Princes of Charming (Naughty Fairy Tales)

by Fox, Georgia

  "Madame Pantoufle. At last we meet again."

  He pulse quickened. "Excuse me, Mr. Wilder. I'm in haste to get home."

  The man blocked her path. "Then allow me to escort you in my carriage."

  Oh, no, not again. Like father like son. If she wasn't so annoyed she would have laughed. "No. Thank you." She moved to walk around him, but he stepped smartly to the side again, blocking her in.

  "Take a ride with me, Drusilla. I'll be leaving the country soon and we shan't have many more opportunities."

  He was leaving again? The thought disturbed her more than she expected. "You're not so concerned about your son, after all then."

  "At this moment I'm more concerned about you."

  Startled, she looked up at him. "Me? Why would you —"

  "Someone ought to be." His countenance was more irritated with her than worried for her. As if she was a great inconvenience with which to be dealt. "A woman alone in the world, living two lives. How on earth did you get into this business? Yes, I heard all about it from Nick."

  "Are you going to tell me you disapprove? You? The scandalous libertine and rebel?"

  "That's different." His jaw tightened and he appeared to grow another few inches taller. "I'm a man."

  He most certainly was. "You'll get over it. Take some stomach powders and rub goose fat on the swelling."

  With that she swiftly crossed the road between passing horses to catch the omnibus, leaving him standing on the pavement.

  * * * *

  "You're invited to dine at Great-grandmama Charming's house tonight."

  They were walking in the park, in the rain, so Nicholas could learn the art of keeping an umbrella over his companion, while escorting her around puddles. The boy was naturally clumsy and a selfish walker, so coordinating each of these tasks at once took considerable concentration. As a result, he'd forgotten his big news, it seemed, until that minute.

  "Tonight?" It was very short notice.

  "Yes. And you can't refuse, because she and Grandpapa want to talk to you about my progress."

  Drusilla was amused. Were they about to give a review of her work? "I hope you don't let me down, Master Nicholas!"

  "I'll be on my best behavior for you." He smiled very dashingly.

  "We'll see. I am curious to meet the Charming family matriarch, having heard a lot about her."

  "Really? Most people are terrified of Great-grandmama."

  She patted his arm. "I'm not most people. Mind the puddle." Damn it! He was supposed to be leading her!

  "Oops. Bugger!" Just like his father.

  Perhaps this gaucherie was part of their endearing quality. It brought out maternal instincts she never knew she had.

  * * * *

  She arrived in a hackney cab, very prompt. Brandon had almost expected her to make some excuse not to attend at the last minute, but when their eyes met in his grandmother's drawing room, he knew at once that she hadn't realized he would be there. Her face paled a few shades and he caught the slightest gleam of anger under her lashes.

  Tonight she wore black, her hair severely pulled back in a knot, her jewelry minimal. Playing the part of dowdy widow. Not fooling him for a moment.

  "Mrs. Kent. Honored."

  Her lips were tight, her gaze fogging over. Was she dismissing him with that distracted look, or remembering their afternoon at the Dalton? He certainly couldn't forget it. The only thing that wasn't a mystery about the delectable Mrs. Kent was his desire to have her again. She was the playmate of his dreams, not only beautiful and sexually adventurous, but clever and witty company. Of course he had to make love to her again, that was perfectly understandable. But everything else about her was a puzzle.

  His grandmother studied the guest closely, ready to find fault, apparently as curious about her as Brandon was. "Mrs. Kent you are from the country I understand?"

  "I am, Mrs. Charming."

  "Where?" Brandon demanded sharply.

  She turned her head, little pearls trembling from her ears. "Devonshire."

  He was sure she plucked that one out of the air.

  "Devonshire is such a pretty place," Captain Wilder exclaimed. Everyone looked at Mrs. Kent.

  "Indeed," she said. "The coastal scenery is quite breathtaking. My husband and I used to enjoy walks along the footpaths to secluded coves, beaches and tide pools. Devonshire is a place rich in folklore and history."

  "And your husband was a village parson?" Elinor asked.

