Princes of Charming (Naughty Fairy Tales)

by Fox, Georgia

  "Really? What about?"

  Martha had brought some pine branches, holly and mistletoe in from the garden at her request, but they were dropped into a vase without much care for arrangement, so Dru put her attention to that.

  "I've decided to stay in England." He cleared his throat behind her. "For the foreseeable future in any case."

  "Gracious. Aren't we honored."

  "I should like you and I to spend more time together."

  She walked around the table to face him, her hands still busy with the arrangement of branches. "I don't think so, Mr. Wilder."

  His frown should have wilted the evergreen boughs in her winter's bouquet. "Why not?"

  "I don't care for another involvement of that nature with someone of your sort." She'd had it once with her lover, the Earl. It was fine for a while. He'd given her some lovely jewels, as well as the money that helped purchase the house, but they were never equals and she was always conscious of her role in his life, the shadowy place she must take, out of sight, never openly acknowledged. A dirty secret.

  At any moment he could have grown bored with her, cast her aside, found another mistress—younger, prettier, stupider.

  "An involvement of what nature?" he demanded.

  "Of you and I meeting once or twice a week. In secret. Spending a few hours together, when the stars align. Of being expected to preserve myself for you so that I spend ninety percent of my time alone in a pretty gown, waiting for the doorbell or a hasty note. Not knowing whether you will come. Never being allowed to ask anything about the rest of your life when you do come. Worrying about a grey hair or a line by my eye or getting fat, because then I can be pushed aside without ceremony and have no-one." She paused for breath, surprised to find so much anger inside her. "That sort of involvement."

  He nodded slowly. "I see."

  "Good. Then let's not speak of it again. Your son will be up shortly and—"

  "He's not my son."

  It had come out of him so quietly she was sure she'd misheard. "Pardon?"

  Brandon walked to the fireplace and stared into the black grate where coal and kindling wood waited to be lit. "Nicholas is not my son. No one knows, except his mother and I. And Elinor Charming." He paused. "And now you."

  * * * *

  It felt like a natural thing suddenly to tell her. Late in the morning, on that overcast day, in a quiet, innocent, chintz-filled parlor with the taste of this woman's perfume still on his tongue, it seemed right to share his secret with her. He glanced over his shoulder. She was still fussing with the arrangement in the vase and her countenance had not changed.

  "Why take responsibility for a child that is not yours?"

  She didn't believe him, he supposed. Brandon gestured to a chair by the fire. "May I sit?"

  Now she looked startled, or else she'd jabbed her finger on a pine needle. Apparently his polite request was more stunning than the revelation about Nicholas. "Of course."

  Slowly he lowered to the chair. "I thought I did it for Charlotte. Unfortunately, she didn't want to marry me and when the moment approached this fact became increasingly evident to us both. I took off to save her from the blame." He wanted Drusilla to know the truth. It mattered, for the first time, that someone knew. He guessed now, from the swiftly and sharply related explanation as to why she didn't want further involvement with him, that her "Mr. Kent" had not been her husband. She was still smarting from the relationship and every injustice she imagined she'd suffered from it. But he didn't care to be lumped in with "your sort" and he objected to being just another rogue in her eyes.

  "You don't plan to tell Nicholas?" she asked.

  "No. To all intents and purposes the boy sleeping upstairs is my son."

  She carried the vase to the mantle. Her hair was still loose today over her shoulders and she looked like a young innocent maid, no more than nineteen or twenty. She was not, however. Drusilla Kent was a mature woman of intelligence, character, wit and experience. She was remarkably cool and collected. As he had said to her that night—she was unusual, an anomaly in his sex life. Brandon generally chose women who didn't think too much. But today he welcomed the change.

  "I'm pleased you told me," she said finally.

  He leaned back, stretching out his legs. "That doesn't mean you can take him for a lover."

  A wry smile played tentatively over her lips. "I wasn't planning it."

