Glass Slipper

by Abigail Barnette

  “I am not throwing it away!” She jerked her arms from his grasp. “You are the one who is perfectly willing to let me go. I love you, Julien! You must know that! And you know that you love me, too.”

  He opened his mouth to deny her, but the words would not come. “Look around you, Joséphine. Look at this palace, his riches. Can you turn all of that down?”

  She nodded emphatically. “I can, and I will, gladly, if you will have me!”

  “I will not!” It took all of his resolve to deny her. “Joséphine, I do love you. And it is because I love you that I cannot let you refuse Philipe. He can give you so much that I cannot—”

  “Not love!” She shook her head. “He will never love me! He will keep me and he will treat me like a pearl. Just as you said of my father. He will bring me out on special occasions and make a great show of owning me, but that is all he is capable of. You know this, Julien!”

  “And you believe I will be any different? After our passion for each other has cooled, as passion always does, do you think I will not run to some other woman’s bed?” He hated himself for speaking the truth, for the hurt was as visible on her face as a handprint would be if he’d struck her. “Marry Philipe. Keep his interest for as long as you can. If you became my wife, we would be together, what, twenty years at most? And then what will you do? Marry a man for money, as your stepmother did, and make both of you miserable?”

  “I would rather have twenty years with you than a lifetime with the prince,” she spat. She stormed to the door, and before she left him standing alone, she said, in almost a whisper, “You may think yourself old, but you are certainly not wise.”

  * * * *

  Night fell, and the limestone avenue outside the palace was lit with torches and crowded with carriages and revelers, all bound for the Prince’s party. Julien had sent Joséphine’s costume to her rooms, and he wondered if she would wear it. He supposed he would see for himself tonight. There was no avoiding the party, it was practically a royal mandate, friend of the prince or no. Only the king refused to attend, choosing instead to sit in his palace and grumble to his closest advisers—and those courtiers unfashionable enough to not be invited—about his son’s lack of morals.

  Philipe’s lack of morals used to be one of Julien’s favorite things about his friend. Now that the lack was concentrated on Joséphine, the prince’s attitude seemed tiresome at best.

  Julien sighed as he donned his mask and confronted his reflection. A year ago, he would have thought he cut a rather dashing figure in his domino and grotesque mask. To others, he probably still did. But he knew the truth, that beneath his costume, all that remained was a pathetic, old man.

  He rode in his carriage to the front doors of the prince’s private residence, but the party was still well underway when he arrived. Shimmering curtains of gold and gossamer hung from the ceilings, and pillows littered the floor. It looked more like a harem than a birthday party. Philipe had outdone himself.

  The revelers already enjoyed themselves with smoke and wine, and the scent of opium wound its rich spice through the air. Beneath that, the ever-present scent of sex and body heat, as men and women lay on the pillows, fucked against walls, all while a trio of musicians provided an exotic symphony.

  Behind his mask, Julien’s eyes darted, seeking out Joséphine. Had she arrived yet? Had she and Philipe gone somewhere private? Had their engagement been announced? He did not see the cloth of gold that she might have worn. Perhaps Philipe had given her something far finer.

  “I know who that is,” a voice purred beside him. Red curls cascaded from a tight bundle atop her head, and a black leather mask covered her eyes. It matched the black leather corset that left her full breasts exposed, and the long silk skirt split to her waist.

  “How do you know who I am, when I have absolutely no idea who you are?” he asked, trying to play his part as best he could while still searching out Joséphine.

  The woman’s hand slipped into the long, open sides of his domino and found his uninspired member. “Ah, hasn’t even woken up yet, poor thing.”

  The music stopped and a hush fell over the gathering. A curtain moved, and Philipe emerged, dressed only in a tight black pair of breeches. He seemed frozen in awe of something, and Julien followed his gaze and the gaze of every other person in the room, to the door where Joséphine stood.

