***Notes: This chapter as not as long as I would have liked, as this month has been so busy. I wanted to post something however, so as not to leave it too long between updates. The visit to Paris and a moment that happens between Francis and Mary when they return from Paris will be posted in the next chapter.

Mary ran away from the king's office as fast as her legs could carry her.

Her thoughts swam rapidly around in her head, each one more confusing than the other, and she felt like there was a heavy weight in her chest, restricting her breathing. But still she had to move; she had to keep going.

As she passed through the hallway by the main offices, Mary caught sight of Catherine, who was leaning against the wall, regarding Mary with an unreadable expression.

When Mary caught her eye, she clapped her hands slowly, in a way that could either be admiring or sarcastic. She had clearly been listening in on Mary's conversation with Henry. Mary didn't have time to interpret Catherine's reaction to her argument with the king. She shook her head and kept going, heading for the nearest staircase.

She took the stairs two at a time. She had to get ready for the visit to Paris. She knew that there was a team of people waiting for her in one of the spare rooms; they were all supposed to help her choose her outfit and assist her with her hair and makeup so she could head outside and meet Francis and pose for a few photographs before they headed off on their journey together.

Finally, she arrived in the correct part of the castle.

Before she entered the makeshift dressing room, Mary stopped in the corridor and leaned against the left-hand wall. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to regain her composure as she tried not to think about everything that the king had just said.

She had to calm down, or Francis would know that something was wrong, and the cameras would pick up on it, and other people in the castle would start to ask questions…

She breathed in, and out. Her heartbeat was starting to return to its normal rate…

"Who has the key to your heart?"

At the sound of a man's voice in the corridor, Mary jumped and quickly opened her eyes.

She turned her head a little and noticed a man dressed in a smart suit walking towards her. Instantly, she recognised him as one of the men who had been in the king's office when Mary had first barged in.

Mary frowned at him, confused by his question.

He walked a little closer to her and nodded pointedly at the black ribbon around Mary's neck.

Mary looked down and realised that her homemade necklace was sticking out of her shirt collar-it must have fallen out while Mary was storming around the castle. The key was now visible for all to see, hanging around Mary's neck. Hurriedly, Mary tried to tuck it back in. She did not want that key to be visible just yet.

"Louis Conde," the man introduced himself, before Mary could say anything in response.

He opened his hand to her, and Mary shook it. His hand was not too warm, or too cold; his grip on her hand was somehow both firm and gentle; it was almost comforting.

Mary told him her name in return, although she had a feeling by the look on his face that he already knew exactly who she was; she had a feeling that he had deliberately come here to find her.

"That was quite an impressive show of power against the King of France," he told her with a warm smile. He looked genuinely impressed.

"Sometimes these kings need to learn the value of truth and honesty," Mary told him with a serious expression, trying to be cryptic. She wasn't exactly sure yet whose side Conde was on. She also wasn't sure if she was truly the person to be preaching the values of honesty.

"Are you a regular visitor to the castle?" Mary asked him, trying to find out a little more about this man.

"I come here on diplomatic visits every so often," he told her, his expression more serious now. "I recently bought an apartment in Paris to use on work trips-my work isn't my entire life, and the visits to the castle are a perfect excuse to spend some time in France…"

Mary looked up at him with what she knew was a look of envy. She couldn't even imagine what it would be like, to own an apartment in Paris, and to take holidays in the capital whenever it suited her-Conde could spent time there, anonymously, taking in the sights, having fun…

He seemed to interpret her look of envy as a look of confusion, because he continued to explain…"I work in politics, in London," he said, "my main home is there, in the city, not too far from Westminster, although I enjoy spending time in Paris, too-my family's originally from France."

"You have a home in London?" Mary asked him. Again, her feeling of envy returned. She had always dreamed of living in London, in a real home of her own.

Conde seemed to study her expression for a moment. He must have picked up on something in her eyes, because he took out his phone and held it out to her. He had pulled up a photo of his home.

Mary stared at the picture displayed on his phone screen, transfixed. She blinked a couple of times in shock. Conde's home looked just like a real-life version of the doll's house in her room back in Scotland. It was a Victorian style house, in a beautiful shade of light blue. Mary could almost imagine a happy family inside, going about their day, oblivious to all the dramas of the outside world.

"Perhaps you should visit London soon," said Conde, lowering his voice as he placed his phone back in his pocket. "For political reasons, of course," he quickly added with a half-smile, as though the two of them were in on some sort of private joke.

Mary frowned at him.

