Celine’s gaze settled on Dakota across the room. Who was this man who walked as if he fought dragons before breakfast and unraveled ancient riddles by teatime? Such a presence did not belong to the powdered boulevardiers that usually graced these halls.

She stood transfixed as he wove through the sea of courtiers. Her breath caught faintly in her throat. There was something about him, a shadow behind his eyes, a story to discover.

She sipped her champagne. The bubbles were tart against her tongue. Her mind whirled, curiosity sharpening into a keen edge.

"Who is that?" she whispered to one of her ladies-in-waiting.

"Oh, see his long black hair—how exotic," one said.

Something about how his eyes met Celine's across the room drew him toward her, an invisible thread tugging. His heartbeat spoke a new rhythm, one that echoed the tempo of possibility.

He walked through the crowded salon right to her.

"Madam," Dakota said and bowed.

"Sir," Celine said, "you appear a stranger to these gilded walls."

"Observant," he said. Dakota made out her silhouette, the turn of her neck, a strength in the way she stood.

"Versailles is a maze to the uninitiated." Her eyes flashed with silent challenge.

"Do you seek a guide?"

"Perhaps," Dakota said, his smile a half-moon. "Or maybe the maze found me."

"Ah." Celine cocked her head, weighing. "And what does the maze offer to one such as yourself?"

"Secrets," he replied, the word hanging between them like a key to a locked door.

"Everyone here deals in secrets," she returned, her voice low as she stepped closer. "The question is, sir, are yours worth knowing?"

Dakota moved forward, his voice reeking with amusement. "My secrets?—are complicated like the tapestries adorning these walls."

"Oh?" Celine's eyebrow cocked upward, her lips curving with giddiness.

"Weave me a thread, then."

"Patience," he baited.

"Patience," she returned, "is often mistaken for hesitation."

"Or strategy." Dakota's eyes sparkled.

Celine laughed with him, "Well played, sir."

"Royal titles?" he asked, moving closer.

"Trappings," she waved her hand dismissively. "Call me Celine."

"Henri," he said.

"You are—exotic," she mused, reaching out to touch his sleeve. "An explorer?"

"Of sorts," he confessed, heart racing with the light touch.

"Uncharted territories or forbidden lore?" Her question hung, baited.

"Both," Dakota confessed.

"Ah, danger lurks for those such as you," Celine's eyes danced.

"Yet here I stand," he looked around, "in the lioness's den."

"Am I the lioness?" Celine's smile was a challenge.

"Would you admit to it if you were?"

"Probably not," she acquiesced, moving back, inviting pursuit.

"Then I shall remain cautious," Dakota replied, yet his posture gave nothing away from his words.

The two of them were watched from the darkness by Pierre—his face impassive. The faintest furrow in his brow, hands clasped behind his back.

Pierre shifted, silent as a ghost, eyes never leaving the pair. His mind was in overdrive, computing risks and plotting contingencies. His loyalty to Dakota's mission was ironclad. Dakota and Celine, wrapped in a dance of words and wit, were oblivious to the dangers they were bringing into the equation. However, Pierre had not advised Dakota to intermingle with a Duchess!

"Be careful, young master," Pierre whispered to himself. This game you play is edged with swords.

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They strolled along the outer rim of the room, Celine scoffing at her ladies to leave her be. The ladies erupted into a fit of laughter and murmurs amongst themselves.

"Your stories," Celine breathed, "they're laced with shadows and adventure."

"Shadows can hide wonders," he replied, his voice low.

"Indeed? Show me one," she dared, her eyes aglow with curiosity and something sharper.

"Dare I?" Dakota asked, his face breaking into a half-grin.

"Oh Monsieur, please," she said.

"Then follow me," he said expansively, his hand gesturing grandly toward the archway that led deeper into the Palace of Versailles. "The real magic is beyond the places the average person treads."

"Lead on," Celine said, her gown whispering against the marble.

Dakota stepped into an oak-paneled room where the soft click of a switch seemed to resound in mid-air. The wall opened into darkness, swinging the door inward.

"Fantastic," she said, stepping into the abyss.

