Anne's at her most beautiful draped only in her sheets with loose, tangled hair and love bites under her breasts, Aramis assures her, but if he had to advise her on how to dress—
"—I've already worn white and gold silk twice this week!" she wails, burying her face in his chest. She's aware that she sounds exactly like the spoiled princess she's spent her life fighting not to be, but the urge to be a brat wins out over maturity. "And if I wear it again, Madame Beaumont will tell all the ladies in court I'm too delicate to vary in routine, and then they'll be gossiping about my having the wasting disease and wondering if Louis will have to pick a new bride, and then I'll have people offering me condolences and Louis wondering if I'm dying, and—"
He shuts her up by rolling on top of her and physically crushing the breath out of her so she can't keep going. "You're being very dramatic."
"Life... in court... is certainly... grounds... to be very dramatic," Anne manages to huff out, pushing at his shoulders. "Off!"
The musketeer grins, squishing his nose affectionately against hers before flopping onto his back with a muffled oomph. "Your struggles are certainly out of my range of expertise, querida."
"Mamá would murder me for this," she grumbles. "'Sabes, Ana, María Teresa's court never gossips about her.' 'You just need to assert yourself more, darling.' 'By the way, when will I have another grandchild?'"
Aramis quivers with laughter as he watches his beloved whine about her wardrobe. It's so simple, so human of a moment, that he can forget his station for a moment and pretend they're just Aramis and Ana, young lovers enjoying each other's company in the afterglow of an afternoon spent making love. "You know you'd look lovely in the plainest cloth in all of France. Even a burlap sack would be made radiant by your choice to wear it." He pauses. "Oh, that's interesting. You could wear a burlap sack."
Anne gives a strangled shriek and burrows herself unceremoniously back into his torso. He huffs in surprise, then grins and cuddles her up into him. "Wear the gold and white silk with the blue detail. It makes you look stunning—" he starts kissing down the column of her throat— "and strong—" lips brushing her collarbones— "and sexy." Mouth hovering over her bosom, hot breath skimming the tops of her breasts: "My lovely, saucy queen."
She giggles. "You're ridiculous."
He pouts playfully up at her. "For your information, I am a professional aesthete."
"But not a couturier?"
"You see, my speciality is appreciating beauty," he winks roguishly, "not gowns."
"Well," Anne murmurs, curling closer, eyes flaring hot, gaslight-blue, "what do you advise for me now, Monsieur Aesthete?"
Aramis grins. "I already told you, my dear." He begins feathering kisses down her sternum. "Only wearing sheets—" his hands twine into her hair, tilting her head down so he can reach up to slant his mouth over hers— "and loose hair—" and then quickly dip back down to nip his favorite expanse of smooth skin under her breasts— "and love bites where no one else will see. Only me."
"Only you," she echoes, rosebud mouth curving into a smile as she tugs him closer.
When he sees her that evening at the banquet, she's swathed in white and gold silk with blue details.
As predicted, she is glorious.
(While she passes him on the arm of the king, she meets his eyes and a tiny smile flickers at the corner of her lips. Thanks.)
(Oh, querida. His eyes crinkle back in a minuscule smirk. The pleasure is all mine.)