Charming, Volume 1

by Jack Heckel

  She shuddered and clutched more tightly to the hand of her partner. Lord William was real. He felt solid, something she could trust, and he was nervous. He had been that way since she awoke in the back of his cart in Prosper. It made her smile to make a man nervous again. He was looking down at her now with that slightly stunned expression he always seemed to have when he touched her.

  Is this my true love?

  She rolled the question about in her mind as she led him through a complicated series of steps. It had taken quite a lot of persuading to get him to dance. He had been worried about making a fool of himself and, to his credit, her. He needn’t have. Gwendolyn had been performing in the court since she was a little girl and could make anyone, even a pig farmer or whatever it was Lord William had been, look graceful. To his further credit, the boy made it easy. He was quite willing to follow her lead. She liked that about him also. In fact, despite everything, Gwendolyn found herself enjoying the dance. While she was moving, it was easier to imagine that things were just as they had been before. That they were all young again, she and Rupert and Rosslyn, and that events had turned out as they should have.

  She frowned. Thinking about all those years of captivity brought a deep, slow anger back to her breast. She still could not bear to look at Rupert. Since her return, he had tried daily to seek an audience with her, but Gwendolyn had made a point not to speak to him. The truth was that she could not. Not yet. For one, she did not know if she could bear hearing his excuse for why she had been made to languish in that tower, imprisoned by the dragon, as the seasons changed and the decades passed. He had been her hero. The one she had believed would be her true love. She had been so sure that he would come to rescue her, but he never came.

  Never.

  Instead, he’d married another and ceded her to his son. The bitterness of it all galled her. And another thing—­he was old, and seeing him made her feel her true age, and she did not like it. But more than all this, she feared the answer to one question.

  Why?

  She looked around as if she could find an answer somewhere in her surroundings. The dance spun them about and she saw the young prince standing at the edge of the floor, staring at Lord William with venom in his eyes. How long had the dragon whispered to her about him, about his beauty and strength, and how he must come for her one day soon? The dragon may have meant it as a cruelty, but it had been an unwitting kindness, because in her dreams he had been transformed into the man she had always wanted Rupert to be. For how many lifetimes had she imagined being with him: being rescued, having children, living happily ever after.

  Now looking at this Prince Charming, a grown man of twenty summers, she felt none of that hope. He was flighty and insubstantial. From what she’d heard since her return, he’d spent his days dallying over clothes and verse and lancing the ladies. It was what she would expect of a spoiled courtly young man of twenty. It was the way the courtly young men had behaved in her day. But she was not a courtly young lady of twenty any longer, and she had no appetite for him. She sighed deeply. Everything was shadowy and gray. She knew she must try to forgive and move on, but a part of her, an undeniable and ugly part, wanted retribution more than forgiveness.

  They had left her to rot, Rupert, Prince Charming, and the rest of the kingdom. They all deserved to suffer for their lies.

  Gwen felt a sudden chill around her neck, like two cold hands at her throat, and once more she became aware of the thin gold chain and miniature lock resting like an icicle against her breast. It was a strange thing, that locket. Ever since the evening in Prosper when she finally clawed her way to consciousness, mostly out of irritation at the jar of pickled peas she’d been lying atop in the back of that peasant wagon, Gwendolyn had been on the verge of tearing the accursed thing off, but she could not. Not until everything had been made right. For a moment, she felt a rush of deadly ambition and purpose, saw herself on the throne, a queen at last. Then the pale face of her sister, Rosslyn, floated into her mind and all the energy left her. She felt so tired and so very old.

  Lord William seemed to sense her mood. He leaned down a bit and whispered in her ear. “You seem tired, Princess Gwendolyn. Shall I take you back to the dais?”

  “No, no. I am having a wonderful time, and . . . you are a wonderful dancer,” she lied.

  “No, I’m not a wonderful dancer, but you are, Your Highness.”

  He was young and naïve, but he was also solid—­real. Someone trustworthy and true she could hold on to. Gwendolyn smiled at him, but the ghosts of the past were swirling close now and their cold touch would not let her feel the pleasure of the moment. The music reached a crescendo and the dance ended in stillness.

  LIZ WATCHED THE end of the dance with rising fear. She knew her brother well enough to know that he was entranced. She needed to stop Will before he got too far out of hand. She needed to set things right while there was still a chance that they could keep their heads attached to their necks. She had to talk to her brother, but with the crowd surrounding him, it would not be easy. Carefully, Liz made her way onto the main floor of the ballroom and was pleasantly surprised that she didn’t trip. Maybe she would make it through the night without landing on her bottom. As she moved through the masses gathered around the dance, she considered the problem. How could she stop Will from throwing himself into marriage with so many women willing to concede anything for a chance to be queen?

  All Gretel had to do to nab him was show a little ankle, she thought. Some of these women are offering a lot more than that. I should have thought of this before the ball. I had a week to do something. I’m supposed to be the responsible one.

