It was just a party. Just a party, Phillipe had told her. It was a masquerade ball, she had managed to see something up for a mask. It want the best effort, but it looked..decent.

Her petticoats, her crinoline, her corset, it all weighed down on her. She had layers of skirts underneath her ballgown. Henriette was wearing a light cream colour, to match her husband, Phillipe. Henriette had to stay at Phillipe's side during the entire event.

She hated her husband.

Henriette just had to sit beside her husband, remain polite and discreet, as she watched him shamelessly flirt with his darling Chevalier. He was so open about his preferences towards men, she felt so degraded by the mere presents of her husband's lover.

It's not as if she was able to take lovers herself. Phillipe would have Louis, his brother, the King of France, have Henriette hanged on the account of adultery.

Henriette missed her home. And being sat in the court of Versailles, day in day out, watching her husband flirt with half the men in court, it wasn't something she enjoyed.

Henriette longed to go back to English court, where she had respect. Where people didn't accept men loving men, like they had so normalised in the french aristocracy.

Henriette felt sweat beads bubble up onto the face she had placed over her eyes, which where bordered with pearls, extravagant feathers placed on the top of it, for the masquerade ball. She gently dabbed her fingers upon the lace, yet she felt no better.

Henriette felt like she'd topple over. She was sat at her dressing table, staring at her reflection. She felt sick. She was dizzy, and was nauseous, she felt each layer of skirts stick to her skin, she could feel her skin binding to her crinoline, fixed in place by sweat.

Henriette continued to take deep, deep breaths. Every time she breathed, she felt her skin flare up with an intense heat. She gently called at her exposed shoulders through the ballgown, trying to wipe away sweat. But she still felt sticky. She still felt horrible.

Henriette turned to the side to get a look at the bedroom door. This was she and Phillipe's marital bedchamber.

Chevalier, her husband's male lover, had a key to the chamber, and so did Phillipe, her husband. Henriette said vision blurred, and a headache scorched not like iron as it burned through her skull.

"Phillipe.." she hummed. Henriette was still short of breath. Phillipe was wearing his cream overcoat, with gold buttons trailing down it, to match his masquerade mask. Pure white. Just like Henriette's. He looked her up and down.

"I know the ball is soon. I'm still getting ready, my dearest, and do maintain the expectation that I will make haste, Phillipe." Henriette said, trying to keep her voice level.