  "He was. I have been widowed six years. When my dear husband passed on and a new curate took over, I decided to move to London."

  "How did you embark upon the business of match-making?"

  The guest smiled stiffly. "It happened quite by chance. I made some introductions between friends and before I knew it, word had spread."

  "Clotted Cream," Brandon muttered scornfully.

  Every head swiveled to observe him, where he sprawled in his chair by the fire.

  He smirked. "Isn't that what Devonshire's famous for?"

  Drusilla's eyes glistened warily. "I believe so."

  Nick pulled up a chair to sit near the woman. "Mrs. Kent has been a wonderful tutor. Don't you think I've improved, Great-grandmama?"

  "Well, you surely could not have grown any worse," Elinor replied. "The only way was up."

  Captain Wilder threw in his sixpence. "I must say, I do see an improvement, even in a few short weeks, Mrs. Kent." Of course, thought Brandon, his father had already imbibed too much sherry. Everything looked rosy to the old man then.

  Crossing his legs at the ankle, Brandon sank further into his chair. "Amazing what one little woman can do. You must have some sort of reward incentive to keep Nick devoted to his studies."

  "I'm a very strict disciplinarian, Mr. Wilder."

  "Hmmm. Interesting." She was breathing quite hard, battling against her rigid corset laces again. He only knew it from the way her earbobs shook and because he had some familiarity with the manner in which her voice grew husky and, when her lungs were too constricted, certain consonants melded into each other. "I wouldn't imagine Nick took well to that."

  "You underestimate your son." Her lips curved in a sultry smile. "I'm sure you've heard the saying, spare the rod and spoil the child. It does not have to be taken literally, course. There are many kinds of rods." Each word tumbled from her mouth smoothly but with a certain care and precision, like an apple peel slowly unfurling as it was sliced away from the flesh in one long, continuous, spiral. Just as he'd like to peel her out of her garments again.

  Aware of his son watching him closely, Brandon turned his attention to the fire.

  "Mrs. Kent, you are still young I think," his grandmother intoned solemnly. "You had no thoughts of another marriage for yourself?"

  Her answer was swift. "No, madam. I found that one was...adequate."

  "Ah, yes. Living with a husband is rather like breaking in a new pair of boots," Elinor agreed. "When one has gone to all that trouble to make them a comfortable fit, the thought of going to similar lengths with a new pair brings no joy."

  "Quite."

  The two women laughed, at ease with one another in no time. Naturally they would find common ground in criticizing the male species, thought Brandon grumpily. He should have known that would happen.

  * * * *

  Elinor Charming was a very small woman—in marked contrast to the men in her family—but despite her diminutive size, she had no problem holding court over them.

  "Nicky informs me that he will be attending the Duchess of Wynthorne's ball, Mrs. Kent," the old lady exclaimed. "The Duchess—a woman I have had the misfortune of meeting once or twice at the milliner's and outside Covent Garden Opera House— has always turned her nose up at new wealth. Are you certain he is ready for a test of that magnitude?"

  "Certainly. In at the deep end is often best."

  "You have a young lady you wish him to meet there?"

  She hesitated, caught Brandon's skeptical gaze through the c
andelabra, and replied cautiously, "Yes. A foreign princess living in exile."

  "A princess?" Captain Wilder almost spilled his wine. "That would be quite a coup, Nicky. It would raise our stock." He looked hopefully down the table at Elinor. "I daresay the likes of his grace, the Duke of Wynthorne, would be green with envy if we got a princess for Nicky."

  "The Wynthornes have idiot sons of their own. No doubt there will be competition at the ball."

  "I'm not afraid of a little competition," Nicholas chirped, spearing another lamb cutlet from the platter offered by a footman. "If a girl has eyes in her head, why would she pick a Wynthorne over me?"

  Drusilla hid a smile in her napkin, but when she looked across the table again, she knew Brandon had seen.

  "Where is this exiled princess from, Mrs. Kent?" It was the first time he'd spoken to her since they sat to eat. "Devonshire?"