  Her hair was still styled ridiculously, but the high collar of peacock feathers made it seem rather appropriate. From that collar the long, golden cape flowed over her shoulders and down her back, but beneath it she wore nothing. Nothing but those delicate glass slippers, a golden chain wrapped around her waist and left to skim the floor, and a string of pearls about her neck.

  Julien’s heart nearly burst. The pearls. When had she taken them?

  Philipe began to clap slowly, and the other party guests joined in. Joséphine blushed prettily and dipped her head, but Julien saw through the lie of her smile.

  This was wrong. It was all wrong.

  Lifting the tail of the chain that wrapped her waist, Joséphine walked forward with deliberate slowness, letting the prince drink in the sight of her lush, naked body. Hell, letting everyone drink in the sight, and Julien gulped it down greedily. His cock stirred, and the red head squeezed it too tight, giving a squeal of delight.

  Philipe took the end of the chain from Joséphine’s hand and lifted it, kissing it reverently as she curtsied before him. Julien watched as his friend led Joséphine behind a gold curtain, and he could stand no more. He pushed the red head’s hand away and stalked out.

  “Julien,” she called after him. “It’s me! Sophie!”

  He did not turn back.

  * * * *

  As she followed Philipe behind the curtain, Joséphine looked one last time through the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Julien and yet praying she would not. He was likely already occupied with three or four women at once, trying desperately to convince himself that he much preferred his damnable bachelor’s life to her. Tears stung her eyes, but she forced them away.

  “You look so, so beautiful,” Philipe whispered, leaning close to her ear.

  “Thank you, your highness,” she replied automatically.

  This was what it would be, for the rest of her life. Thank you, your highness. Thank you for another compliment that left me cold. Thank you for another kiss that I wished came from anyone but you.

  Philipe’s hands went to her waist, stroking the line of the chain around her belly. “I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday gift. Provided, of course, that I am receiving what I think I am receiving.”

  She smiled her practiced smile. “I think you’ve waited long enough.”

  He grinned at her, a smile that should have melted her. He was very charming, but he was not the lover Julien had been. He sought his own satisfaction, then attempted to see to hers, but she felt nothing for him and his clumsy fingers did not endear him to her. She feigned her pleasure to convince him he’d done well, every time.

  Now, she would have to take him into her body, pretend that he was the master lover he was not. It was better to get it over with. “Lie down, your highness.”

  With a smirk of triumph, Philipe lay back on the pile of pillows that littered the floor, his fingers working at the laces of his breeches. He freed his cock, which stood ramrod straight against his stomach, and she let her cape fall so that she could straddle him.

  “I’ve never let any woman make me wait so long,” he gasped at the first touch of the tip of his cock against the coarse hair over her mound. “I have a friend who believes that delaying pleasure is the ultimate aphrodisiac, but I think he’s insane.”

  She froze.

  “Joséphine, are you all right?” Philipe sat up, his face full of concern.

  She could hold back her tears no longer. “I can’t do this,” she cried, pushing herself off him.

  He caught her wrist as she fled, and in a panic, she cried out again. “No, no! Just sit down, talk
to me. What’s the matter?”

  How could she explain it without sounding insane? He’d offered to marry her that morning, to announce their engagement and make her a princess. And she was about to turn him down for a man who had already rejected her? But she had to tell the truth, no matter how strange it sounded. “I can’t do this. I love Julien.”

  “Julien?” Philipe frowned. “My Julien? Who brought you here for me?”

  She bristled at his phrasing, but there had really been no other purpose for her visit. She had been brought for the prince, trained to please him, to seduce him. She could only nod miserably.

  “Does he know?” The prince considered a moment. “You must understand, many women tell Julien Auvrey that they love him.”

  “He knows. And he loves me as well.” Her tears ran more freely now. “Please, your highness, do not be angry with him. Or with me. I did want to please you, and Julien thought you would like me and—”

  “I’m not angry,” Philipe said quickly. “I’m confused. Julien is in love?”

  “Yes, I believe he is.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Though he will not have me, I cannot be with you, loving him.”