  "Just as I wasn't planning for you, but these things happen." He ought to be annoyed about it really, he mused. She'd come along and upset his schedule, scattered his thoughts, skewered his intentions. And spanked his backside.

  Now she didn't want anything more from him. It was most disturbing, frustrating. Somehow she'd cast a spell upon him and she was not getting away with it, he decided.

  Her smile broadened. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Wilder. I must take Nicholas some breakfast."

  "One moment." Brandon sat forward and captured her skirt in his fingers. "Had we met before?" It was a nagging idea in the back of his mind, sitting in clouds and fog. "Years ago?"

  "I do not recall."

  Sounded like a defendant in the dock, he mused. Well, he already knew she was no widow, despite her insistence to the contrary, and he doubted she came from an idyllic Devonshire village with its "breathtaking" coastal scenery. The woman spoke of the place as if she'd read it from a guide book. That story, like her manners, was very practiced.

  So who was she? Where had she come from? He wouldn't be surprised to find she'd escaped from somewhere, like a genie from a lamp.

  * * * *

  He sat up in bed, the robe draped over his shoulders, a little color returned to his cheeks. "Where is she?"

  "Where is whom?"

  "The angel who sat with me last night."

  Dru set the tray over his thighs. "Angel? Martha sat with you all night, but I would hardly describe her in those terms." She drew back the curtains and let grey daylight drip across the bed cover. He squinted as if it was bright sun assaulting his eyes.

  "I know what I saw. An angel."

  "Yes, well, you did have a great deal to drink last night it seems."

  "Her hands were so soft and gentle, her voice so soothing and calm." Nick's head fell back and he sighed lustily. "Such a beautiful, sweet creature. Perhaps she was in my imagination." Although he'd seen Polly before at the house he'd obviously never paid attention to her until then. Of course, in her white bedclothes and with her hair down she would have looked quite different.

  "Never mind, Master Nicholas, I'm sure you'll meet her again one day. In your inebriated dreams."

  "I'm never going to drink again."

  She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure."

  "Truly. My angel came to warn me. She took such care of me." He sighed. "Like no one ever has. As if I mattered for once."

  Drusilla looked at the young man on the bed and felt pity. Perhaps Polly was right and he was lonely. It might be difficult to imagine any privileged man having reasons to whine, but they all had problems, they all needed to feel loved. This boy had grown up with absent parents, probably knowing from early youth that his birth was out of wedlock, the cause of his father's exile and estrangement from the family. Money could not take the place of love. Social-climbing Captain Wilder had clearly never learned that, but Dru was well acquainted with the fact, having lived through an affair for which she was compensated with everything but her lover's heart. For a long time she'd fooled herself that the treats she was given by the Earl were enough. That she should be grateful and shut her mouth. After all, the Earl had raised her up from cook to mistress, taken her abroad with him, shown her sights she could never have expected to see if not for him.

  But she had never had his love. Whenever he walked out of her front door she knew he scarcely thought about her again, until he returned. His wife, the Countess, had known all about the affair—had sanctioned it, in fact. She was bedridden, a fragile woman who could no longer fulfill his sexual needs. Yet of course, she sti
ll had his love. She'd borne him two children before her body failed. And the Countess didn't care that he shared Drusilla's bed, because she knew her place in his life was more important. Drusilla hardly mattered. A mistress could always be replaced. A wife and the mother of his children could not.

  Yes, she thought sadly, looking at Nicholas, they all wanted to know that they mattered to someone. Really mattered.

  How curious that Brandon Wilder, professional scapegrace, should turn out to be the sort of fellow willing to accept another man's child as his own. This young man would probably have been dumped in an orphanage or the poor house, if not for Brandon, who had returned to London for Nick's sake, braving malicious gossip and the renewal of old scandal, just to save his "son" from a loveless marriage. Really, it was a gesture of some nobility, considering the boy's own mother had abandoned him and the true father made no attempt to claim his son. None of this was Brandon's responsibility, yet he took it on, wanted Nick to have a good life, a happy life. She'd heard him, in his hotel suite days ago, trying to give the boy fatherly advice. It had made her smile, but she was touched by it.