  Smart Arse. She pursed her lips, glowering at him through the puttering candle flames as his soft chuckles blew them about. "She is from a small island, in the midst of the Caribbean."

  "Really? You'll have to show me on the globe." He turned to Elinor. "You still have one in the library, don't you, grandmama?"

  "It's a very small nation. I doubt we shall find it," Drusilla said calmly.

  "Is she civilized? Sounds like a primitive place, if it's not even mapped." He remarked dryly. "Will she wear a grass skirt and shells around her neck?"

  She forced a smile. Each time he laughed she felt it shiver through her bones, spark heat in her blood. And why exactly was she such a fool for his laughter? Merely because it made his eyes crinkle and drew lines at their corners. Something about it was pleasing. Years ago his handsome face was mostly unmarked. Now it was lined with experience. Now it told a story, made him much more interesting. "She might, Mr. Wilder."

  "Will she be tattooed and bring a wild hog under her arm as a gift for the Duchess?"

  "I can assure you that however she dresses, she is still far more civilized than many folk I know in London." And she shot him a meaningful glare that only made him laugh harder.

  "Does she have family here too?" the Captain inquired, pouring himself another glass of wine, ignoring his chortling son.

  "She does not. They were all lost in a shipwreck. At sea."

  Brandon pretended to dry his eyes on a napkin. "Well, most shipwrecks are at sea. One wouldn't expect it to happen on land."

  "You must forgive my grandson, Mrs. Kent," Elinor exclaimed wearily. "He tends to find humor in any situation."

  "So I see. Very droll."

  Why did he have to be quite so damned attractive? Even when he mocked her, she wanted to run her fingers through his hair, smooth it off his bronzed forehead. Lean over him. Kiss his warm brow. Feel his breath on her neck.

  "Well, one has to laugh grandmama, or else one might weep. Laughter is good for the soul, don't you agree Mrs. Kent? Did you never have a good ol' laugh with your country parson husband over the cream tea in Devonshire?"

  She felt his son's eyes boring into her. Perhaps he'd felt her chair move, her body get tense suddenly. "In a quiet way we did. There was not so much to laugh at in a small country village. Here I find there is plenty."

  "I'm sure there is."

  Abruptly Nick cleared his throat. "Can you pass the wine, grandpapa?"

  * * * *

  After dinner Brandon took her into his grandfather's library. Hoping to get her alone, he found Nick close on his heels. As the evening progressed his son had become steadily less genial, his obsession with the "match-maker" more evident. Brandon assumed it was a boyish crush and would soon end when he found another pretty woman in his way. That's how it had always been for him.

  "Nick, perhaps you'd get Mrs. Kent's coat for her?" he said, stopping him in the doorway to the library.

  "Why don't you fetch it, father?" There was a very stubborn set to the boy's jaw as he drew on a cigar and faced Brandon. He was only a few inches shorter, his shoulders almost as wide.

  "We can all look at the globe together," Drusilla intervened, marching by them both, leading a footman with some candelabra.

  Very sneaky, he thought, glaring at her. Of course she didn't want to be alone with him. She pretended not to be afraid of him. But she was afraid of something. As she passed him in the doorway he swallowed her scent and felt it tickle his throat. Both he and Nick followed her, their motion trancelike.

  While the footman held the candles higher, all three gathered around the creaky old globe and inspected it. After a few minutes she pointed a finger at a black speck in the middle of an expanse of sea. "That must be it. That's where she's from."

  Nick was barely listening, having only gone there, obviously because he didn't trust his father in a darkened room with Mrs. Kent. He swayed and puffed on his cigar, while Brandon leaned over the globe and moved her finger off the mark.

  "That's not even a place. It's a tear in the paper cover, or a squashed fruit fly."

  "It is a place, Mr. Wilder. And the Princess Ella is from it."

  "What's it called then?"

  Her eyes glittered. She ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip. "Sinder. The Isle of Sinder."

  Incredulous, he chuckled. "Sinder?"

  "That's right." She tilted her chin up a tad and spelled it proudly, "C...i...n...n...d...e...r...e"

  "Oh, Cinndere," he exclaimed, striking his head with one hand. "Why didn't you say? I know the place well."

