Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling (Entangled with Fae)

by Tessonja Odette

  I stand before them, trying not to feel flustered by their lack of care over my presence. Folding my hands at my waist to keep from fidgeting, I address the fae male. “Are you the interior designer of this hotel?”

  He reaches for a decanter of something in a deep violet and pours it into an empty porcelain teacup. From the smell, I imagine it must be wine. This early? He brings the cup to his lips and takes a dainty sip. “I am, but you wouldn’t know it by the lack of respect I’m shown around here. Can you believe the decor I’ve purchased for the ballroom has been denied again? They said they didn’t want the ballroom to look too fae. Something about propriety and not wanting to stir carnal desires and whatnot. What does that even mean? So I gave them what they wanted. A very human ballroom.”

  The woman laughs. “Believe it or not, very human doesn’t equate to doilies lining every surface, Foxglove.”

  His mouth falls open in mock offense. “Humans love doilies, Amelie. You should know.”

  “I promise you, they don’t love them nearly as much as you think,” says the woman named Amelie. She faces me, lips pulled into a smile. “Even after twenty years on the job, Foxglove here hasn’t quite mastered the difference between human and hoarder-of-hideous-things when it comes to decor. To him, they are one and the same. You should see the parlor he made for my sister.”

  “Evelyn has always loved her parlor! So much so, she asked me to replicate it when she and Aspen moved to Maplehearth palace.”

  Amelie covers her mouth, nearly spitting tea. “She asked you to replicate it because it’s funny.”

  He huffs. “I fail to see the difference between my artistic interpretation of a human parlor and an actual one.”

  She leans forward and pats his hand. “Which is why you should listen to me next time. Is that not why you brought me along? For my artistic eye and human sensibilities?”

  I clear my throat, reminding them I’m still here. It doesn’t do the trick.

  “I’ve had about enough of human sensibilities,” Foxglove says. “I swear, this town is probably the stuffiest I’ve ever had the horror to work in. I’m supposed to design a ballroom that is neither too human nor too fae. And heaven forbid it inspire carnal desires. What else is a ball to do? Better yet, what am I to do with the furnishings the board has rejected again?”

  “It is a shame,” Amelie says. “The furnishing themselves weren’t bad. Just the presentation. If you hadn’t covered everything in doilies, pocket watches, and rugs, it would have been fine.”

  My pulse races at their words, and I rush to speak before they can continue to ignore me a second longer. “Mr. Foxglove, I came to speak to you about your services, and they may benefit your situation. My employer would like to…spruce up his vacation manor, and we will gladly take whatever furnishings you can provide, so long as they are fashionable and in good condition. We may also need minor renovations. We will compensate you handsomely, of course. In addition, we require discretion and will pay for that as well.”

  Foxglove looks me over as if seeing me for the first time. “Discretion? Who is your employer?”

  “He’s a fae royal, but he prefers to avoid undue attention to his title,” I say. “As he will be entertaining human guests, he must have suitable decor as soon as possible. Is there any chance we can steal you away from your work here? Just for a time. A consultation at the very least.”

  He ponders for a moment, then takes a sip of tea. “I suppose I could take leave while we await the next shipment of furniture. The ballroom is all that’s left to furnish.”

  A flush of excitement washes over me, radiating down to my hands. They tremble as I pull a folded card from the pocket of my cloak and hand it to the fae.

  “Thirty-three Whitespruce Lane,” he reads, taking the card from me.

  “Please call on us as soon as you can. We’d like to have the manor improved at once.”

  He nods and tucks the paper into his coat. “Very well. Any other demands on my time, tall human?”

  “Well…while I’m here,” I say, “there’s another service I’d like to secure that requires some discretion as well. Is there anyone you would recommend to fit my employer for a new wardrobe? And perhaps a trusted barber willing to travel to perform a haircut and shave?”

  “Hair is a little beneath me these days,” Foxglove says, bringing a hand to his chest. Then his expression turns wistful. “But I do miss it from time to time. I’ll see what kind of magic I can work on your employer.”

