I find my list of tasks and add my new ideas about the landscaping. Only once I’ve gotten everything out of my mind and on paper do I remember my conversation with Imogen. I shift in my seat to face Elliot’s chair. “Oh, and I spoke with Miss Coleman today. The woman you’re going to woo. She’s quite intrigued by you.”
He doesn’t look at me, but I see him stiffen, fingers digging into the cloth of his armrests.
I leave the bureau and cross the room, claiming a chair at the other side of the hearth. Once seated, I study him over the small circular table that stands between us. His face seems to have gone a shade paler, eyes unfocused as he stares into the fire. “Are you nervous about meeting her?” I ask.
Slowly, he meets my gaze. This time, there’s no predatory intensity but a hint of trepidation. His voice comes out small, quiet. “Will this…human of yours find me very repellant?”
Something in his tone tugs at my chest, but I remind myself his question comes not from vulnerability but vanity. “Trust me, you find the human form far uglier than we do. Once I have you dressed and cleaned, you’ll be quite…” I pause, seeking the right word. “Presentable.”
He averts his gaze. “I’m talking about…my leg.”
My words are robbed from both my lips and my mind as his question takes on new meaning. It wasn’t vanity after all. It was personal.
To be honest, I’ve already gotten used to the amputated leg, and there’s nothing too repulsive about it. I met several esteemed gentlemen in Bretton who’d fought in wars past and wore their injuries like medals of honor. But Bretton is a country used to luxury and war in equal measure. Its king always seems to be battling with one kingdom or another. Here in Faerwyvae, though, where only two wars have ever touched its soil in thousands of years…
“I don’t know,” I confess, my stomach sinking. “While I think your wealth and status will be enough to sway Imogen’s heart, it might be best to fit you with a prosthetic.”
He looks at me and scoffs. “You mean one of those fake legs? I have one already. It was given to me early on in the curse by…well, I don’t recall. I suppose that’s one of the memories that’s been claimed. But I do have one.”
“You do? Why don’t you wear it? Is it uncomfortable?”
He shrugs. “Comfort or no, why bother?”
I wave a hand at the staff cradled in his arm. “It might be easier than walking with that.”
“Why should I let it be easier? As a wolf, I can manage having one less leg with very little inconvenience. I can stand, run, leap. Nothing is impossible. But this!” He gestures to his lower half. “Human mobility is a menace with only one leg to stand on.”
“I don’t understand why that should prevent you from trying to be as comfortable as possible.”
“What’s not to understand? Haven’t I told you already? It’s that…rouge on a pig thing.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Let me get this straight. You refuse to be comfortable because you don’t think your human body is worth the effort?”
“I’ll still be hideous,” he growls. “A false leg will only draw attention to this repulsive form.”
I rise to my feet and face him, hands on my hips. Torn between indignation and annoyance, I’m at a complete loss for words. I want to rage at him for thinking so rudely about human appearance, for criticizing my entire species based on his perception of how we look. Just as much, I want to correct the errors in his thinking, pull him from this frustrating stance he has about his own looks in particular.
“Your Majesty, I will say this one time and one time only, so listen up.”
He leans back in his seat, eyes wide as he meets my furious gaze.
“You are not ugly,” I say through my teeth. “You are annoying, smug, and irritating, and you may look like a deranged trapper who hasn’t had a bath in a year, but you…you…are not ugly.”
Silence falls between us, our eyes locked. Then finally, he returns his gaze to the fire. “Come, Miss Bellefleur. Not even you believe your words. You’re the one making me cut my hair.”
I curl my fingers into fists, teetering between shouting and laughing. “I’m making you cut your hair because it’s a mess. You clearly haven’t taken care of it. Besides, your hair isn’t you. Underneath that hair and beard, you have…tolerable features.”
He quirks a brow, an amused grin tugging his lips. “Tolerable? What a compliment. What exactly are these tolerable features you claim to see?”
I fold my arms over my chest and burn him with a scowl. Then, keeping my voice neutral, I say, “Your eyes are an interesting color.”