  She looked around the room. There were so many ladies, showing so much bosom and sighing so sincerely. Any one of them might be too much for the foolish boy to resist, yet his eyes remained focused on Princess Gwendolyn. She considered that, perhaps, while that held true, there was still hope. Even if the Princess intended to marry Will as a reward for rescuing her, her station would demand that they spend some time courting. She had time. But how to stop what seemed inevitable?

  Liz’s eye fell on a fat balding man in a painfully bright tunic standing near the back of the room and looking very uncomfortable and out of place. Why did he seem familiar? The Prince . . . he was the Prince’s squire. The solution came to her like a thunderbolt. There was one person in all the land who could stop Will from attaining the throne.

  I need Prince Charming!

  The Princess was always meant—­no, destined—­to marry Charming. If Charming married Princess Gwendolyn, she and Will could drift away from the castle and return safely to Prosper. Given enough quiet seclusion, they might even be forgotten completely, which would probably be for the best.

  But where was Prince Charming? She had caught a glimpse of him at the edge of the ballroom earlier, but reflected that he had been noticeably absent for most of the night, which seemed odd given his reputation. She turned about, trying to spot him through the riot of swirling colors and movement of the dancers, but the sudden movement made the slick glass shoes slip from beneath her. A strong hand grasped her arm from behind and righted her.

  Twice in one night. She hoped falling down was not going to become a new habit of hers. She smoothed her skirts and turned, more slowly this time, to thank her rescuer, and found herself inches from Charming. He rocked back on his heels and their eyes met, and she couldn’t help staring. He had beautiful deep brown eyes. She read in those eyes a strange mixture of desire and confusion, and she found herself wishing that he would give voice to those feelings and confide in her. A long moment of oddly comfortable silence passed between them, then the Prince blinked as if waking from a dream. Hesitantly, perhaps reluctantly, he reached his hand out to her.

  “Fair Elizabeth, if you would wish the chance,

  Then I bid you, take my hand so that we may dance.”

  Surprising herself, she cur
tsied and placed her hand in his. A pleasant tingle ran through her body at the touch, but she managed a dignified, “I’d be honored, Your Highness.”

  He led her out to the dance floor. The Prince pulled Liz close to him. His grip was light, but strong, and he moved with a grace that should have made her feel clumsy, but instead made her body feel light as air. And then there were his eyes. She couldn’t believe how handsome he was up close.

  I could get lost in those eyes, she thought again. Yes, you could, so remember why you are dancing with him. You need his help.

  The music swept them around the floor. The light from the slippers danced about them, surrounding them with a flickering nimbus that drew eyes from around the great ballroom. For Liz, the room and the crowd had faded away; there was only the music and the Prince. She knew she should broach the topic of Will and the Princess, and somewhere the rational part of Elizabeth was shouting to get on with it, but she couldn’t. Here she was, dancing in a royal ball with Prince Charming. This would probably be her last ball, and might well be her last night of freedom, so Liz ignored her own warnings and allowed herself to enjoy the music, the dance, and, yes, the skill and beauty of her partner. She sighed contentedly.

  Her momentary joy was all too brief. As the dance swept them past the throne, she saw Will and the Princess seated side by side, engaged in some private conversation. Their bodies close. Her brother’s expression of wonder and adoration was downright alarming. Enough was enough! She had to say something. When she looked back at Charming, his eyes, those wonderful eyes, were also on the dais with that same confused look of pain and desire. She admonished herself. Of course he would rather be dancing with the Princess, you silly girl.

  She cleared her throat and his eyes flashed back to her. “I . . .” she began and stopped as her voice cracked. Liz knew what she had to say, but suddenly the idea of ceding the Prince to another was not so easy. It must be so, she urged silently to herself. You are not a princess or a lady, and this is not a fairy tale. She gathered her courage about her. “I’m sorry that our first meeting was—­”

  “A disaster?” he supplied, the hint of a smile passing over his face.

  “Yes,” she smiled back. “A disaster.”

  He closed his eyes briefly and then a deeper, satisfied smile creased his face, and he recited melodically:

  “Do not concern yourself, lady dear,

  It is in the past and we are here.”

  Liz began to laugh at his joke, but then stopped herself. The Prince seemed perfectly serious. He had an expectant, even triumphant, look on his face. She puzzled for a brief moment on the verse and how she should respond, and then said with care, “Yes, I agree. We should let bygones be bygones. In fact, I’m glad we had this chance to be alone, because I wanted to talk about Will . . . er . . . the Lord Protector.”

  Charming’s whole body tensed and his beautiful smile vanished in a twinkling. He closed his eyes and there was another momentary delay before he responded, this time a little more stiffly than before.

  “Dear Lady, let us not speak of such things,

  But to enjoy the dance as the music rings.”

  The smile returned, but this time it was a little less certain. Unconsciously, she thinned her lips. Why was he speaking in nursery rhymes? Liz considered that she had never been with a prince and had no idea what was expected behavior. She tried once more to get to the heart of the matter. “Yes, that would be nice. It’s just that I know you wish you could be dancing with someone else, with . . . with the Princess, in fact. I thought if I helped you woo her—­”

  He removed one of his hands from hers and silenced her with a gesture. There was another pause and then he responded with another verse, and this time he tilted his head in a peculiar manner and made sure to catch her eyes with his when he spoke.