"Rumour has it that the royals think it would help with diplomatic issues, if you could ease the rift between the English and Scottish Parliaments…"

Mary had a strange feeling that this was not the real reason why Conde wanted her to visit London, but she could not say this out loud. "Of course," she replied with a nod. "I was planning on a visit to talk with the Prime Minister soon." Perhaps she really could turn it into a diplomatic mission, and make it seem like it had been her idea all along. "I shall probably go with Francis," she added, quickly, feeling like she should say this, for some reason.

As she mentioned Francis's name, she was reminded all over again of her conversation with the king. Had there been any truth to his words? Was there a way that Mary could find out how Francis felt? Should she ask him? Quickly, she shook her head, trying to clear it of these thoughts for the moment.

"I hope to see you there," Conde told her with another smile, although his smile seemed a little forced now. He didn't seem thrilled at the idea of Mary visiting London with Francis.

"Perhaps you will," said Mary, as she continued to stare at him curiously. "You have a very beautiful home," she added.

"Thank you," said Conde with a polite nod of his head. "Although, I'm sure it would be a lot nicer if I had someone to share it with…"

Before Mary could say anything else, he bowed and started to walk away down the corridor; he probably had to attend his postponed meeting with the king.

Mary watched him walk away, lost in her own thoughts. Louis Conde worked in politics. He lived in Mary's 'dream home' in London. He regularly went on holiday to Paris. He did not make his work a priority over his personal life. He was handsome. He seemed kind, and intelligent.

He was just the sort of man who she would have chosen for herself on the matchmaking show.

Mary felt more confused than ever. The corridor felt too warm, all of a sudden. She had to get out-Francis would be waiting for her outside soon.

Francis stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom. He reached up to adjust his shirt collar and realised, to his utter embarrassment, that his hands were shaking.

A few of his stylists offered yet again to help him get ready, but Francis waved them off. He did not want to be a king today. He wanted to pretend to be a normal young man who was about to go out on a date with a beautiful woman. He wanted to be himself, without advisors telling him what to do and how to act.

Was this a date? Francis wasn't sure.

He didn't know how all of this worked. With Olivia, things had been simpler. They'd been introduced by various nobles at a royal ball, and things had gone from there. Their match had been approved of; everything had been organised for them, and the other royals and nobles turned a blind eye whenever the two of them snuck away down dark corridors at various fancy parties.

With Mary, Francis felt completely out of his depth. He had changed outfits several times this morning, discarding every option, and he'd tried and failed to fix his hair, and his hands were still shaking. Oh, how his subjects would laugh, if they could see him now! He would look so…weak. His father would be furious. His father was always furious, when it came to Francis's feelings for Mary.

He thought again about Mary. What would he say to her, when the two of them first stepped outside the castle and they began their journey together?

Then another thought occurred to him: Had Mary spoken to his father this morning? Had she worked out the twisted game he was playing? Would she still want to continue with the show, after she found out what he was up to?

Francis's frantic thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. His mother walked gracefully into the room, not taking her eyes off Francis as she folded her arms and leaned against the nearest wall. She was as elegant as ever, wearing a long, royal blue dress and her hair styled neatly in a bun.

Francis sighed as she continued to stare at him with an expression of obvious disapproval. He considered making a sarcastic comment about knocking on doors before entering rooms, but he decided against it. His mother wouldn't listen-she had no concept of privacy.

"Yes, Mother?" Francis asked her as he continued to adjust his black shirt. He knew that she was waiting for him to start the conversation, so she could share whatever gossip she was clearly desperate to tell him.

"Conde was talking to Mary in the upstairs corridor a few moments ago," the queen told him, her tone sharp, business-like. "She seemed to be rather taken by him."

Francis felt a sharp twist right in his gut at his mother's words. He struggled to keep his expression neutral. "And?" Francis asked her, still refusing to look away from the mirror. He knew that there would be an I-told-you-so expression written all over his mother's face. "Mary is allowed to talk to whoever she wants."

The queen rolled her eyes, as though Francis were a child who just couldn't see the bigger picture. "Her heart is not fully in this matchmaking show," his mother told him, her expression grave. "She is considering other possibilities. My dear boy, you must consider the humiliation you will face if she were to reject you for another man at the end of the show. We need to keep the upper hand over our rivals. The last thing I want is to see you, or this country, publicly disgraced…"

Francis felt a twist of anger, along with the pain.

"And even if she picks you, you can't rule out the possibility that she will marry you entirely for political reasons while she continues to take other lovers behind your back. Is that the life you want to live, Francis?"