His garnet irises seem to respond, flashing with the light of the flames in the hearth. Slowly, he slides that gaze to me. “Interesting color, eh?”
I shrug. “It isn’t a common color in humans. And your…well, your hair isn’t completely awful. The color is nice. The way the dark brown melts into gold makes it look like it’s been kissed by the sun. It needs to be tamed, yes, but I don’t hate it.”
“And my beard?” He scratches at the scruff on his chin.
“I don’t love the beard, but…I think there’s a decent jaw beneath it. You have strong cheekbones. Deep-set eyes and a heavy brow. It makes that rugged look seem not so bad. And your build.” I turn my study to his broad shoulders, his wide chest. Beneath the stained linen of his shirt, I can just make out hints of a firm musculature. Further proof is written over his bare forearms, roped muscle exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. Strangely, my pulse begins to quicken, and my next words come out somewhat breathless. “Your build is desirable.”
He cocks his head, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. “Desirable? That’s a strong word.”
I take a step away, turning slightly to the side as heat flushes my cheeks. “To most women,” I amend. “Your build is desirable to most women.”
“And do you consider yourself most women?” he asks with a teasing, rumbling laugh, one that crawls up my spine and radiates down my arms like a caress. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was a natural at playing the rogue after all. Is he practicing for Imogen…or has he always had this insufferable ability to unsettle a woman like this?
“I most certainly do not,” I say and stride to the parlor door. “Unlike Imogen, I know the wolf beneath the façade and he’s getting on my last nerve. Good day.”
“If that’s all it takes to get you out of my parlor, I’ll be sure to get on your last nerve more often.”
I pause, hand clenched on the doorframe, and look over my shoulder at the king. Clever retorts swarm in my mind, but as I watch him grinning at the hearth, I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen such a smile from him. There’s teasing in it, and it’s no doubt at my expense, but there’s something in his posture that wasn’t there before. He sits taller now, straighter. The absence of his brooding slouch lends warmth to his expression. Whether he’s taken my advice about adopting an outer persona, or if this new sense of comfort and confidence is genuine, it’s not something I can bring myself to discourage.
Without a word, I slip quietly into the hall. As I make my way upstairs to my room, I can’t help but note yet another thing I don’t hate about Elliot Rochester.
I don’t hate his smile. In fact, it isn’t terrible at all.
19
The next morning, I wake to pounding on my door, followed by frantic feet as Micah and three other children his age stream into my room. “Wagons,” Micah says before I can ask what the commotion is all about. His eyes are bright, his grin stretching from ear to ear as he skips toward my bed.
I rub my eyes and sit up, meeting the gaze of the other children—two boys and a girl—standing behind Micah. None appear to have the same enthusiasm as Micah, each eying me with suspicion. “Good morning.” My voice comes out with a tired croak. “Wagons, you say?”
His head bobs up and down. “Three of them! Full of furniture. And there’s this fae wearing spectacles—”
“F
oxglove is here already?” When I told the fae to come at his earliest convenience, I didn’t expect it to be so soon. Or so early. I spring from my bed and rush to the wardrobe. “Tell him I’ll be down at once.”
At that, the children skip from my room and slam the door behind them.
Blinking sleep from my eyes, I make haste to get dressed, choosing another gown from the wardrobe and then splashing my face with water from the washbasin. I don’t even bother pinning up my hair and simply brush it out to flow loose around my shoulders. If Amelie—the copper-haired seamstress—can get away with wearing her tresses long, then I don’t see why I shouldn’t. Especially considering the hurry I’m in.
By the time I make it downstairs and to the front hall, I find Foxglove and Elliot facing each other in an icy standoff.
“I was invited here by your steward, sir,” Foxglove says with a scoff.
Elliot slams his staff onto the flagstones. “This damn early?”
Foxglove flourishes a hand. “I have another job in town. If you want my services, you’ll accept them when I can offer them.”
“I don’t want—”
I step between the two and silence the king with a glare before turning to the other fae. “Foxglove, so good of you to come.”