  "Why are you looking at me like that, all dreamy-eyed? What have I done now?"

  She snapped herself back into form. "Eat to line your stomach, Master Nicholas. Martha will bring your clothes up when they are dry."

  "I want my angel. You know where she is, don't you?"

  "Only yesterday you wanted me and none other," she exclaimed.

  "That was before I met my angel." He stuck out his firm jaw and blinked blood-shot eyes. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Kent but there can be nothing between us. I realize now you were simply an infatuation. You'll just have to try and get over me."

  She swallowed her chuckle, lips rolling tightly together. Slowly she nodded.

  "Nothing personal but you are too old for me. You're more suited to my father, I suppose." He solemnly perused the contents of his breakfast tray. "I daresay I ought to give you up to him. Do the proper thing."

  Further bemused, she muttered, "I don't think I'm suited for anyone. I haven't the patience for them and they certainly haven't the patience for me."

  Nick looked up in surprise. "That's what he always says."

  Her heart pinched. She smoothed her hands over her skirt and walked to the door. "Eat your toast and poached egg before it gets cold. And then we must get you to the tailor for a fitting."

  "Yes." He bit into a slice of toast and grinned, "Mama."

  She shook her head, closed the door and left him to his breakfast.

  * * * *

  Brandon insisted on accompanying them to the fitting. If they were going through with this foolish ball, his son might as well look the part, he thought.

  "You sure this princess of yours plans to attend?" he asked Drusilla as they watched the tailor and his assistant marking his son's new suit with chalk.

  "Of course. I have it all under control."

  "No doubt."

  She was very confident, very calm.

  "And you think she's going to fall for my son?"

  Turning to look at him, she put her head on one side. "Why ever wouldn't she?" Then she laughed. "I have a feeling their love will blossom and grow strong in time. They are two pretty young people with some surprising things in common and just enough differences to keep it interesting."

  He too laughed. "Pleased with yourself aren't you, woman?"

  "Absolutely."

  Several faces looked over at the sound of their laughter and so they both drew it to a halt. She wandered off to examine some top hats and neck scarves. Brandon watched her, realizing that his real reason for being there was to follow her about, not to pass judgment on the tailor's work. After all, what did he know about style or fashion?

  No. He simply liked being with her. There was something steadying about Drusilla's manner. Yet at the same time he was very aware of a naughty sensuality bubbling just below that carefully cultivated surface. She was like opium or very potent liquor.

  As if he'd called her name, she suddenly looked over at him. Her dark eyes gleamed across the shop, sultry and challenging, a little annoyed, but also intrigued.

  Suddenly, he remembered a little girl in a maid's outfit, stopping to offer assistance when she found him in the bushes at a house party, tossing up the contents of his stomach. Could it be? Surely not.

  Funny thing was, he'd thought about that girl with the twinkling eyes quite often—how she'd taken care of him without fuss. But most especially how the cheeky little money had pinched his gold pocket watch that night. When he found it missing the next day he knew she'd taken it, but he pretended to his grandmother that he'd lost it rather than get the maid in trouble. No doubt she'd sold it or pawned it for a pretty penny. Thieving imp! He knew, when he first saw her at the Dalton hotel tea room, that something about her was familiar.

  Was she truly glowing like a supernatural creature, or was it merely an effect caused by shadowy, dancing light through the bow-front window of the shop?

  Eyes narrowed, he watched her as she spoke with the tailor about a few adjustments to Nick's suit of clothes.

  "We must make the Prince of Charmings look his best," she said.

  That was what people used to call him. Much to his horror.

  "Do you know the time?" he asked her as she came nearer.

  Drusilla made a slight movement of her hand toward her coat pocket and then stopped. "No. But I'm certain it's almost noon." Aha, a pink flush tinted her cheeks. Her gaze drifted away from him toward the window. "Oh, look," she exclaimed, as if it was a miracle. "It's snowing!"