  “I am…disappointed,” Philipe said, looking down forlornly at his shrinking erection.

  “I don’t think you’ll spend your birthday night alone,” she sniffled.

  “No, I won’t.” He chuckled grimly. “And neither should you. Go, find Julien. Tell him that his friend the prince commands him to listen to sense and reason. He cannot let someone as amazing as you slip from his grasp.”

  Pulling the gold cape over her shoulders, Joséphine held it closed tightly as she ran through the party. If Julien was here, with someone else, all was forgiven, but she did not wish to see. She would wait for him in his chambers.

  At first, she ran up the limestone avenue, but when she realized, panting as though her very chest would burst, that it was much farther by foot than by carriage, she slowed to a walk. The glass slippers were too slick on her feet, and she kicked them off, not caring if they exploded into a thousand pieces. By the time she reached the palace, many of the windows were dark. Still, she pressed on, not caring how scandalously she was dressed. When she reached Julien’s chambers, she did not knock. She burst through the door, ready to be swept up in his arms like the night they’d made love.

  The rooms were empty, and all of Julien’s trunks were already gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I do wish you could stay.”

  Joséphine nodded politely, for that was what one did when the prince himself came to see one off from the palace. It was an honor, and she was not so ignorant as to reject it.

  “Your stepmother will no doubt send her daughters to ensnare me,” Philipe continued. “I could use your help in deflecting their advances.”

  “I trust your highness is well versed in deflecting the advances of young women.” It would be wonderful to stay at court, especially when she knew the life that awaited her. Upon learning that she had rejected the prince, her stepmother would order her from the house—and straight to the north, to live with her mother’s impoverished relations. Gowns and jewels were by far a more pleasant prospect than farm life in the frozen north. But when she thought of seeing Julien again, knowing that he had discarded her…she couldn’t bear it. Huddling for warmth, wrapped in layers of wool was preferable to all the satin the royal court had to offer if it meant she wouldn’t have to look upon Julien with another woman.

  “If I cannot persuade you to stay—and because I am a reasonable man, I won’t command you to—at least let me take care of any final business you may have left unfinished.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she sniffed, knowing too well what business he referred to. Philipe believed it all a misunderstanding, and the Julien would be happy to have her in his arms once more. But Joséphine knew the man better than that. If Julien Auvrey wanted something, he took it. And he had not come to claim her.

  A second thought tickled her brain, and she motioned to a footman to bring down one of her cases. “Actually, there is one thing you can do for me.”

  “Name the task, and I shall see it done,” Philipe said, clasping one fist over his heart in a salute. “Or, rather, my private secretary shall. But I will personally be the one telling him to do it.”

  Joséphine unlatched her case and quickly located the strand of pearls she’d pilfered from Julien’s room at the Chateau. “Send these, if you would, to Monsieur Auvrey. I will have little use for them, and my stepmother will likely sell them.”

  “And there is no…sentimental connotations you wish to avoid?” Philipe asked, one dark eyebrow raised. Joséphine was certain her glare fell completely out of the realm of royal protocol, but Philipe only raised his hands and said, apologetically, “Fine, fine. I will see it done.”

  “Thank you.” Joséphine curtsied politely to the prince, then turned to step into the coach as the footman refastened her luggage.

  “You’re taking my heart with you, sweet lady,” Philipe called after her.

  Smiling through her sadness, she quipped, “It was not your heart that was so thoroughly impressed with me, your highness.”

  The driver cracked his whip, and the coach rumbled away, down the limestone avenue and away from the palace.

  * * * *

  Chateau Perrault was no longer a sanctuary, but a hermitage. For weeks, Julien did nothing but drink and pretend to read, all the while ignoring the words on the pages. Instead, he poured over the words that he should have said to Joséphine, rehearsing those moments again and again, always with the same outcome: that she came home to him, and that they lived happily ever after. He let his whiskers grow into a beard like a pilgrim’s, and he bathed just as frequently. Once or twice, he contemplated simply giving up and lying in bed until he died. As dramatic as that would have been, he liked himself far too much to subject himself to a boring death, broken heart or no.