  Little does he know, it will certainly take magic to turn the grizzled king into the Elliot Rochester he needs to become, but I keep that part to myself. “As for his wardrobe?”

  Foxglove shakes his head, but Amelie leans forward and lights her hand on my forearm. With a wink, she says, “I’ll take care of his clothes. It’s sort of my specialty.”

  17

  My relief at securing my first task is all that keeps my legs from feeling like lead as I drag myself to my next destination. The nearer I get, the more my stomach begins to churn. I can’t believe I’m choosing to call upon Imogen Coleman.

  Think about the money and the freedom, I remind myself. There’s something else I look forward to lurking beneath that, something I hardly dare to admit. Think about the look on her face when she realizes she’s been duped.

  I arrive at the door to the townhouse and knock, my carefully curated outer persona firmly in place. A maid answers and invites me inside. I barely take two steps before Imogen all but tumbles down the stairs, eyes wide when they meet mine. She looks me over, then rushes to take my hands.

  “Tell me it isn’t true,” she says, voice low.

  “What isn’t true?”

  Cheeks tinged pink, she looks like she’s on the verge of exploding. “I called upon you this morning and you weren’t home. Your sister, however, informed me of the most distressing news.”

  My heart leaps into my throat. That means Father and Nina received my letter.

  Imogen squeezes my hands tight in her grasp. “Tell me you did not get a job.” The last word is said with so much disgust, one would think she was talking about murder.

  “I did—”

  Before I can say another word, she pulls me toward the stairs, one hand still clenched around mine. I snatch my fingers away and follow her at a more moderate pace. She reaches the top landing and begins to tap her foot while she waits for me to meet her there. With every step I climb, I relish her annoyance.

  “My dear Gemma, I am so upset with you I can hardly find the words,” she mutters once I reach her. She then leads me to the door I recognize as belonging to their parlor. Strains of piano music float from the other side, a sound so peaceful and elegant, it momentarily roots me to the spot. Imogen, far less moved by the melody, throws open the doors and stalks into the parlor. “Enough, Ember.”

  The music halts abruptly, and I enter the room, finding her stepsister, Ember, rising from the pianoforte. Like the first time I saw her, she wears a large bonnet that almost obscures her face. She offers me a smile, which I return behind Imogen’s back.

  “Go away,” Imogen barks at Ember. “You too, Clara.”

  Another girl, one I’ve only met once or twice, sits up from where she’d previously been lying on one of the couches. Nearly identical to Imogen with her blonde curls and pouty face, Clara whines, “I was here first. Besides, I have a headache.”

  Imogen strides up to her sister, hands on her hips. “It should be better now that Ember’s racket has been cut off. Now, get out so I can speak to darling Gemma alone.”

  With a huff, Clara stands and drags her feet to the door, giving me not even a moment’s glance.

  As soon as the door is closed, Imogen rounds on me. “I cannot stand the suspense. Come and explain this nonsense at once, for I feel I might faint.” Eyes unfocused, she takes her sister’s place, lowering onto the couch and patting the seat next to her.

  I ignore the gesture and claim the chair across the table instead. “It
is as you already know. I’ve accepted a job.”

  She stifles a cry of alarm, bringing a hand to her lips. “Gemma, you cannot. Have you any idea how this looks? No man wants a wife who works outside the home. It makes you seem…poor.”

  So many arguments spring to my lips, but I crush them with a false smile. I know where my justifications will get me with Imogen. Bloody nowhere. Which means it’s time for me to take the lead. Leaning forward, I prepare my lies behind a mask of apology. “Imogen, I know how distressing this must be for you. Seeing me employed wasn’t part of your designs for my happiness, and I know my father tasked you with finding me a husband. But I’m not sure anyone could have refused the job I was offered.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s just…my employer. He’s not a person one can say no to.”

  She scoffs. “It’s easy enough when one is rich like you are. What use could you possibly have for a job?”