  “Lady Elizabeth, don’t let yourself be alarmed,

  In the Prince’s presence all the ladies are charmed.”

  God, what an ass, she thought, and this time gave him the full weight of her glare before saying coldly, “Well, at the moment I would say the Princess is being charmed pretty thoroughly by my brother. And if he marries her, you won’t be a prince anymore, so can we—­”

  Without warning, he stumbled slightly. He recovered and spun her expertly, if with a bit too much vigor, to reestablish the rhythm of their dance. Once they were back in step, he closed his eyes. Liz suspected more verse was coming, and she interrupted whatever it was he was trying to compose by asking the most obvious question.

  “Why are you closing your eyes?”

  He reopened them and was unable to hide his annoyance. “If you really must know, I was attempting to regain ­couplet. It’s not as easy as I make it look. Now, ready yourself.”

  “Fair damsel—­” he started.

  “Please, no more poetry. We have things we need to discuss, and I don’t think verse is going to help matters.”

  His smile reappeared, crooked and superior. “My dear Lady Elizabeth,” he said in an annoyingly smug voice, “it’s called ­couplet. As a true gentleman, I assure you that it is the finest, nay, the only way, to speak to a lady.”

  She looked at him in disbelief and spoke her thoughts without moderation. “Well, it seems ridiculous to me.”

  His smile faltered, and he spun her about in an obvious attempt to recover himself. “I forget your disadvantages. The customs of the cultured class are new to you. In time I’m sure you will learn the social mores of your new position.”

  Though it shouldn’t have, the implied insult cut her deeply, and she felt her cheeks color. How dare the man treat her with such casual disrespect? She dropped her hand from his shoulder and pulled away. Their feet stuttered to stop and the other dancers swirled around them, casting curious glances at the suddenly motionless pair.

  “You must think a great deal of yourself, Prince Charming,” she seethed. “Just because I don’t simper and coo at your every gesture does not mean that I am not a lady. And if being a proper lady of the court means that I must make the pretense of being as vapid and silly as you seem to want me to be, then I think I would prefer to decline the privilege.”

  The Prince flinched as though struck, and then his body stiffened and his expression hardened. “I am sorry that you find my company so displeasing, Lady Elizabeth,” he said between lips that barely moved. “I’m sure a lady of your manifest courtesy and grace will find many other more suitable companions.” He bowed sharply and turned on his heel.

  Even before he turned away, Liz regretted her outburst and silently cursed her temper and tongue. He might have been thoughtlessly insulting, but she had been purposefully cruel. Besides, she needed Prince Charming’s help. She took a step after him and called out plaintively, “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I did not mean—­”

  “Yes, you did,” said a woman. “And because I fear the point of your statement might have been missed by your audience, I will be more blunt. Prince Charming is a joke and an ass.”

  Elizabeth looked past Charming and saw, advancing toward him, a woman wearing a scarlet dress and a bad wig. A murderous look gleamed in the woman’s eyes. The trio formed a triangle in the middle of the dance.

  Charming glared at the woman and said sharply, “This is none of your concern, Lady, um . . .”

  “You can’t even remember my name!” the strange woman shouted.

  The dancers were stopping now to watch the unfolding drama. Liz moved forward and, gesturing toward one of the shadowed alcoves, said softly, “Perhaps we could conduct this conversation in private. I don’t think any of us wants a scene here in the middle of the King’s ball.”

  “Yes, milady—­” began Charming, but he was interrupted.

  “You’re quite wrong, Lady Elizabeth,” cried the woman, her voice ringing through the ballroom. “I want everyone to know what His Highness did to me.” She gestured to t
he assembled nobles and shouted, “Look at me, Charming! LOOK AT ME! I am ruined, and it’s YOUR fault!” She tore off the wig on her head, and Liz saw beneath it what might have once been incredibly long and beautiful hair, but for the patches here and there where it looked like chunks had been shorn or perhaps even torn out. She pointed an accusing finger straight at his chest. “And how dare you presume to lecture anyone, much less Lady Elizabeth, on social mores, when you, the supposed savior of the kingdom, were in my bedchamber when the dragon was killed!”

  A shocked gasp erupted from the gathered nobles. Liz wanted to escape, but she was rooted in place, completely petrified by the scene unfolding before her.

  Charming smiled his most condescending smile. “You are clearly deranged, Lady . . . Lady—­”

  Whatever Prince Charming might have said was interrupted as the woman punched him squarely on the nose. Screams of horror came from the impromptu audience. The Prince staggered back a few paces and fell on his backside, blood pouring down from his face onto his cream-­colored silk shirt and green doublet.

  The lady stood over him and screamed, “IT’S RAPUNZEL, YOU GREAT ASS!”

  The Prince put a silk handkerchief to his nose with one hand and pointed up at Rapunzel from his seated position with the other. “How dare you touch the Royal Person. I’ll have you put in the dungeon for this, you wretched, ill-­bred wench. If it was not against my nature to hurt ladies I would—­”