Five Glass Slippers: A Collection of Cinderella Stories Page 7

  You never really loved Arella.

  The voice rang in his head with painful clarity. That was what she had said, wasn’t it? The insolent woman had accused him of—

  —the truth.

  Frederick pushed his chair away from his desk and paced across the room. How could anyone say his love was untrue? Had he not persevered in the face of rejection? Had he not patiently labored to win his beloved’s hand?

  And why did you do those things? The voice continued. Why take so much time on that girl?

  Frederick stood at the window and crossed his arms. He didn’t want to know the answer. But he couldn’t stop his thoughts, which answered the question with dreadful honesty: I pursued her because I couldn’t face the thought of failure. He hung his head as another part of him interjected, But I failed anyhow.

  The study felt stuffy, oppressive. Frederick considered going for a ride on Midnight to outrun these painful thoughts. He stared out the window longingly but remained inside. I need to understand this. I need—Blast it, that woman had been right!—to be honest with myself.

  Sighing, he seated himself at his desk. He bowed his head. I chose Arella because she was beautiful, and I never actually took time to know who she really was. I was too proud to admit that I could be the wrong man for her.

  The realization stung. It stung horribly.

  I was so concerned with living up to everyone’s expectations that I never gave a thought to what Arella would want. Only to what would be best for me.

  “I’m sorry, Arella,” he whispered. But it was a little late to apologize now. He could only hope that the life she had chosen would make her happy. Meanwhile, he was responsible to choose someone else to be queen.

  Restless, Frederick stood and began pacing the room again. “I failed you, Arella,” he said out loud. “And Mother,” he added, remembering the stern conference they had had yesterday. “And society”—thinking of the scandal he had caused when Arella ran away to escape his unwanted attentions. “Come to think of it, I’ve failed the nation. One job: Find a woman to be the future queen. And I, the classically trained Prince Charming, couldn’t manage it.” He clenched his jaw.

  And what could guarantee that the next woman he proposed to would be any more interested in him, the shallow prince, than Arella had been? Needless to say, he knew any number of young ladies who would be happy to reside in the castle and be called “Princess.” But he seriously doubted he could stand being tied to any of them for life.

  There must be one woman in the kingdom who has sense!

  “I suppose I need to follow Miss Bessette’s advice and look deeper than titles and appearances.” With a sigh he added, “Which means I need to get to know them.” He strode back to his desk and sat down. Taking up his mother’s list, he decided to pay some calls.

  Drusilla shook her head as her carriage took her home. Of all the strange conversations ever to take place, that one had to be the strangest.

  Prince Frederick had summoned her to the castle to ask her whom he should marry.

  She had accused him of never truly loving Arella.

  Drusilla winced. Goodness, Drusilla, she condemned herself. What a thing to say to the prince! You could have counseled him to choose . . . say . . . Miss Clea. She would make a charming princess. Or you could have put in a good word for cousin Fabienne. But no. You had to go and tell him that his love was shallow and untrue!

  It didn’t matter. Even if she hadn’t offended him dreadfully, she was sure the prince would take no further interest in her. She sighed.

  You blamed the prince for loving Arella for her beauty . . . but your own head was turned by Prince Frederick’s charm. How is that any different?

  Drusilla felt herself flushing, though the voice was only in her head. “It isn’t just his charm,” she defended herself to the empty carriage. “Though certainly he has that in abundance.” A self-conscious smile briefly passed over her face. “Prince Frederick is more than charming,” she continued, then considered a moment. “He’s a good man, a trustworthy man. He’s trying so hard to be everything he needs to be, and he’s worried, I think, that he won’t be.”

  She folded her arms. “I know he could never think of me—I don’t ask him to.” She thought ruefully of her flaming hair and plain face and the way she had probably just offended Prince Frederick for the duration of his reign. “But I can’t blame myself for . . . for liking . . . and respecting him. And for hoping he finds a woman who will love him properly.”

  If the empty carriage observed the break in Drusilla’s voice as she finished her defense, or if it noticed her struggle to regain her composure before reaching home, it never told. Drusilla’s secret was safe inside it.

  12

  Lady Lloyd’s annual ball was the most important social event of most seasons. This year she had been trumped by the prince himself, yet her ball still boasted a great deal of grandeur.