  Indeed it was, great fat flakes of glistening snow gliding down, already layering in the crossed lines of the window frame. It was a few years since he'd seen snow; he'd forgotten how it made everything look so clean and sparkling when it first fell and how it did so quietly, even muffling the sound of hooves in the cobbled streets. Everything looked magical, like a scene from a fairytale or a painting on a box of Charming's Chocolates.

  Twelve, Midnight

  December 16th

  The night of the Wynthorne's Christmas Ball was upon them before she felt fully prepared, but it was too late to back out. Invitations had arrived, delivered by hand, the Duke eager to keep Madame Pantoufle on his good side.

  Polly was dressed in the altered peach silk gown, her hair pinned in a simple, elegant arrangement. For the finishing touch, Dru brought out her velvet-lined jewelry box and donated the diamond and pearl pieces once given to her by the Earl of Helmsley.

  "You may as well have them now," she told the startled maid. "They are too beautiful to be hidden away and I certainly have no occasion to wear them." She was also ready now to move on, put the past behind her. The reminders she'd kept of her long affair with the Earl were no longer necessary. Her encounters with Brandon Wilder had freed her of her old lover's ghost and it was time to move forward.

  When Polly confessed to having the insides of a jelly that evening, Drusilla reminded her, "Life is like a parlor game. Fate throws mystery packages and one must decide, often in mere seconds, whether to catch them, or let them pass. Whether a person founders or survives is entirely up to what they do with the contents of those packages."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Dru stood back to survey her creation. "And you certainly have no need to be afraid when you look so beautiful." She dropped a curtsey and smiled. "Your highness, Princess Ella."

  The maid tried to look solemn but broke into a nervous giggle that ended in a snort.

  "Now for a quick stiffener," said Dru, pouring two glasses of wine from a decanter on the dresser. "Just the one. We don't want to be late."

  She was going too of course, as chaperon for the Princess. Her own dress was dark burgundy and she wore the minimum of jewelry, but when she glanced at her reflection in the mirror, she thought there was an extra twinkle about her person tonight. Where it came from she couldn't say, but it was definitely there. Must be the sex, she mused. One had no need to pinch ones che
eks or wear rouge, when recent acts left the blood warm under the surface. Even days later.

  For luck she slipped his gold watch into the hidden pocket of her skirt, along with a scented lace handkerchief, a small bottle of smelling salts—always necessary on an evening of tight corsets and great exertion, and her little leather-bound book, which she never let out of her possession since it contained information on all her clients. Even at night she slept with it under her pillow. If anyone ever threatened to expose her she would have leverage to get assistance from some of the highest in the land, as long as she had her little book.

  "Am I in there?" Brandon Wilder had asked her as they lay in bed, wrapped languidly around one another.

  "No. You're not a client," she'd replied, sleepily, her head nestled against his wide shoulder.

  And he'd moved his head to look down at her. "Then what am I?"

  It was a question for which she had no answer. Fortunately he didn't press for one and shortly after that she'd fallen asleep in his arms.

  She thought of it again now, while standing before the mirror in her dressing room. Never in her life had she slept in a man's arms. The Earl, her only lover, always left before she fell asleep, never spent the entire night in her company.

  So what was Brandon Wilder? Drusilla had refused any suggestion that they embark upon a formal affair. He claimed he was staying in England, but how could she be sure he wouldn't up and leave again as the mood took him? Besides, he was a man who might seduce any woman with that heated glance and wicked smile. But she would not share again. This time she wanted all or none and clearly Brandon Wilder could never be satisfied with one woman.

  What was he to her?

  A wonderful lover who'd brought her back to life. He had undone her tight corset.

  She was intensely grateful to him. Where everything had been dull and dreary before she found him seated at her table at the Dalton, now life was imbued again with excitement and hope. Even a fresh fall of snow, which would usually make her think of nothing more than the inconvenience of getting out her ugly, but practical, warm woolen drawers, suddenly turned the world into a shimmering, enchanted place where anything might happen.