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fantastic as the château itself.
    Mythical fountains in gold and bronze shimmered beneath the summer sun. The roses and wisteria bloomed brighter, smelled sweeter than any Isabella had ever before seen. There were boxwood hedges, clipped and shaped in symmetrical elegance. Even the birds flitting about the cherry trees seemed to sing with an airier song, all lending to the illusion of a flawless unspoiled paradise.
    With the help of one of the palace pages assigned by the king to act as their guide, Isabella and Idonia spent the afternoon taking in every wonder—the glorious fountains of Apollo and Neptune, the perfectly formed parterres lined with exotic trees. They enjoyed a gondola ride on the elegant Grand Canal, and sampled succulent fruit fresh from the trees in the
Orangerie.
They climbed each and every one of the famed Hundred Steps and then paused to catch their breath against the tightness of their stays on the Terrace overlooking the long stretch of
le Tapis Vert.
    It was amazing, really, that not a century before that same magnificent panorama had been naught but a modest hunting lodge amidst miles of barren marshland, with no woods, no water, and no view. Within the space of an age it had been magically transformed into a collection of fourteen different groves, brilliant chambers in an outdoor garden palace, separated by grand arbors of chestnut and elm. Fountains powered by hydraulics that made streams of water dance and bubble were hidden all throughout, complemented by marble statuary reminiscent of an ancient Grecian grotto.
    It was impossible to see it all in that one short afternoon, but they took in the highlights, ending their tour at the famed Pall Mall lawn. There, while Idonia stopped to watch some of the courtiers at play, Isabella slipped away for a stroll through the Topiary Maze to reflect privately on the evening ahead.
    Just the idea of being surrounded by strangers, on display, having to actually
talk
about herself, was enough to make her stomach turn a reel. She was only supposed to have stopped at the palace
briefly,
to make a momentary gesture of goodwill on her father’s behalf. She was to have been announced to the king, present him with the gift her father had sent, and then she was to be off.
    But, now, somehow suddenly, she was staying on for the night, and more so than that, she was supping with the king in the private apartments of his most notorious mistress!
    How had this happened?
    Anyone else would be turning cartwheels at such a boon opportunity.
    Anyone, that is, except Isabella.
    Unlike her older sister, who sparkled amongst company with whom she could exchange ideas and impart her many thoughts and opinions, Isabella was happiest as the quiet observer. She was content simply to record her thoughts in the private pages of her journal and sketching book, thoughts she would never dare dream of sharing with anyone else.
    As she walked through the
labyrinthe,
along the hedge-lined
allées
and past covert hidey-holes perfect for a lover’s tryst, Isabella tried to convince herself she had nothing to be anxious about. If there was one thing she had perfected over her three-and-twenty years as a duke’s second daughter, it was a talent for making herself invisible in a crowded room. She would sit quietly and smile when called upon, pick over her plate, and stand back to watch the other players perform their parts. And then, as soon as propriety allowed, she would slip away, just as she had done at the countless country suppers hosted by her parents at Drayton Hall. Then come the morning, she would be on her way to England, and Versailles would be naught but a pleasant reminiscence to one day tell her children about before bedtime.
    In the name of St. George, who did she think she was fooling?
    A simple supper, indeed! There was nothing at all simple about the palace of Versailles. Even as she tried so very hard to say the opposite to it, a dozen different dilemmas buzzed through