  There went her tongue again, slipping over her moistened lip. Making him want to kiss it.

  "We'd better get you home, Mrs. Kent," he muttered, unable to look away from her mouth.

  Somewhere behind them, Nick said, "I'll take her in great-grandmama's carriage."

  "I'm going home as I came," she replied crisply. "Alone in a hansom cab."

  Oh no, she wasn't. He'd made other arrangements for this slippery, sly, fibbing creature. As they walked back into the hall, he sent the footman for her coat. His great-grandmama said her goodbyes and then, to Brandon's relief, insisted on Nick's arm to help her back to the drawing room. His son didn't dare refuse.

  "I believe the cab is here for you, Mrs. Kent." Brandon helped her into her coat.

  "Thank you."

  They walked outside. Thin, warm rain drizzled on his head as he held the carriage door open and set down the little step for her foot. She didn't have time to see what she was entering. The woman was in haste to get away, but he leapt up behind her, no coat, no hat, no warning to anyone. He sat beside her and closed the door before she could even exhale a curse.

  And they were off.

  Ten in the Evening

  November 30th

  "I didn't eat my dessert. I saved my appetite for you."

  He was persistent, she had to give him that. "This is your carriage!"

  "Yes."

  "Brandon Wilder," she shook her head, "what are we doing and why?"

  "Here we are, alone again and it's another opportunity not to be wasted. You want me as much as I want you. We are two consenting adults, unattached. How many more reasons do you require, Dru?"

  "How do you know I want you?" Had it been so plain? Had she given herself away? She must be losing her icy touch.

  "The way you lick your lips," he replied thoughtfully, his eyes smiling at her, shining every time they passed a streetlamp.

  "Is that all? You think every woman who licks her lips wants to be seduced by you?"

  "No." He put his hand on her knee. "I think you want to seduce me."

  "You've got a nerve."

  "I have and you bother it. Like a toothache." He stroked her knee and his hand was heavy, warm through her black taffeta.

  "I'm sorry to cause you any pain."

  "Then do something about it."

  She stared straight ahead and watched the cobbled street flickering by, lashed by amber streaks of light from the gas lamps. If he left England she may never return again. Her desire for him—when she considered the points he listed— mad
e every sense and yet, at the same time, none. Drusilla considered herself a woman of some intelligence and logic, but there was no wisdom in falling for a man like Brandon Wilder. Since she left his hotel suite she'd convinced herself it was only a sexual encounter, casual and simple.

  Tonight, when she saw him standing in his grandmother's drawing room, it took her a while to catch her breath and temporarily the strength was knocked out of her. Like being slapped hard by a sudden gust of wind and rain as she turned a street corner.

  He'd cleaned up, of course, since their first meeting, and in fine evening clothes few men could compare. Watching him across the dining table, hearing his laughter, feeling his heated admiration follow her every move, she'd felt shattered. Not so that anyone might see. The hairline breaks and cracks were deep in her bones and they hurt; they threatened to stretch into one another, weaken her structure. Spread to her heart. It was a sickness, she decided. Perhaps he brought it back with him from his travels in the jungle. In which case, they might not have long to live. Another reason to seize the night.

  He was no longer smiling playfully, no longer teasing. With one lean, sensual hand he swept his dark, wavy hair back from his brow and regarded her steadily, intensely. His mouth was hard, but beautifully carved, his jaw strong. Already she thought about kissing him again.

  She'd imagined a few hours in his company would be enough to rid her of that ridiculous adolescent fantasy about the Prince of Charming. Usually, only a short amount of time alone with a man was more than adequate to remove any mystique. Only the Earl had held her interest for longer and even her relationship with him had become more profession and habit than pleasure. On honest days she could admit that to herself.

  But a few hours with Brandon had not been sufficient to relieve her curiosity.

  "Let's spend all night together," he murmured, looking deep into her eyes.

  "Very well," she said finally, "but this time the terms are mine."

  His nostrils flared, cheeks hollowed as he sucked in a deep breath.