The Beggar Princess (Fairy Tale Heat Book 4)

by Lidiya Foxglove

  The Beggar Princess

  Lidiya Foxglove

  Copyright © 2017 by Lidiya Foxglove

  Cover image © 2017 Enchanted Whispers Art

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Fairy Tale Heat Series

  22. The Goblin Cinderella Preview

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Princess Bethany

  I went completely cold when I saw the address on the letter.

  “Who sent this?” I demanded of my courier, Irvin.

  “I—I don’t know, milady. It just arrived. It was inside an envelope that was addressed to me, but when I opened it, I found this.”

  “It arrived here at the castle, directly?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I don’t know how they knew where you live. I made sure no one saw it and brought it to you straightaway.”

  There was a return address. Mardoon, the region to the north, inhabited by the wood elves. My latest story took place at the western border of Mardoon, where the wood elves met the high elves. Intrigued despite myself, I tore open the seal and took out the paper, my mind already racing over the worst possibilities. ‘Lady Whittenstone’ never received letters. The town printer was under instruction to burn any they received.

  “You may go,” I told Irvin. “Speak of this to no one.”

  “Of course,” he said with a small bow before turning to the door.

  Dear Lady Whittenstone,

  I recently read your novel, ‘The Storms of Castle Greykeep’ and found it a very engaging work. But I should inform you, the River Ayl does not flow anywhere near the Rangy Mountains. It’s on an entirely different side of the Mardoonish country. So whenever you have people trotting around between them like they’re down the street from one another…well, something to consider for your next work.

  Besides that, I would be amiss if I didn’t protest your treatment of high elves. It is clear from the characterization of Lord Stormwild that you have never met a high elf in your life. His name is ridiculous, his manner cold as you please and quite typical of how foreign humans view high elves, without any nuance. An unfair characterization. Besides, no high elf would kidnap a human girl, tie her up in a tower, and threaten her with a knife. They are not inclined to bloodshed and besides that, why would a high elf kidnap a human girl like your Lady Celeste? High elves have no problem getting all the women they like without resorting to kidnapping, much to the chagrin of the wood folk.

  By the way, you may also want to look up the meaning of the word ‘turgid’; I don’t think it is what you think it is.

  I hope you’ll take these criticisms in the spirit of goodwill with which they are offered. I quite enjoy your books. And besides that, I think you incorporate some very wise commentary on the roles of women and men. But I have a feeling you lack an editor.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Elmwood

  I really shouldn’t reply. I should toss the letter in the fire, just as my publishers would. But, I couldn’t let an insult like this slide. I immediately took out a fresh piece of paper and a sharp quill.

  I paused.

  The truth was, I had not bothered to look at an atlas to check on the location of the River Ayl, but I really thought it was near the Rangy Mountains. And besides that, who cared where it was? Mardoon was just some stupid little country of barbarians anyway; the wood elves were prosperous these days but they were known for being unkempt and unruly. The story wasn’t about geography.

  Still, it bothered me immensely that this Mr. Elmwood had caught me in an error like that. Did he realize he was talking to the princess of the realm?

  I should hope not, I reminded myself. I kept my identity a secret. My father let me have anything I wanted, but I knew even he would draw the line at a princess writing popular novels, especially ones that included violence, ghosts, and kissing. It would cause a storm of gossip. And I didn’t want the court to know either. I liked listening to the court whispering about the latest work from Lady Whittenstone without ever knowing that Lady Whittenstone was listening in.

  This made me pause and put down my quill again. Engaging in a verbal battle with Mr. Picky-Pants Elmwood would risk exposing my identity. I must not do it.

  Someone knocked on my door.

  “Miss…the dressmaker is here.”

  Well, that was a sign. My new gown was here. The interruption would keep me busy for hours and then it would be time for dinner and I would forget all about that stupid letter.

  I got up from the chair, shoving the letter deep inside a drawer, and smoothed my skirts. I opened the door. My maid curtseyed and showed me to the sitting room, where Mr. Millier was waiting.

  He took my hand and kissed it with an elegant bow. “Your highness,” he said. His glamorous accent, I noted with disapproval, was starting to fade. It had been ten years since Father hired Mr. Millier, the most renowned dressmaker in Vermon, to make gowns for me and my ladies exclusively. “I cannot wait to show you what I have for you today.”

  His assistants started bringing in the latest works. A day gown, an evening gown, and a cloak.

  It was always the same routine. The compliments, the dresses that were always of the very best quality.

  Sometimes I lost myself in the lace and silk and froth. Other times, I noticed that it was always the same. In the end, life was always the same, every day, no matter what you filled it with. Father had brought me an elephant for the menagerie and a mechanical clock made of gold with doors that opened to reveal dancing figures. An opera had been written just to please me. My upcoming birthday feast would last a week.

