entertain the idea. Now he is the one suggesting it. He asked how I might feel if we repainted the nursery… just in case.” Her smile could have powered the palace for a week.
“Wow. So things are still good?”
“Things are excellent. Which is why I am here.” She leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Imagine it, Briony. Philippe wishes to renew our vows. To give us a true wedding — not the contractual arrangement we endured the first time.”
My jaw dropped.
No, seriously, I was giving full startled‑goldfish.
“Briony… when he said it, I cried. It is everything I ever hoped for, everything I was raised to believe in. I called my mother and we cried together. You will finally meet her — at the wedding.” Her eyes glittered like she’d swallowed a chandelier. “And I would love for you to be my maid of honour. If Luc has no objections. I shall ask him formally, of course.”
“Wow,” I breathed. It was all I could manage. Did she really just say she’d ask my boyfriend’s permission for me to be her maid of honor? Oh my God- cringe! That rubbed me so wrong I stuffed an entire petit four in my mouth and chewed like an angry squirrel.
Inside my head? A completely different story.
Objections?! HUH!? Luc didn’t own me. He could share his thoughts, sure, and I’d consider them — but object?! Oh hell no. He could object in one hand and shit in the other and see which filled up faster. Object! You don’t date a Cameron to control them.
I smiled sweetly, because apparently that’s what we do in palaces instead of saying what we’re actually thinking. Still working on that. Sometimes my lips outran my restraint.
“Eloise,” I said, “I would be honored.”
But internally?
I was already picturing Luc trying to “object” and me politely handing him a shovel so he could dig his own grave faster. I might be his princess someday, I might follow palace rules, I might not publicly touch him — but I would still make my own decisions, s’il vous plaît!!!
And after Eloise’s news – honestly, if university didn’t work out for me, I clearly had a promising side hustle as a matchmaker, love guru, relationship whisperer, emotional‑support fairy godmother — something. Something lucrative. Something with a velvet couch and a waiting list.
Damn, I was good. When I first came here, Eloise and Philippe were crying into their silk sleeves about how miserable their marriage was, him landing jabs about her left and right, and now they were planning a vow renewal and debating nursery paint colors. Ha!
EchoesOfLegacy 