Brilliant. Just brilliant.
Divine intervention flashed through him like the pain of a dull carving knife dug deep. He should never have set about Chalmers to find a woman whose foot fit in a blasted slipper. He could see that now. He just wished someone had mentioned the fact.
She must have been a dream, he decided. He’d dreamt the entire episode. That, or he’d fallen under the spell of wood nymphs and faeries. It had all seemed so real, he sighed. He could still see her as she’d been that night. Silken skirts billowing out with each turn he’d guided her through the lighted ballroom. Candlelight enhancing auburn highlights in mahogany upswept hair.
“Ten minutes ago I met you,” he’d murmured.
“You looked up when I came through the door,” she smiled softly.
“I wanted to ring out the bells, fling out my arms, to sing out the news…”
Prince groaned. Mayhap he’d lost all of his faculties. It could happen.
Oui, he decided, it was too unreal. He’d been brainwashed. Age did not slow with time, the pressure of duty to marry and the guilt from Mamán had sent him hurling into a fevered imagination. Besotted and held helpless by dreams that had truly taken over his sanity, plunged him into dire madness. He’d reached for the skies and he’d liked it so well…
It explained everything, he reasoned. Even ported over his cousin’s shoulder it made perfect sense.
Well, except for her exceptional beauty, the breath of her laughter. The softness of her cheek next to his, her fit in his arms as they’d waltzed through the ballroom. And…what of the slipper he’d found abandoned on the stair?
Mon...Dieu, he was mad. ’Twas not possible she was a figment of his imagination. The slipper was real. He had it in his possession, oui? So why had not he been able to find her?
“Mayhap I should marry Egberta and be done with the entire business, oui, Arnald? Please Mamán? Do my duty? That had been the sole purpose of the ball, non?”
“What are you mumbling about?”
“The wood nymphs have cast a spell on me. Truly, ’tis the only answer.” Though no sound emanated from his cousin, the vibration of laughter was unmistakable.
Never had his chambers seemed so far away. Prince suffered through the humiliation hauled over Arnald’s shoulders. It occurred to him the servants would be quite entertained. Oh, not to his face, mind. What the devil did it matter, they had little enough excitement in their dreary lives.
When Arnald finally reached his quarters and dumped him on the bed it was with unceremonious hilarity. Not aloud, Prince observed, at least not yet. Such restraint had to be admired.
Mere seconds passed before Arnald finally let loose his suppressed laughter. As Prince’s closest relative in proximity and age, his comfort level in dealing Prince was not without its advantages. It could change.
Prince did not shift his position on the massive bed. Non. He lay frozen like a corpse, appalled by the turn of events. Even the groan in his throat stifled in shock. Mayhap he was dazed by the lump on his head. He placed fingertips to his temples. There was no lump. Oui, the wood nymphs. He would have them imprisoned.
Familiar surroundings with doses of deep even breaths settled over him. He’d heard tales of mid-wives mentioning similar techniques for child-bearing. He bit back the bark of hysteria, too absurd for words. There must be lump on his head—pressing in, creating considerable damage if he recalled talk of not only child-bearing, but mid-wives. At nineteen, he should have no inkling as to what a mid-wife was.
Sitting slowly, he tested the back of his head and shifted his gaze about the chamber. He started with the heavy armoire, then moved to the comfortable sitting area, the dressing table—the table that held all his grooming tools, shaving apparatus.
A manly chamber.
A chamber he would never swoon in.
A chamber that exuded viral masculinity…save for the portrait of his parents of a much younger time, mind. Residing proudly over the bed. His bed.
Prince momentarily rested his gaze on that painting. On the magnificence of the artist’s skill in capturing Mamán’s soft knowing smile slighted to his father, Papá’s obvious oblivion, even then. Surrounded in a field of vivid purples, orange and yellow perennials, the knowing quirk in her eye seemed to land on Prince.
He should rethink the painting over the bed.
