Author's Note: A very brief interlude piece (okay, more of a sketch than an actual story) prompted by having read some history articles regarding George IV's marriage. It intrigued me, and I wanted to explore Marguerite's thoughts on the subject. I'm sure there were more detailed articles than the one I read, but I confess the subject itself is not one I want to go dig up history books to explore in more depth. Otherwise, the story would have been longer.

~BD

Change of Opinion

Marguerite found that the muscles in her face were growing quite weary of smiling. For one thing, she had been forced to smile all day. And for another, there was absolutely nothing to smile about.

To the outside observer, it would definitely appear that there was plenty to smile about, perhaps. But it was just an illusion; of this, Marguerite was certain.

All about her, men and women were still wildly enjoying the gaiety and festivity of a lavish wedding – the wedding of the Prince Regent, himself! Everyone who had been invited was thrilled to have received an invitation, because it meant they were someone, and this was, after all, the grandest event of the season. Not even the exquisite Lady Blakeney's extravagance could outmatch the Prince's wedding.

Not that it mattered that the old gossips were whispering such rubbish and nonsense behind their painted fans. Truthfully, Marguerite never wished to attempt such a ridiculous feat as outdoing the Prince's sordid affair. Not now, not ever. It was likely that, out of all of the invitees, she was one of the very few who were secretly displeased with the entire ordeal, and she was quite ready to return home. It was nearly two in the morning; surely Percy would be ready to leave soon enough, she thought wearily.

Because the whole crux of the thing was simple, really. Weddings were supposed to be happy and wonderful – the fresh, lovely start of something new and beautiful. Marriages should be the same, though Marguerite knew perfectly well that most were not. She was lucky, exceedingly lucky, she thought bitterly, and quite selfishly. For not every woman could have Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet – the Scarlet Pimpernel! – as their faithful husband. And while most women would desperately wish for a prince to make them a princess, Marguerite would never, ever want England's Prince Regent, even if she had no other choice.

And yet, once, she thought sadly, she had liked the man quite well. She was always his particular favorite at parties and balls, but she didn't wish to be so any longer.

The wedding itself had been, in Marguerite's opinion, heart breaking and terrible. It had been a long morning, and while most people twittered and the ladies sighed heavenly, Marguerite had desperately tried not to appear stony-faced. Only Percy's hand occasionally brushing hers reminded her that she'd best smile to avoid notice.

Worse, the evening that had followed had been absolutely no better; instead, it had merely been long and tiring, while most of the elite gaily flitted about, laughing and talking and eating and drinking and dancing, making merry at the expense of a Prince who was so far in debt that it would be impossible for Parliament to bail him out if he kept on the way he was.

More than once, Marguerite had shivered, not from chill weather, but at the thought that, if he kept up such an extravagant lifestyle, the people of England might very well revolt just as the peasants of France had only three years prior. And God help her; it was hard enough to keep Percy out of France. He would definitely get himself killed trying to save his fellow countrymen if war erupted in England!

It came as an immense relief when, only thirty minutes later, her husband silently appeared at her elbow and claimed her hand, and led her up the sweeping stairs to where his Royal Highness was standing at the landing, laughing over some jest with a crowd of raucous young men – none of which, Marguerite noticed, were members of her husband's League. Sir Percy politely captured a moment of the Prince's time, bowed deeply, and congratulated the man on the superb festivities, before announcing that he and Marguerite would be taking their leave. At this, Marguerite sank into a deep, formal bow, her stunning, lavish gown of frothy pale pink billowing about her, the light catching off the many sparkling diamonds and rubies about her dainty throat and dangling from her ears and arranged like a crystal scarlet pimpernel in her beautiful hair – the flower she now wore in her auburn tresses at every major event out of sheer passion for her husband.

"What? So soon, Blakeney? But you cannot, for Lady Blakeney is the most beautiful woman in the room, I daresay!" The Prince's voice was eager, if not more than a bit slurred. "What on earth will happen when she leaves? It will be depressing, man! No, no. You mustn't leave!"

Truthfully, Marguerite was surprised the man had managed to string the words together coherently at all. He had been appallingly drunk ever since the ceremony that morning, and as soon as he was able, he'd started drinking again. More than once, while the priest performed the rites, she had closed her eyes to keep from watching the horrifying spectacle before her.

Worse, she didn't want to be called the most beautiful woman in the room – not this time, and never again by this man, be he the Prince Regent or not.

Still, in keeping with her rank and title, she thanked him sweetly for his kindness and allowed her husband to whisk her away as soon as it was proper.

Once outside in the chilly night air, she realized that she was trembling, and she gasped softly for breath. Percy hovered close to her side, and helped her into the carriage before climbing onto the seat beside her. She was certain he had not missed the slight quake of her tender frame, even as he took the reigns from the young man who had brought the horses round. But he said nothing, and in an instant, the carriage lurched forward and they were off.