  The winter came in earnest, bringing in the harsh snows. A letter arrived from Henrí, and another, and another. Julien could not stand to read them. He did not wish to hear his friend thank him, and he could not stand the thought of congratulating him on his daughter’s marriage and impending royalty.

  “A package.” Brujon, who’d long ago lost all patience for her employer’s melodramatics, dropped the small, paper-wrapped bundle on the floor at his feet.

  Julien, occupying what had become his usual spot, the armchair beside the fireplace in his room, looked up at his housekeeper through drink-reddened eyes. “What’s this?”

  “How should I know? Does it look like it’s been opened?” She nudged it with her toe before leaving the room in a huff.

  Taking a moment to collect his equilibrium, he leaned forward and scooped up the package. There was no telling who had sent it; the frayed ends of broken twine that should have held a tag remained knotted around the string holding the package closed. “Brujon.”

  With growing dread, he unwrapped the small package. The box inside told him all he needed to know about its sender. The polished wood was stamped with the prince’s seal. Julien almost flung it aside, but morbid curiosity forced his fingers to lift the lid.

  Inside, nestled on a bed of red velvet, gleamed a string of pearls.

  He closed the lid slowly. The necklace had either been sent as a kind gesture, the returning of an expensive piece of jewelry now that the tryst had ended, or in triumph, like a knight presenting the head of a bested dragon. Knowing Philipe, it was the latter, and Julien did not like being cast as the dragon. He flung the box away, to hit the stone fireplace and splinter into a thousand pieces, spilling its contents on the floor.

  * * * *

  “Get up, you lazy girl! It’s almost light out!”

  Joséphine rolled to her side to avoid the wooden shoe that nudged her ribs. She’d arrived at the farm in the middle of the night, owing to the poor conditions on the road from town, and she couldn’t have been asleep more
than a few hours. She rubbed her bleary eyes and looked about the small kitchen, where the members of her mother’s family—family she had never met—crowded around a small wooden table and stared at her. One figure was missing. “My father?”

  “Left almost as soon as you bedded down.” The woman who towered over Joséphine was large, her stocky figure garbed in coarse brown wool that gave her the appearance of a rotted apple. Her face could only be described as mean, with her perpetually lowered eyebrows, wide nose with flaring nostrils, and scrunched up mouth. “Get up, princess. We don’t laze about here. You’ll work or you’ll sleep outside!”

  Outside might have been preferable to sleeping on a dirty hearth. Joséphine sat up, her back protesting its night on the cold stone. “Of course. What do you need me to do?”

  “Need?” From the table, a man spoke up. His long, thin face looked dirty, but Joséphine realized it was merely an illusion made by the shadows under his eyes and the dusting of sparse whiskers on his cheeks. “We don’t need you for anything.”

  Pushing down her irritation, for she was a guest in their home and had no home of her own to retreat to, she rephrased her question. “I meant, how can I be of assistance?”

  “Ooh, and don’t it speak all high and proud to its lowly relatives,” the woman said, nudging Joséphine again with her toes. “You can go out to the well and get some water, like you should have done hours ago if you’d had any sense.”

  “Hours ago, I wasn’t here,” Joséphine ground out, against her better judgment.

  The woman’s angry expression grew even more frightening, something Joséphine wouldn’t have thought possible if she’d been asked only a moment before. The harridan let her foot fly and kicked a wooden bucket across the dirty floor. It hit Joséphine’s knees, smarting so that her eyes watered.

  She would not let them see her tears. She might be a cast off, and unwanted, but she did not wish to be there anymore than they wished her presence in their home. She stood, wrapping the thin wool blanket around her shoulders, and gave a kind smile to the unwashed children who sat around the table, all looking as ill-tempered as their mother. Picking up the bucket, she made for the door.