  What did it any of it matter? The only time I was really, truly happy was when I was writing about my heroines in mortal peril in the clutches of some terrible and terribly handsome villain in a cold and remote castle, or an old catacombs. Now, that was some excitement. How dare this Mr. Elmwood—was that even his real name—criticize my fancies?

  “Your highness?” Mr. Millier snapped me back to attention. “This is the evening gown you requested. This blue velvet, I must say, is even more stunning than the fabric sample would suggest. It is like bringing the deepest oceans to life, and against your eyes—”

  “Hmm,” I said. “It’s very blue.”

  “Yes, precisely. Against such a blue, your fair skin will be like a pearl. Your eyes will shine like gems. No one will be able to take their eyes off of you.”

  “I don’t like it. It’s too much. The fabric sample was very nice, but as an entire dress, it looks like a sofa.”

  His face fell slightly. He was very proud of every gown he made, of course. But in the end, I was right. He surely knew it. “I think we should go back to the idea of the cream and purple floral. With the double-flounced skirt,” I said. “Aren’t prints all the rage
on the continent now?”

  “I’m not sure we have enough time—before your birthday—to make this gown entirely anew. We are still working on the red one.”

  “I know you’ll find the time, Mr. Millier. You always do.” I waved a hand. “Let me see the next one.”

  The day dress was as I had envisioned it, a rose-colored fabric with hand-painted flowers, ribbons cascading down the sleeves, and waves of ruffles at the bosom. Mr. Millier brightened when I tried it on and voiced my approval. Poor little man.

  “Mr. Millier, I hope you’re eating enough. You seem more tired every year that I have known you,” I said.

  “My apologies, milady.”

  “Please, try to keep well. It tires me when my staff seems tired.”

  I really did feel tired, as my ladies helped me to dress for dinner. Yes, yes, same old routine. My eyes strayed to my bedroom door. Once dinner was over I could get back to work on my next story. Of course, I had been planning to write about a wicked elf again. Mr. Elmwood didn’t understand. I very much enjoyed making high elves the villains because they were so lovely and elegant in real life. Whenever I thought about a slender, beautiful elven man carefully chaining my poor weeping heroine to a wall—with his “strong yet delicate fingers” and a “cruel smile twisting his perfect mouth”…

  But how was I supposed to explain that in my reply? I couldn’t. I couldn’t explain that to anyone. It would make me sound like I had improper desires. My books were a secret and my fantasies even moreso.

  And I’m not going to reply.

  Properly dressed in one of my older gowns, since it was just me and Father tonight, I proceeded to dinner.

  The room was well-lit with candles, but still seemed a little too dark and lonely these days. I missed my older brother. He and his bride were just a half hour’s stroll away, in the new and modern palace that was being constructed on the hill, but he was so preoccupied with overseeing the construction and puffing with pride over his infant son, that I barely saw either of them. Father and I were supposed to move into the new palace when it was done, but for now, this remained the proper seat of the kingdom, and Father didn’t like change very much. Even though this castle was so ancient and dank, he grumbled about having to buy carpets to keep up with other royal families, much less build entirely new palaces.

  “Father, are my chambers in the new palace complete yet? Have you had any word?” I hadn’t asked about that in a week or two.

  He cleared his throat. “Well…I haven’t heard.” He stuffed a fork of venison in his mouth and chewed in a slightly pained way.

  “Are your teeth bothering you?” I asked.

  “No, no. No, my dear.” He glanced at me. “Your twenty-fifth birthday is next month.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you still determined not to be married?”

  “Yes,” I said, without even thinking twice.

  He paused and put down his fork. “My precious girl,” he said. “I think it is time you considered it. There are many fine men who would love to have your hand. People are…starting to talk.”

  “People have been talking for the last five years,” I said. “I don’t care. I don’t want to get married.”

  “Why on earth are you so against it?” Father sounded frustrated. “I know you enjoy the company of young men.”

  I flushed. If I did get married, my husband would know I wasn’t a virgin. Very scandalous for a princess. One was supposed to wait until after the marriage to have other affairs, only I had never intended to marry at all, so I didn’t worry.

  But that still wasn’t my main objection. There was no guarantee that a husband would leave me to my own whims the way Father did. Husbands had countless rights they could exercise over their wives if they so chose—including the right to stop me from writing stories. And publishing them would be a new complication. I would no longer be in the same city as my trusted printer, nor would I have Irvin in my employ to sneak the stories out of the palace.

  “I enjoy flirting with them on occasion, yes, but tying myself to one of them forever is another matter,” I said. “I like being here with you.”

  “I have always given you everything you wanted,” Father said. “But…I’m afraid it is high time I put my foot down. There is no reason my eldest daughter should wither away as a spinster without making any sort of mark on the world. You don’t want children of your own?”