Disgusted, he finally ventured one eye toward Arnald, noting the smirk remarkably similar to Mamán’s. Arms folded across his chest, gave Arnald the haughty-down-the-nose stare usually reserved for nobility. Arnald was not nobility and he was out of line. Well, he supposed that was not only unfair, but untrue, as his mother’s dead and only sibling’s child.
“Would you care to explain?” Arnald asked.
Prince’s temper snapped. “Go ahead, bellow to your heart’s content. You know you want to, but at least bar the door a forehand.” His temper faded just as quickly as it had appeared. The abhorrence of what happened settled over him, leaving him queasy. He groaned. “How unfavorable would you say?”
Arnald shook his head, managing to restrain the laughter once more. He’d better. One did not laugh at the prince. It could prove fatal for one’s health.
“The future king just fainted. How unfavorable would you say?”
Chapter 7
Thomasine stepped forward to offer a comely welcome to her new houseguests with all the grace a queen summoned after her strong winsome son dropped like a pile of rocks on the ground, before God and country. Of course, she’d hidden her inclination to do the same. Truth be told, she applauded his brilliant escape.
Rather than stalking away which was her next tempting option, she rested her gaze on the two young women before her. Each appeared, not exactly unattractive with their shiny hair and creamy complexions, but rather sullen and coddled. Their mother, Hilda, on the other hand, though at the moment, awed, would no doubt gain her voice quickly enough.
Finally, her gaze settled on the servant girl. Long dark dull locks of hair hung down her back, the top of her head covered by a many-times-mended-over kerchief in a drab faded brown. Her apron had certainly seen better days. Thomasine narrowed her eyes. Was it her imagination or had something in her pocket just moved? Non, impossible. With a self-conscious move the child slid her chapped hand in that same pocket, clearly ashamed.
Big brown eyes looked lost in a face dotted with…was that ash on her pale cheeks? Once cleaned up, the chit would no doubt be quite breathtaking. Thomasine wished she could reassure the child. Her son could not have made a finer choice, she decided. If this stratagem did not somehow manage to go awry, she and Faustine might attain hope of guiding her only son’s efforts toward maturity. The gruesome thought was enough to send a shiver skittering down her spine.
Resisting an urge to close her eyes, she silently allowed Faustine’s not so reassuring words to float over her. “Trust, my dear, trust.” She supposed she had no choice at this juncture.
With a practiced cordiality, she clucked. “You must be weary from your travels. A long ride, non?” No one answered, but she had not expected them to.
Amusement touched her as they looked round clearly in awe. Hilda nodded which sent her triple chin into a horrifying jiggle. It seemed she could find nothing coherent to say. Thomasine had seen this before, of course. Royalty could be so unnerving to the Lessors.
“Beatrix, please conduct our guests to their quarters so they may freshen for supper,” the queen murmured. In a regal sweep she addressed Hilda. Thank the heavens Royalty had their practiced finesse. As it would take that and more to pull off this mad plot they’d devised. “We dine at eight, my dear. We shall gather in the family parlor for a pre-dinner sherry a forehand. A servant will avail themselves to you for your direction,” Thomasine informed her. She inclined her head, as refinement and culture demanded. As expected the four women in turn bestowed deep, respectful curtsies.
Thomasine spared no haste making her way to the meeting chamber she and Faustine had
designated for their outrageous machinations. Diabolical yet subtle, she would be lucky if Prince did not launch a campaign for her demise when he stepped up to the throne. She let out a sigh. Ah, well, a mother had to duty to her child. She pressed her lips together. Especially an only child.
A miniscule of seconds edged by before the outbreak of sparkles appeared, thus bringing Faustine into full view.
“What think you? Impossible?” Thomasine asked, brows furrowed.
“It’s possible,” Faustine responded, tapping her chin in a thoughtful contemplation. Her tiny wand slipped to the floor, rolled precariously toward the door.
“Odd how that one young lady’s eyes blink so rapidly, is it not?” Thomasine reflected. Promptly dismissing the thought, she added, “Well, never mind, ’tis time to see our plan through. Too late for naught else, I fear.”
“Oui.”
