Not knowing how long she would be there, Constance closed her eyes and conjured up the image of d'Artagnan. Half an hour passed without her knowledge, still dreaming in her head when soft footsteps and a creak of the bed alerted Constance to another's presence. She opened her eyes with a start, to more pitch black.

'Jealous?' Enquired a silky voice out of the darkness.

'Of what?'

'I've known Rochefort for a very long time. We work as a team.'

'Does that mean sleeping with each other?'

'Occasionally. Does it bother you?'

Constance hesitated. 'And if it does?'

'Seeing as you are involved in an affair with a younger man behind your husband's back, I don't see what issue you can possibly have with my relationships.'

Constance realised she had been caught out.

She'd thought of her love for d'Artagnan as pure but when it was set out like that, perhaps it wasn't what she'd thought it was. She'd always thought that women like Milady were the ones to have illicit and turbulent affairs because they were naturally restless and devious, not decent ladies like her. Her affair was surely better than anything Milady could have, or was she wrong?

Did that mean she was just as bad? Or did it mean that Milady was once good? Or perhaps they were both similar in a way? Were all women this complex? Constance had no way of knowing for sure, being a shy creature with few friends. This woman was the most puzzling person she'd ever met. She needed to hate her and the danger she exuded. But there was also something thrilling, something exhilarating about being near her. Nothing good should come of this character but like so many people, Constance was just another person to fall under the charms of this wily woman.

Milady stroked a finger against her cheek and Constance closed her eyes, savouring the sensation of being touched. Imagining d'Artagnan doing it, she could almost pretend that this was their last meeting all over again, in the midnight garden.

'Does he kiss you like he means it?'

'Always.'

'How do you know he means it?'

'I just know.' Constance spoke with the conviction of one in love. The other woman recognised it and sighed inwardly, for she had once known this fascination with love for a man and was ill prepared for the ruin it had brought her. Constance sensed the sombre mood and snapped out of her reverie long enough to feel curious about what that meant. But there was to be no explanation, no divulging of personal details for the lady composed herself once more. Running her fingers over the girl's mouth curiously, Milady decided to push the boundaries. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to the other lightly, keeping her hold. Constance, caught by surprise, didn't resist; her mind was still on her lover. Resting her head on the pillow, she relaxed as the warm hands (strange for she thought such fair smooth hands should be cold as ice) stroked her face and moved down to her neck, those lips seeking hers like a breath of air, that spicy scent of her hair and skin enveloping her into the shadows, giving a luxurious sensation to this altogether odd situation.