Free Waters of Versailles by Kelly Robson

jealous, but it’s not quite accurate. His wealth and title do help, but he is accepted because everyone can see he is true to his nature.”
    â€œAnd I am not?”
    â€œA bald question. I will answer it two ways. First, observe that at this moment, you and I are walking arm in arm among every person in the world who matters. If that is not acceptance, I wonder how you define the word.”
    â€œI am honored, madame.”
    â€œYes, you most certainly are, monsieur.”
    â€œAnd your second answer?”
    â€œYou are not true to your nature, and it makes people uncomfortable. Everyone knows what to expect from a man like the Marquis de la Châsse, but one suspects that Sylvain de Guilherand would rather be somewhere else, doing something else. Heaven knows what.”
    Sylvain closed his glove over hers. “Not at all. I am exactly where I want to be.”
    â€œSo you say, but I do not believe it. Our well-beloved king toasted you this evening. Many men would consider that enough achievement for a lifetime, but still you are dissatisfied.”
    â€œWe discussed my character before. Remember how that ended?”
    A delicate blush flushed through her powder. “I am answering your question as honestly as I can.”
    â€œHonesty is not a vice much indulged at Versailles.”
    She laughed. “I know the next line. Let me supply it: ‘It’s the only vice that isn’t.’ Oh, Sylvain. I can have that kind of conversation with any man. I’d rather go home to my husband and talk about hot gruel and poultices. Don’t make me desperate.”
    Sylvain stroked her hand. “Very well. You enjoy my company despite my faults?”
    She nibbled her bottom lip as she considered the question. “Because of your faults, I think,” she said. “The fountain is successful, the king is impressed with you, and you have my favor. Take my advice and be satisfied.”
    Sylvain raised her palm to his lips. “I will.”
    They walked on, silent but in perfect concord. As they circled the gallery, the atmosphere seemed less stifling, the crowd less insipid, the king’s air of rut less ridiculous. Even Madame’s poses seemed less futile and her sister’s pouts less desperate. Sylvain was in charity with the world, willing to forgive its many flaws.
    The guests parted, opening a view of the fountain. A girl in petal-yellow silk reached her cup to one of the blossoms. The curve of her bare arm echoed the graceful arc of the fountain’s limbs. She raised the cup to her lips and the crowd closed off his view of the scene just as she took her first sip.
    â€œNature perfected, monsieur,” said a portly Prussian. “You must be congratulated.”
    Sylvain bowed and drew Annette away just as the Prussian’s gaze settled on her cleavage. The king rose to dismount the dais and the whole crowd watched. Sylvain took advantage of the distraction to claim a kiss from Annette, just a brief caress of her ripe lower lip before they joined the guests in a ripple of deep curtseys and bows. The king progressed down the gallery toward Madame and her sister, his pace forceful and intent as a stalking hunter.
    Annette slid her hand up Sylvain’s arm and rested her palm on his shoulder. A pulse fluttered on her throat. He resisted the urge to explore it with his lips.
    â€œI suppose it is too early to leave,” he whispered, drinking in the honeyed scent of her powder.
    â€œYour departure would be noticed,” she breathed. “It is the price of fame, monsieur.”
    â€œAnother turn of the room, then?”
    She nodded. They moved down the gallery in the king’s wake. The African cat gnawed on its harness, blunted ivory fangs rasping over the jewels. Its attendant yanked ineffectually on the leash.
    â€œPoor thing,” said Annette. “They should take it outside. This is no place for a wild animal.”
    Sylvain nodded.