“Your employer doesn’t seem to think so,” the bespectacled fae says with a huff.
“My employer isn’t used to welcoming newcomers into his manor,” I say, then turn to the king with a withering look. “Since he’ll be entertaining human guests soon, now is a good time to practice.”
“Freezing woman,” he mutters under his breath, then turns away to stalk down the hall.
I give Foxglove an exaggerated smile. “Sorry about him. He’s not a morning person.”
“He most certainly is not. Now, shall we get started?”
The morning quickly spins into a flurry of activity, starting with me giving Foxglove a tour of the necessary rooms and sharing all my ideas for renovations and improvements. Then Foxglove orders the wagons unloaded by some of the manor’s residents, including Blackbeard and Gray, and soon the halls are cluttered with items being brought in or taken out.
Elliot is a grumbling, cursing mess when Amelie arrives to fit him for clothes. I send him off to fetch his prosthetic while I situate Amelie in my bedroom. Not daring to subject the woman or her elegant fabrics to the rooms that have yet to be cleaned, mine will have to do. Besides, being so far away from the chaos downstairs will hopefully give Elliot no reason to bite Amelie’s head off.
“I’m sorry if my employer is a little rough around the edges,” I say, keeping my voice quiet as I lay out an array of suit jackets she’s brought while she organizes several swaths of colorful brocade on my dressing table. “Please ignore his crass manner if you can.”
She smiles at me. “I’m used to dealing with the fae, Miss Bellefleur. I, myself, am a quarter fae and have been living closely amongst faekind for over twenty years now. Before that, I spent my youth and teen years ignorant of their strange ways, but now I’m used to them. Even the cranky ones.”
I pause, my eyes widening. It hadn’t occurred to me that the woman had any fae blood at all, much less that she could be older than perhaps twenty-two. But if she were both a youth and a teen before these twenty years she spent close to the fae…how old could she actually be? I’ve heard rumors that the magic of Faerwyvae has been known to extend human lifespan…but is it only her fae heritage that makes her look so young? Will I age slower now that I live here? I try to conceal my overwhelming awe by returning my attention to the jackets I’m supposed to be laying on the bed. “So, there are other fae like my employer?”
“Many, and some are even worse,” she says and begins to unfold a dressing screen. “And not just to humans. Some fae can hardly stand to get along with each other. Conflict is often between rival courts, but sometimes it’s even within the same household. How do you think the second fae war began? It started with a civil war amongst the fae, you know.”
Considering her supposed age, I must take her word as truth, as she was likely alive for it. It leads me to recall what Elliot said about not everyone on the Alpha Council being his biggest fan. At first, the reason was obvious; how could anyone like the bristly wolf king? But now I wonder if royal tensions are more political than personal.
“Freezing woman,” comes Elliot’s voice from the hall outside my room. “Are you trying to make me look like a fool?”
Clenching my jaw, I take back my previous musings. Any royal tensions regarding the king would most certainly be personal. “You can do that all on your own, Mr. Rochester. And, if you recall, my name is Miss Bellefleur, not woman.”
Amelie looks over her shoulder from where she sets up the dressing screen and gives me an approving smile.
Finally, Elliot appears in my doorway, expression furious as he slowly limps into my room on two legs. “Must I wear this damn thing?”
I stifle a grin. “It’s not nearly as bad as you think.”
“It makes me walk like a lame animal,” he says. “If I were a wolf, I’d be easy pickings for predators.”
Amelie quirks a brow. “A wolf?”
“My employer’s unseelie form is a wolf,” I rush to say.
She takes a step away from the dressing screen to squint at the king. “A fae royal with a missing leg who can shift into a wolf.”
Elliot glowers at her scrutiny. “What’s it to you?”
She nods. “Ah. I think I know who you are. But why can’t I remember your name? It certainly isn’t Elliot Rochester…”
The king takes a step forward, brows pulled into a scowl. “Whatever you think you know, mind your own business.”
I move to Amelie’s side and place a hand on her arm. “Please say nothing. We’re paying you for your discretion.”