  There’s no answer I can give her that will make her understand, so I’m left with but one thing to say. Lowering my voice, I infuse my tone with a conspiratorial air. “Imogen, dear, why did you never tell me a fae royal lives in Vernon?”

  She pales, mouth falling open. “Excuse me?”

  “Well, technically, he lives just outside of town. You’ve met him, though, haven’t you?”

  Her face flashes between shock and irritation. I can only imagine how incensed she is that I appear to know something she does not. “A fae royal, you say?”

  “Yes, and such a refined fae gentleman, at that. I thought for sure you would have met him, considering you are such a popular young lady in town. Then again, perhaps he has yet to make any acquaintances in Vernon. He has just taken up residence here. It’s his vacation home that’s nearby, and I have been tasked with managing it.”

  Eyes wide, she shakes her head in disbelief. “He can’t be a royal. I refuse to believe it. What is he, some minor nephew of a lesser prince?”

  “He is far higher than that, although I’ve been sworn to discretion regarding his title. But I promise you, your head would spin if you knew just how royal he is.”

  “I still don’t believe you. How did you receive such an offer to begin with?”

  “Oh, I saw an interesting ad in the paper.” When I see her opening her mouth to continue a similar line of questioning, I add, “Can you keep a secret?”

  Snapping her lips tight, she scoots to the edge of the couch cushion, leaning so far forward I fear she might take a spill to the ground. “Tell me at once, Gemma.”

  I lower my voice further. “My employer is in want of a wife.”

  Her expression hardens and a flash of rage sparks in her eyes. Her tone turns cruel, cold. “Oh, and let me guess? That’s the real reason you’ve accepted this job. You’re hoping to scheme your way into his bed chamber, then secure a royal husband. You think you’re clever, but royals don’t marry their servants.”

  My fingers ache, begging me to curl them into fists, to twist my lips into a sneer. Instead, I plaster on an innocent smile. “Oh, no, you mistake me. I am not asking you to keep this secret on my behalf, but for my employer. That is why he’s asked me to be discreet. He wants someone to love him, not for his money and his title, but for himself. And I fear if word gets out that such a wealthy and refined fae royal is seeking matrimony, he’ll be inundated with callers and he’ll never be able to find true love. And he must find love quickly. He is to be married in three months’ time.”

  All suspicion and scorn dissolve from her face, replaced with hunger. “Three months? Why so soon?”

  “Isn’t it just as you’ve told me before? A man with a mind to marry has no time to waste. A woman in search of his heart must act with haste.”

  “And you honestly don’t plan on trying to claim him for yourself?”

  I place a hand on my chest. “Saints, no. I assure you, my employer has no desire to make me his wife, and we’ve already agreed our relationship is strictly business. Like you said, royals don’t marry their employees. I am out of the question.” I pause, releasing a wistful sigh. “But I do feel like I should help him. If only I could find the right person for him without inviting the attention of every woman in Vernon. It would make things so much easier.”

  Imogen’s lips part, and I know the seed has been planted in her mind. She’s all but salivating over the tempting morsel I’ve laid at her feet. Placing a hand on her heart, her voice comes out soft, controlled. “Oh, Gemma, you are a good soul. I believe you are right in what you hope to do for your employer. It would be cruel to unleash all the women of Vernon on him at once.”

  “I knew you’d agree with me.”

  “As his…whatever you are. His…manager?”

  I nod. “I am his house steward.”

  “Well, as his steward, do you happen to have control over, say, his appointments? His trips to town?”

  “Oh, he won’t be coming to town. Any new acquaintances will be meeting him at his manor. And yes, I will have full knowledge of all appointments, and he has requested my aid in introducing him to the…right people.”

  She shifts in her seat, folding her trembling hands in her lap. “But my dear, you hardly know a soul. You cannot take this task upon yourself.”

  I pretend to look ponderous. “Perhaps you’re right. I am very unfamiliar with the elite families in town. How will I suggest any proper acquaintances?”

