Lover
This one was flagged as crack, and as cracky as the scenario is, I do not write outright crack that well. Work with me?
Constance smirked with a laugh, looking her directly in the eyes, "would you rather sleep with Athos or Louis again and who's better in bed?"
It's strange to have come to this, Anne thinks – to not only be friends with a woman she'd tried to kill, but to discuss such things, and yet she and Constance have grown close in the months since their husbands went off to war; this, she imagines, is what having a female friend would be like, having a sister, and while she's not entirely sure what she thinks of it yet, she finds she's cautiously enjoying the experience.
And so she doesn't blink, doesn't flush, doesn't bat so much as an eyelash at Constance's question, just smiles the kind of smile that says everything and nothing at once and taps a knowing finger against her lips. "If I told you to convey my pity to the queen when you visit her next, would that be answer enough?" she asks as the smile takes on an edge. It's a sentiment she means genuinely – the king of France had been a selfish lover, as petulant and self-absorbed in bed as he is in most things, but she'd expected no less and had sought nothing of her own pleasure there; Athos is the only man she's ever wanted just for herself, with no deeper motive, and it's fitting that he's the only one who's truly satisfied her – who's cared for what she wanted, as much (more, even) than for his own desires.
Constance is just looking at her, though, blue eyes wide and surprised and just a little (Anne thinks) pleased, as if the reply has settled a question she's wondered about for some time, and before she can deflect or pose her own question the younger woman grins broadly, wickedly, and says, "So – maybe there's hope for the two of you yet."