Mrs Beauregarde Novels & Stories

“And Miss…” “Davidson,” I said with a forced smile. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you,” she said with an apologetic smile. “No, you don’t need to recognize her…” Maura glanced at me with a smirk. “Because she is our servant.” I swallowed forcefully and kept smiling. “Please follow me.” She led us. We walked down the narrow hallway and entered a huge room where many wedding gowns were hanging. “Hello, Miss Garcia and Mr. Martinez. I’m Brea.” A red-headed woman approached us. “Nice to have you here. We’re glad you chose us for your service.”

The evening was shaping up pretty well... Apart from the fact that Mrs. Dupuis and Mrs. Hailey wore the same hat and she had a hard time telling them apart, everything was going well. She was trying to maintain the same detached look that Mirabelle had, but she had trouble doing it... She had learned more than fifty names by heart and now she was afraid to call someone by name. from someone else. Without forgetting that she should especially avoid talking about goods to a banker thinking that he was the wealthy businessman on the west coast... Just like she had just done with Mr. Cadet...

They were pushing a series of heavy, velvet-draped racks. "Mrs Vaughn! Welcome, welcome!" Madame Genevieve beamed, her thick French accent echoing in the suite. "It is the absolute honour of my career to host you today. We have prepared everything exactly to your husband's specifications." Maya frowned, looking at me in confusion. "Stellan's specifications? Thea, did you even pick out your own wedding dress?"

She smiles brightly and because I don’t want to feel awkward, I smile too. A tall, elegant woman approaches wearing a tailor made blouse tucked into a pencil skirt. “Bonsoir, Mesdames.” She says, her voice thick with a French accent. “I am Madame Leclair, the owner of this Maison de luxe; it’s my pleasure to assist you. Please follow me.” She turns, her high heel clicking on the floor.

The sea and the sky merged together, forming a beautiful scenery… Right when Harvey was about to ask for some food, a few knocks could be heard coming from his door. Margot was seen wearing a gown outside the room. “Sir York, Lord York is inviting you for a meal. Would you like to join him?” The woman in front had such a beautiful figure and look… Her cold and distant aura could be felt through her strong attitude… Harvey could not help but be impressed by Selena Judd’s generosity. He did not expect she would let such an alluring woman like Margot work as Marcel’s personal secretary. Was Selena not afraid of her position as the lady of the family being robbed?

This time, she was carrying a secret that would change everything. She walked up to the door and rang the bell, her heart pounding in her chest. She could hear the sound of footsteps approaching, and then the door swung open. "Good evening, ma'am," the housekeeper said, a warm smile on her face. "Welcome to Mr. Xavier's house." Camille's smile faltered for a moment as she realized that Xavier wasn't home. "Oh, hi," she said, trying to hide her disappointment. "Is Xavier in?" The housekeeper's expression turned apologetic. "I'm afraid Mr. Xavier and Mike has gone out, ma'am. He left early this morning and didn't say when he'd be back."

, the doorbell rang. Genevieve walked barefoot in her robe to answer the door. She found a woman standing on her doorstep. She was tall, slender and wrapped in a grey trench coat that was secured neatly at her waist. Her hair was packed into a sleek bun, and her lipstick was a faint rose color. She was French, that was clear even before she spoke. “Mrs. Holloway,” the woman greeted, voice like silk. “I am Delilah Moreau. I will be your assistant for the duration of your mission.”

Louis’s POV Preparations for the gala took over the house like a silent, efficient army. My mother’s stylist, a severe French woman named Claudette, arrived with racks of gowns and a team of assistants. For two days, the east wing was a flurry of fabric, pins, and rapid-fire French criticism that somehow seemed to build Sierra up rather than break her down.

Phoebe McQueen set her porcelain teacup on its saucer carefully,wiping her lips delicately with a napkin, the gentle clink barely audible above the tea house's ambient music. Across from her, Madame Dubois consulted her leather-bound notebook, occasionally glancing up with knowing eyes. "The Whitmore daughter recently returned from Switzerland," Madame Dubois said, her French accent lending elegance to each word. "Accomplished pianist, speaks four languages, and her father's shipping empire would complement McQueen Industries beautifully."

Maguire, and they realized what I have been doing while they left me behind. “Bea, you were supposed to take Mackenzie with you.” There was a hint of disapproval in Mrs. Maguire’s voice. Bea looked as if she wanted to say something but chose to be quiet instead. “It’s okay,” I said, smiling brightly. “I hate shopping.” Mr. Maguire gave me a shocked expression. Then he said, “I hope my daughter and my wife would say the same.”