  Imogen sits upright, nearly bubbling over with poorly concealed excitement. “You are so fortunate to have me, for I am willing to help. Encourage your employer to befriend my family before anyone else, and we will act as ambassadors to Vernon’s high society.”

  As gatekeepers, I’m sure she means. Just as planned. “That’s a wonderful idea, Imogen. And, you never know, perhaps once he meets you, he’ll have very little desire to engage with anyone else.”

  My words have their intended effect, sending stars to her eyes. “Wouldn’t that be…ideal.”

  Interrupting what I’m sure are Imogen’s daydreams of wedding bells, I rise from my chair. “I must be going. He’s expecting me back at once.”

  She springs to her feet. “Won’t you tell me his title? I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I am sworn to secrecy. But when you meet him, you’ll see just how refined he is.”

  “And when will I meet him? Will he be hosting any dinners this week?”

  “You’ll be the first to find out when he does.” With a wink, I walk toward the parlor door.

  Imogen’s steps shadow close behind. “At least tell me his name.”

  Fingers on the door handle, I turn back to her and smile. “Elliot Rochester.”

  She visibly swoons, cheeks flushing pink. “Oh, even his name sounds refined.”

  “Just wait until you meet him.” Leaving her wriggling on the hook I’ve cast for her capture, I exit the parlor, laughter bubbling in my chest.

  18

  The walk back to thirty-three Whitespruce Lane isn’t nearly as bad as the first time, considering I’m not being harassed by wolves. This time, my shoes have managed to stay warm and dry during my entire trek up the hill, although my cloak and skirt could use drying. And my stomach could definitely benefit from Bertha’s rabbit stew, if she’s made any today.

  I make my way down the path that leads from Whitespruce Lane to the manor. The view is new, considering I was originally brought to the manor blindfolded. While I had experienced the path from the other direction when I left this morning, this new perspective helps me see it from a visitor’s eyes. From Imogen’s eyes.

  On each side of the path lie overgrown shrubs and brambles, which at least need to be trimmed back to allow the width of wagons, coaches, or even the occasional automobile. As I approach the manor, the more serious the landscaping needs become, with downed trees and branches littering the drive, unruly plants obscuring filthy windows, ivy climbing up the walls. It looks nothing like the home of a king. In fact, one look would have me
assuming the property was vacant.

  At least none would guess the truth—that it houses a pack of cursed fae wolves.

  Still, I need this manor to scream eligible-royal-to-marry, not keep out, no one is home.

  I make a mental tally of which landscaping tasks must be prioritized as I approach the front door and push it open. The hall is empty, the manor quiet, so I make my way to the parlor. I’m so lost in my calculations, I don’t notice the king until I nearly trip over his staff.

  I startle, backing up a few paces, and find Elliot sitting in his chair, facing the fire. “Sorry, Your Majesty. Or, should I say, Mr. Rochester. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “You had it right the first time,” he grumbles.

  “Perhaps,” I say, making my way to the bureau, “but I should probably become more familiar with calling you Mr. Rochester so that I can address you properly when our first visitors come to call.”

  He stands, planting his staff beneath his arm, and faces me, brow furrowed. “I didn’t expect you’d come back.”

  I’m about to take a seat at the desk but pause. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I come back?”

  “It’s just…” He rubs his jaw. “Well, unlike me, you can come and go as you please. Why you’d choose to ever return once leaving this manor is beyond me.”

  “We have a bargain, and I’m guessing there are severe punishments should I choose not to fulfill it.”

  “Our bargain states I must provide room and board. It doesn’t enforce you to accept it. I thought perhaps going to town would shock some sense into you.”

  I shake my head and lower onto the chair. “All it did was remind me why I despise Vernon and everyone there. It was successful, however. I’ve made appointments with both an interior designer and a seamstress. They should be paying a visit tomorrow.”

  “Great,” he mutters and returns to his seat.