Francis felt another tug of pain. It was like somebody was twisting a knife inside him. For as long as Francis could remember, his father had had mistresses, while his mother had taken lovers as revenge for her husband's infidelity. The thought of living that kind of life was unbearable-Francis had always privately vowed that he would marry for love, and that he would never have mistresses. He would not be like his father. Would Mary really go through with a wedding, purely for political reasons, without truly loving him?

Francis turned to look at his mother. Her face was expressionless, giving nothing away.

He frowned, suddenly feeling a little suspicious. Was this all just some twisted game his mother was playing?

"Why do you hate Mary so much?" he asked her, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. Perhaps a part of him was curious to know where this animosity had come from. He couldn't see how anyone could hate Mary, although perhaps he was a little biased. "Blinded by love!" as his father would say.

"Francis," his mother sighed, "I don't hate Mary; I adored her, when the two of you were children and she spent every summer here, at the castle. And her behaviour this morning was almost admirable."

"Then what is all this about?" Francis asked her, still feeling confused. He had no idea what Mary had done this morning to earn the queen's admiration.

Again, his mother sighed. "This is about politics," she told him. "Love and hate don't even come into it. You have been preparing to be a king since you were born; you have the potential to be a wonderful king…a marriage with that girl and an alliance with Scotland could put all of that at risk. She is a distraction to you, Francis, and the last thing a king needs is a distraction."

For a moment, her expression darkened, and Francis suspected that she was thinking about all of her husband's 'distractions'.

"Are you saying you think I should walk away from the matchmaking show?" he asked his mother.

For a moment, a tense silence seemed to pass between the two of them.

"All I'm saying," the queen finally responded, "is that you should consider other options, in case Mary decides that she wants to take another option…"

With one last significant look in his direction, the queen walked slowly out of the room. The sound of the door closing seemed to echo all around the room.

Francis continued getting ready, but he was lost in his thoughts. His mother's words seemed to echo in his mind….

His mother believed that Mary was looking at other options; she believed that her heart was not fully in the show and the matchmaking process; his mother thought that Francis should consider other options, too, just in case…

Other options…

Francis knew exactly what that meant.

It would be so much easier, to marry a different woman; to remove himself from the daily humiliation of having to play up to the cameras for a television show; he could enter into a political match, with a woman who his mother approved of; he could save France from a diplomatic crisis; he could save himself from so much pain and heartache.

He pictured a woman with long, blonde hair, standing next to him on all of his royal visits around the country, with all of the old French noble families on their side, nodding in approval as they both signed official documents that ensured protection for France. A woman like that had been his girlfriend once; she would probably agree to be his wife, if her own future and a life of luxury were secured as a result.

Then, surprisingly, for the first time ever, he pictured another woman, with long, brown curls. With her, he could still ensure some kind of diplomacy with Scotland, maybe even an alliance with England. Perhaps more importantly, he could limit Narcisse's influence for a little while...She would be his friend, at least.

The heat in the room suddenly felt unbearable. Almost without thinking about it, Francis walked in the direction of the window. He reached forward, intending to open it so that he could get some fresh air.

Then he saw her.

Mary was outside, standing on the grass a few feet away from one of the castle doors.

She was dressed casually, in black trousers and a white jumper.

Francis's younger brother, Charles, ran towards her, and the two of them started to play a game, both of them laughing together. Mary took hold of Charles's hands, and then they were going around in circles, spinning each other around.

Francis simply looked out the window and watched as Mary continued to spin around, her hair flowing loosely around her. She looked beautiful. It was like watching everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dreamed of...It was almost as though fate were taunting him with a life that he had never been allowed to have.

Suddenly, Mary looked up.

Before Francis could back away, she caught his eye.

Francis looked back at her, trying not to blush.

She also looked a little embarrassed at the apparent realisation that he had been watching her play games with Charles-games that princesses were not really supposed to play. But still, she grinned at him. Then, she raised an eyebrow at him and pretended to tap on an imaginary watch on her wrist, almost like she was mocking him for being late…

Of course. She was ready to go. Ready to go to Paris.

Francis had almost forgotten, with all of the confusion over the past few minutes. She was outside, waiting for him. She was expecting him to head outside, so that they could head to Paris together. She was impatient to get going. Perhaps she was even looking forward to spending the day with him.

Francis couldn't help grinning back at her. Quickly, he moved away from the window and walked out of his room and towards the castle doors, so that he could meet her outside.

Francis knew that right now, everything was against them; there were others competing for Mary's heart, and others disapproving of the match; but still, Francis could not give up on her. As long as there was some hope that he would eventually be the one to win her heart, Francis would keep fighting for her.