“You best hang on to that silly contraption, Faustine. We can ill afford it to fall in the wrong hands.”
“Pray, quit calling me that,” Faustine scowled.
“Whyever, for, ma chére? ’Tis your name, non?” Thomasine said absently, darting for the door. “We shall speak later. Adieu.”
Chapter 8
Cinderella watched in breathless torment as Prince’s masculine form was hauled over his manservant’s shoulder and whisked away. Her fixed-stare followed the retreating figures up a flight of stone steps through the elaborate entrance of the castle.
One blink brought her attention to the monstrosity of the structure in the brilliant light of the late afternoon. Much different than crashing the Royal Ball in the throws of a dark night.
A lovely night, she sighed. A finer night she’d known she’d never see in this lifetime.
Rich green ivy grew in bunches hugging the stones on both sides of the entrance. Windows in mortared stacks of four reached to an endless sky and rounded columns to tower above a flat roof. Cinderella swallowed past the obstruction blocking her throat.
Perhaps it would not be such a trial to see Esmeralda married to Prince. But the vision of his slumped form over the servant’s shoulder tugged at her heart. She was the one who should be there when he opened his eyes. The one to kiss away his hurt, shower him with love, affection, children.
She pressed her lips together. Non. There was no way she could allow Esmeralda to marry her true love. But how to prevent it? She dropped her head in despair only to see what everyone else saw, her mended clothes. Stepmamá had everyone believing her a servant.
“Mademoiselle?” A shy voice broke through her careening thoughts.
“Oui?”
“This way, mademoiselle.”
Cinderella peered about. No one seemed to hear the timid maid but she. A young miss with a flouncing white mob cap and starched white apron. Her elf-like features, whimsical eyes and pert nose sparked mischievous adventure. A sense of déjà vu touched her. Fairy Godmother?
Impossible.
Cinderella shook her head. The opportunity to escape her ill-gotten family was not one she was prepared to miss. Stepmamá could hardly call her out before the queen.
So Cinderella followed her. They made haste in quick short steps that lead straight away from Stepmamá, Pricilla and Esmeralda. This, in and of itself, was a dream come true...but…
Away from the front of the castle?
Alarm prickled her skin when they reached the corner. Cinderella cast a quick glance over her shoulder to meet Pricilla’s vicious smirk and piercing eyes. She flinched at the venom, but squared her shoulders, regardless. Nothing could dampen her life anymore than it had thus far. Cinderella hustled through a hidden wooded door after the darting servant.
The instant she stepped inside a wretched weight settled over her. The servants entrance? She’d followed the blasted girl through to the servants’ entrance? A vision of hopeless abandon flitted before her eyes. Prince would marry Esmeralda, and Cinderella's very life would become lost in the servancy in the bowels of the palace never to be seen or heard from again.
She dashed burning tears from her cheeks and scurried after the maid before she lost complete sight of her. Curiosity mingled with fear as they twisted through a maze of darkened hallways and winding staircases. Never seeing another soul in their pursuit of…of what?
Ten minutes passed before they burst out onto a widened corridor. No other souls graced the hall as the maid led her to a spacious and richly furnished bed chamber.
“Oh, my,” Cinderella breathed, spinning slowly. A much too large bed with humongous four-posters occupied a good portion of the space. Shades of green and cream that reminded her of a brilliant spring day would make her think she lay in a field of grass filled with wild flowers. The barrage pillows in a multitude of shapes and sizes would serve a brilliant hiding place, if need be. A giggled escaped, though rusty and hoarse.
A sideboard hosted a pitcher of fresh water and basin bowl for washing. A vast armoire with more liberty than Cinderella could have used in a lifetime stood in one corner, and wood floors waxed to a lustrous shine could serve as a looking glass. Matching green velvet drapes threaded with gold were swept open allowing the sun to beam through sheer linings. It softened the light in the elegant room. Someone had left a warm and toasty fire burning in the grate warding off any threat of the fall chill or stone walls.