"Mind your step," he said, leading her down the narrow stone staircase in a dance of shades, each twist up a secret shared.

"Where does this lead?" Her voice hushed, a murmur amongst ancient stones.

"Patience," Dakota said. At the hollow of her back, his fingers pressed with insistence. "Every secret has its cost."

Pierre followed behind them, making sure Louis' royal guard was not seeing any of this. He knew these corridors—the labyrinth in the bowels of Versailles.

They emerged into a chamber aglow with the flicker of torchlight. Tapestries were hung upon the walls, threads of valor and intrigue told within their stitches.

"Is this?" Celine's words dangled in wonder.

"King Louis' private spy alcove," Dakota confirmed, watching delight play across her features.

"Used for?"

"Conversations best kept from prying ears." His smile didn't reach his eyes, the weight of their mission anchoring the moment.

"Ours are only innocent whispers," she lied, playful defiance lacing her words.

"There's more?" Celine asked her curiosity persisting.

"Always more," Dakota promised, leading her deeper into the labyrinth.

Pierre trailed them, each step premeasured, as escape routes were mapped and corners cloaked.

"Here." Dakota stopped in front of another tapestry and pulled it aside to show a slim fissure. "The heart of Versailles beats behind walls."

Celine went through first, her outline moving in shadows. Dakota followed, his senses on full alert, aware of the tiniest noise, the slightest displacement of air.

"Another secret," she whispered, as they entered a room where moonlight seeped in through colored glass.

Dakota ran his fingers over the intricate glasswork, tracing the swirls and whorls, touching the coolness of history.

"Each line tells a story," she whispered, moving even closer. Their shoulders brushed, an electric charge in the touch.

"Much like us," he returned, his voice low, each word weighed with implication.

She nodded, lips parting slightly, a mute invitation to share something more than just words.

"Your hand fits mine," she said, a simple statement, and yet, so profound.

"Destined," Dakota agreed, allowing himself this poetic truth in the world of intrigue.

"Careful," he whispered.

A floorboard creaked overhead. Dakota tilted his head. The Dauphin stood on the balcony above, half-concealed by the curtain, the reflection from the candlelight off his signet ring betraying his presence. He watched, a statue carved from envy and suspicion, staring through space between Dakota and Celine.

"Let's move on," Dakota said, steering Celine gently away from the Dauphin's line of sight.

"Lead the way," she replied, her smile half defiance, half thrill.

"We must be fools," Celine said with a softness in her voice that clutched at his chest.

"Only if we stop now," Dakota replied, his resolution firming.

"Then onwards," she declared, her voice etched with fear and excitement.

The Dauphin's eyes, cool and calculating, followed them, the weight of his gaze promising reprisal. Yet something there stirred beneath the surface—a hunger, perhaps, for what Dakota had so recently ignited inside Celine.

"Look," he whispered, his eyes darting to the shadows where the Dauphin could be lurking. "We're not the only ones playing this game."

"Game?" Celine's voice quivered, "Is that what this is to you?"

"More," he vowed, the words clipped with urgency. "But we must tread lightly. Your betrothed watches."

A frown creased her perfect brow for a moment, and she glanced over her shoulder. Her hand found Dakota's, a lifeline in swirling currents.

"Then let us be subtle," she replied, her resolve cloaking her like armor. "Let us be artful."

They slid into the thin hallway. Dakota forged ahead, his senses on a knife edge.

Suddenly, Pierre appeared from around the next wall.

"Here," Pierre hissed, materializing from the shadows like some type of wraith. He handed Dakota a rolled parchment.

Dakota spread it, running his eyes over lines and symbols. A map—one detailing secret passages threading through the palace like veins.

"Pierre?" Celine said. She had seen him around—he was in the employ of royal security.

"Must we hasten?" Celine asked.

"Yes," Pierre said, "My liege, pray take this young lady back to the party now, you both have had enough fun for one evening. Do this now, before the guard come down these halls."

They moved in unison among the shadows and tapestries. The night draped them like a cloak, full of possibility and fraught with danger. With every step, they wove a new story.