Marc
"Oi, wit are ye talkin about mate, a've got naw idea wit ye're on about." Marc suddenly retorted with a downright perfect scottish accent, so well practiced you litterally couldn't tell if it was the real deal. Yeah, even so... he looked back at her in total genuine confusion, hands in the air - but too late to stop her smooch on his old cheek.
A french act? Rude. He had no idea how a king could be this rude, if it was even legal. But she was pretty...
Heh.
Marc looked away and smiled perversely, blushing a little.
"Anyways, you don't need to point out obvious stuff. I'd feel pretty bad if my villa was fancier than your castle, milady, so bad I might actually cry." Thing is, he wasn't sure if he was blushing because he was into it (it was still kind of perverted, dick or not, she still felt like family) or because he was boozed up.
Probably into it.
"Unfooortunately, there's a little detail you're forgetting, ma chèrie. Your castle can't possibly be more spectacularly cute than my villa. Becauuuuse..." He booped her back on the nose. "We're here. Hehehe." And with that, he returned the smooch on the cheek. "But what's this about me being your apprentice? You've got some awful jokes you know?" He crossed his arms and pouted a little.