The cool air felt heavenly upon her flushed face. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, and beside her, her husband remained silent as they made their way quickly through the streets, his beautiful white hands expertly handling the fine young bays that were quite ready to run full out once they reached the countryside. But Marguerite was surprised when, as soon as they were able, Percy brought the horses to a mere canter.

She did not question, but sat in silence as he guided the young stallions gently and slowly through the twists and turns of the road. Eventually, they came upon a small stone bridge over a softly bubbling creek, and he halted the horses all together.

Startled, Marguerite turned to gaze up at him in concern, only to find him gazing at her in the same way.

One of those beautiful, long-fingered hands came up and gently tucked a loose, fluttering curl behind her ear.

"I know your thoughts," he murmured, brushing his fingers down her neck.

Sadly, she whispered, "Do you?"

"Indeed, dearest. They have mirrored mine all day. Am I correct?"

Abruptly, as though she could not help it, she said, "Have you ever contemplated taking a mistress, Percy?"

She felt his hand quiver against her skin, his fingers clenching slightly. Then, emphatically, he stated, "Never. His Highness may do as he pleases, but –"

"It isn't just that, Percy. Many men do. I know you would not, but sometimes –"

"Then we needn't have such a conversation, Margot, darling," he said gently. And cupping her face, he murmured, "There is only one woman in the world that holds my heart, and she is sitting with me on this box. I want, nor need, no other."

A tidal wave of emotion seemed to strike her full force, and her voice broken slightly. "It is just… I feel so sorry for Caroline! She does not deserve…" Marguerite trailed off, clenching her hands on her lap. "She didn't ask for this! How is she any different than those imprisoned in France by the Republic? She is trapped now, and His Highness doesn't even care –!"

He cut her off, firmly. "I agree, dearest. As I said, our thoughts have mirrored this day. You have even thought of how many thousands of pounds were spent on the festivities, and what the people would say if they knew? If Revolution would erupt here in safe, old England, because her Prince Regent has no concept of money and class? Because he did not learn from the events that occurred in France but a short while ago? Even knowing who I am?"

"And yet, he is our friend! I know he would not betray you, but he doesn't even understand… Oh! I should not feel thus, but I cannot help it, Percy!" She buried her face against his strong chest, desperate for his strength.

"Nor can I, Margot." He stroked her cheek with his thumb, gently wiping the dampness from beneath her eyes. "But His Highness is far in debt, and he is only doing what his father wants him to do, in order to continue his lavish lifestyle. Caroline is the King's choice for his son."

"Prince George loathes her," Marguerite whispered. "He even told you so! Why marry her if he hates her? Just to please the King? How utterly foolish…! And Caroline hates him just as much as he hates her!"

"Alas, but I do feel for him. He wants everything – money, fame, power… And he is the Prince Regent. He does not want to give anything up, and Caroline will be the one to suffer for his folly." Percy sighed heavily. "I cannot rescue her from her fate, though I'll be demmed if I don't want to. Odd's life, but it makes my blood boil! And most of the League fully agree. But we can do nothing. Surely you know that, Margot. We can do nothing."

"I wish he had not called me beautiful," she said sullenly and angrily. "He should be calling Caroline beautiful, not I."

"M'dear, if you'll forgive your humble servant, but on that point His Highness spoke the truth. You are, in truth, the most beautiful woman in the world – let alone at the celebration of the Prince's marriage. And far more beautiful than Caroline, no matter how sorry I feel for her."

"Oh, Percy. Do stop." Marguerite pressed her fingers to her temples.

Beside her, her husband chuckled softly and pressed his lips to her hair. "Dearest, you are indeed stunningly beautiful. You never fail to take my breath away. But enough. You have long been ready to return to Richmond, I think, and desire a soft, warm bed and a long sleep?"

"Yes, and I'll thank you kindly, sir, if you'll let the creatures run full out."

The chuckle turned to a loud laugh. "Odd's life, my dear! We're not fleeing Monsieur Chambertin and his ragged French guards! Is His Highness as bad as that?"

Dryly, Marguerite replied, "I should hope not, but at the moment my temper is quite thin on the matter."

"Very well, m'dear. I am, as always, at your service."

And with a wry smile, her husband snapped the reins once and, immediately, the bays shot off with a lurch. He did not check them this time, and Marguerite sighed as she rested her head against his shoulder, feeling the heavenly wind snapping against her face with the stars scattered above her.

"Thank you," she whispered.

And she felt her husband's lips brush her hair again. Soon, she thought. Soon she would be curled up in their bed, and could sleep off the effects of such a long, horrible day.

~FIN~