Unflustered, she shrugs. “It’s no matter to me. The only reason I made the connection is because of my sister.”
“Your sister?” Elliot echoes.
“Queen Evelyn of the Fire Court.” She scoffs a laugh. “I stay out of politics, but I get the sense you weren’t the best of friends.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t remember her.”
Her eyes widen as she studies him with keen interest. Her words come out awed, quiet. “Is that so? What strange thing has befallen you?”
Elliot growls, and a flash of panic spurs me to speak. “Please ask no more questions.”
She nods and the curiosity fades from her eyes. “Very well. It’s like I said. I have little interest in politics these days. Your private matters are yours to keep.”
My stomach unclenches as relief moves through me. She seems to have uncovered his identity but doesn’t appear to know anything about the curse.
Amelie squints, tapping a finger to her chin. “It does tell me what I need to know though…”
My panic returns, speeding my pulse. “About what?”
She grins. “How refined I must make his clothing. Come, Mr. Rochester. My measuring tape awaits and I’m burning with ideas.”
Elliot and Amelie disappear behind the dressing screen. Hoping I can act as mediator to prevent any further tensions from arising, I remain in the room, handing articles of clothing over the top of the screen at Amelie’s command. Luckily, Elliot seems to obey the seamstress’ poking and prodding with nothing worse than halfhearted protests and muttered curses. After several changes of clothing, each one ending in Amelie’s no, no, absolutely not, I hear her exclaim a hearty, “Yes! This is the right color, and the fit is nearly perfect.”
Elliot groans. “I feel like a stuffed turkey, and I must look like a peacock.”
Amelie steps out from behind the screen. “Peacocks are beautiful, Mr. Rochester. Now, let’s see what Miss Bellefleur thinks.”
At that, I rise from where I’ve been sitting on the bed and move closer to the screen.
For a moment, nothing happens. No footsteps, no grumbles. Then finally, a sigh. With slow, uneven steps, the king leav
es his hiding place. I blink a few times, lips parting as I take in the transformation. Dressed in a smart, modern suit, he seems to have grown taller. His slim trousers are of the darkest green with a jacket to match. His waistcoat is gold brocade, and his emerald silk cravat seems to bring out the ruby tones in his eyes.
Amelie comes to stand at my side, assessing the king with a hand at her chin. “Yes, I will customize your new wardrobe with this look in mind.” She faces me. “Don’t you agree?”
With my eyes still locked on the king, all I can do is nod. “You’re…you’re amazing, Miss Amelie.”
“It helps that my model cuts a nice figure all on his own,” she says with a wink.
Elliot rolls his eyes.
“Oh my.” I turn to find Foxglove entering the room, eyes roving the king from head to toe. “You’ve done the impossible, Amelie,” he says.
“Are you done treating me like I’m on display? I’d like to change out of this ridiculous frock—”
“No!” Amelie says with horror. “Until I finish your wardrobe, you must wear this. I will not have you insulting my work by changing back into those rags.”
“She’s right,” I say. “You must get used to refined clothing if you are to impress our future…guest.” More than that, I just want to look at him in these clothes at least a while longer. Not because he’s attractive. No, not that. I’m fully aware he’s the same awful wolf I met over trickery and tomato sauce. The new look simply provides a more pleasant view than stained linen and dingy trousers.
Foxglove’s lips pull into a grimace. “Ugh, but that hair. It most certainly won’t do.”
Elliot closes his eyes, teeth bared as he utters a string of curses.
Pounding footsteps draw my attention back to the door where Micah springs forth. “More wagons! A nice one.”
“Oh, that might be the paintings,” Foxglove says. “I should direct them where to put everything.”
“Excuse me,” Elliot says, “but this is my manor.”
Foxglove puts a hand on his hip. “And what a nice manor it will be when I’m done. Now, Miss Bellefleur, please find someone to brush his hair so I can get started on it when I return. I can only work with a clean canvas.” At that, he turns on his heel and follows Micah out the door.
Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling (Entangled with Fae) Page 13