  I have children, I thought. I have made a mark on the world. When Lady Whittenstone released a new novel, the court discussed the characters as if they were real. Somewhere in Mardoon, Mr. Elmwood and his friends read them aloud to one another, and I was sure they weren’t alone. The stories were my children.

  Of course, sometimes I saw husbands and wives who seemed truly in love, and I envied them. I saw my brother with his new baby, withdrawing from our family in favor of his new one, and something pierced me deep inside. But I also wanted something more than what they had.

  I poked at my plate restlessly.

  I didn’t even really know what I wanted.

  “I have summoned every eligible man for hundreds of miles around,” Father said. “To attend your birthday feast.”

  My head snapped up. “What? Without even asking me?”

  “I knew you would never consent.”

  “Indeed, I will not!”

  “Well, it’s too late for that, my dove. I’ve been—”

  “Don’t you use any pet names now. You’re going to force me into a marriage with some stupid stranger?”

  “They won’t all be strangers. You’ve met Prince Adam—”

  “Awkward beanpole of a man.”

  “And King Damian the fifth—”

  “All he ever talks about is sword-fighting.”

  “You’ve never even met him!” Father sputtered.

  “I hear talk.”

  “You’re being contrary on purpose,” Father said.

  “Is it possible to be contrary on accident?” I crossed my arms. “It’s my birthday. And you said—you said, when I turned eighteen, I didn’t have to get married unless I wanted to. You said you just wanted me to be happy, and Thomas would carry on the family line so it was no matter!”

  He twisted the heavy jeweled ring on his finger, avoiding my eyes. “I was hasty in making such a promise. I thought if I put pressure on you, you would grow stubborn, but that you would change your mind of your own accord. My daughter, do you really want to grow old rotting away in your brother’s castle? It might seem an attractive option when you are still of a marriageable age, when all the young men flirt with you and try to win your favor. But when you are wrinkled and gray, they’ll laugh at you. Think how they treat the Lady Pelmore. And I have spoiled you…I’m afraid you won’t take it gracefully…”

  “I won’t take it gracefully, and I shouldn’t! It isn’t fair that I need to marry to have my very existence validated!”

  “No, but it’s the way of things. You're twenty-five, my dear. Soon, you will be thirty.”

  Thirty. That cruel age when unmarried women were consigned to the ashes.

  I put down my fork. “I’ve lost my appetite,” I said, taking all my anger out at him in one cold sentence. I rose from the table, and of course he didn’t stop me. He never had stopped me from doing anything.

  It must be admitted that I was still hungry when I sulked off to my rooms. I just wanted Father to know that I wasn’t going to take this marriage business lying down.

  “Go to the kitchen,” I told my maid, “and bring me dessert.”

  “Your father will scold me…”

  “You are my servant, not his!”

  She rushed off. I barely noticed, not even when she came back. I was in the fog of despair, poking my fork through the icing of my ample slice of cake.

  I suppose what made it particularly awful is that deep down, I knew Father was right. Unmarried women were not usually permitted to age gracefully, despite their best efforts. There was nothing wrong with La
dy Pelmore. She was a kind woman and a good conversationalist, but she was not a sparkling wit and her hair had turned a wiry silver. She had committed the even graver sin of growing fat. I glanced guiltily at my cake and saw my own fate on the horizon. (But then I kept eating it. It was too delicious to ignore.)

  Still, I circled back around to the original problem. My writing. I couldn’t imagine Prince Adam would understand it, or King Damian would approve of it. They would probably say that it was too much of a risk to my reputation to continue publishing my works. The very best case scenario was that I would be allowed to pen proper things, like poems about flowers or sugar-sweet stories about ladies who were always good and religious.

  I would rather have my bowels purged.

  And besides, no man could live up to the conjurings of my mind. How dare that Mr. Elmwood… And how did he find out where to send the letter in the first place?

  I picked up my quill again.

  Dear Mr. Elmwood,

  You claim that high elves have such prowess with the ladies? It seems to me that this is just as much of a stereotype as my villain. I wonder if a high elf has ever stolen a lady from you. That would explain your assessment. As for your criticism of the name Lord Stormwild, well, I suppose you have never picked up a history book to read of Lord Wolfsbane, who led the armies at Roth, with no less ‘ridiculous’ a name. It is common in the old heroic epics to give very evocative names to the characters and so I was just following in the grand tradition. But perhaps you don’t have access to so grand a library as I do. I shall chalk it up to ignorance.

  Speaking of Lord Wolfsbane, if high elves are not inclined to bloodshed, then how do you explain their military victories? Lord Stormwild is not meant to represent all of elven-kind. He is an individual. If you go back to the section where he tells Lady Celeste his past, you will note that he was not raised by elves, but by pirates, from the age of eleven onward (following his parents’ tragic death) which I think explains his tendencies.