That same someone had obviously ushered her to the wrong chamber. This was much too extravagant for the likes of her. Cinderella spun to apprise the maid of her fallacy lest she get into trouble. But said maid had vanished as whimsically as she’d appeared.
Cinderella dropped into a brocaded gold gilded chair, mouth agape. She never dreamed such luxury existed. Mayhap getting lost in the bowels of the castle would not be such a horrific thing after all. Mayhap she would never happen to venture across Prince or Esmeralda. She pulled her hand from her pocket where Marcel beamed her with his cheeky smile.
“Mayhap, I could hide here—forever,” she choked out on a whispered laugh.
He nodded a quick agreement. He would, of course, they had cheese.
*****
“I do not suppose it is possible my mother will gain me leave of supper,” Prince resigned.
Arnald’s answer was a raised bushy brow holding out an open waistcoat. Prince shrugged himself into it and mumbled, “What good is a servant who has naught anything of substance to say?” With a slight turn he made a quick escape from Arnald’s irritating smirk.
"No good, sire," Arnald chucked, "when said servant is also your older cousin.” Arnald’s intonation of ‘sire’ was a sore point.
“Six months out of the year? I think not.” Older, indeed. They were both nineteen for at least another four months. Another thought just occurred to him, and he pierced Arnald with a scathing glance. “You are not holding bets from the servants on the outcome of my upcoming nuptials, are you?”
The lift of one nonchalant shoulder had Prince clenching a fist, trying to resist an urge to plant it in his cousin’s sardonic expression. But Mamán would likely lock them in the dungeon if either one of them appeared at supper with a bloody nose. She’d not show favoritism in such an instance.
Supper at Chalmers Castle was an immensely formal affair. On more occasions than not foreign dignitaries or visiting prime ministers from other unions could be found gracing the royal table. Tonight, however, there was only his future eye-batting bride, her angry sister and their stout, overbearing mamá for distraction.
An oppressive thought.
Prince felt as if he had not had one moment with his elusive mamán since the night of the ball. In fact, he was quite certain it was so. With sudden insight usually reserved for witchcraft and womenfolk, he realized she’d been avoiding him…like the plague. Along the lines of the Black Death seen not since the early days of the fourteenth century. Impressive, actually.
The usual pre-dinner sherry party on most eves was sure to be found in the formal parlor. Tonight’s affair, however, had been shifted to the family library at the
last moment though he could not help wondering the reason for the change. Upon his entrance a slight breeze ruffled Prince’s hair, prompting a quick glance in Esperanza’s direction. Such freakishly strong eyelids? Oui, ’twas palpitating as steady as a rapid heartbeat to create such an updraft indoors. Phenomenal.
“Ah, here he is. Son!” This bellow from his normally unflappable papá. “You are here.” Typically amused by this father’s booming voice, Prince hid an unusual annoyance that almost choked him.
He inclined his head with polished respect. “Papá.” Mamán had taught him well. She should be proud.
Papá cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Your mamán, son, she has been asking after you,” he blustered. “Your ordeal, you know.” Prince had not realized how unnaturally loud his father truly was until this moment, and felt the heat creeping up his neck.
“It is ten until eight on the clock, Papá.” Prince informed him blandly, angling his head to the timepiece resting on the mantle over a fire in the grate. He then turned toward his fugacious mother with a smile only she would recognize as deviant. Understandable, of course, as he’d inherited it from her.
A becoming blush tinged her cheeks. Ah, things were looking up. His dark mood lightened at once.
“Darling, I trust you are feeling better after your mishap?” Her face showed concern, but her voice held unmistakable amusement, her blush rescinded.
“Oui.” In self-conscious effort he found himself clearing his throat, and with the added heat on his neck…not a princely picture, he felt certain. “I am unsure what ailment assailed me, but I appear to be quite sound now.” An unexpected urge came over him to laugh, the tension in his chest suddenly abating. Quite enchanting really, his mamán. She knew exactly what she was about.
In that instant another slight cough interrupted their light banter, startling him momentarily. He swallowed a groan. How could he have forgotten?
The Wronged Princess - Book I Page 5