  Duchess Germaine watched her girls happily. The certain someone Anastasia blushed over was, indeed, paying her marked attention, and Anastasia was giving him no reason to believe it was unwelcome. If only the young men who danced with Drusilla would notice her after the ball was over!

  On the other side of the room, Drusilla fanned herself while her partner went to find refreshments. It had been an enjoyable ball thus far. Although the family was still branded by Arella’s scandal, they were liked well enough that few people treated them any differently.

  Anastasia is looking well, Drusilla mused. We could have a wedding on our hands before this time next year—

  Her ruminations were cut short by a familiar voice.

  “Are you claimed for the next dance, Miss Bessette?”

  Drusilla turned in surprise to see Prince Frederick. “Yes, actually,” she admitted.

  “Oh.” Was that disappointment on his face? “But the set after that, are you free?”

  “I am, Your Highness.” How could it be that he wasn’t still offended?

  “May I have the honor?”

  “The honor would be mine, Your Highness.”

  Frederick smiled as Drusilla’s partner returned. “I will look forward to it.”

  Drusilla was afraid her current partner would have to suffer through a rather distracted dance.

  “You were right, of course,” Frederick admitted, a little bashfully. He and Drusilla were whirling around the floor, not unlike the first time they met. This time, however, the conversation was not made up of stilted polite nothings while his attention was focused elsewhere.

  Drusilla wrinkled her brow in confusion. “I was right, Your Highness?”

  He hesitated. “About your sister. Miss Abendroth—Mrs. Stone. How I treated her. You were right.”

  Drusilla blushed, her pale skin flaming as bright as her hair. “I should not have said what I said, Your Highness,” she replied. “It was quite rude.”

  “It was completely accurate,” he countered, “and I thank you for it. I’ve been trying to follow your advice.”

  Drusilla tried to remember what she had advised him to do. “I’m glad I was able to be of service to you, Your Highness.”

  “Please, no more ‘Your Highness’-ing,” Frederick begged. “As I mentioned, I’ve been trying to do like you said—look beyond titles and appearances—but I’ve found quite a few young ladies who seem to be concerned only with the outward, and the continual simpering and ‘Your Highness’-ing is getting a little old.”

  Drusilla smiled. “Surely you’ve found some young ladies who are more than that, Your . . . um, Prince Frederick.”

  He grinned. “Not many. In fact, one day this week I was so sick of the simpering that I actually decided to call on your family so I could hear some sensible conversation. But you were out.”

  “I’m afraid we have quite the busy social life,” Drusilla replied.

  The prince twirled her so that her skirt swished, then drew her close once more. “Judging by the difficulty I had obtaining a dance with you, I believe
it,” he said.

  “Waiting one dance isn’t so difficult, is it?”

  “One that you know of,” he answered with a wry smile. “Besides, I’m not used to waiting for dances.”

  She considered this a moment. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t be, would you?”

  Frederick shook his head. “Royalty is spoiled enough, and being the only child rather increases the problem.”

  Drusilla laughed. “You poor thing,” she said unsympathetically.

  “It’s a serious problem!” he protested. “For example: When Arella refused me the first time, I had no idea how to react. I’ve always gotten what I wanted.”

  “Well, Arella would confuse most men,” Drusilla replied. If her gaze suddenly dropped from his face to focus on the embroidery of his collar, she doubted anyone would notice in the middle of a dance.

  “Have you heard from her again?”

  His voice sounded natural. Drusilla wondered if he felt as calm as he sounded. “Yes, we’ve been corresponding. Her husband is working for a blacksmith, and they have a cottage to live in. She sounds very happy. Happier than I’ve ever known her to be.”

  “I’m glad for her,” Frederick said.

  Drusilla met his gaze for a moment, saw that he was sincere, and nodded. “Thank you, Your Highness,” she replied.

  Frederick didn’t ask what she was thanking him for. They both seemed to understand.

  The conversation moved to other subjects, lighter ones. Frederick and Drusilla chatted easily. She forced herself to enjoy their dance instead of thinking about the fact that he soon would be choosing another lady to be his bride.

  13

  Over the past month, Frederick had studied his list of suitable marriage partners, made his own list of qualities necessary in a future queen, visited the young ladies who struck him as likely prospects, narrowed his list, and visited some of them again. He had whittled his list down to four women, and the merits of these seemed about equal. They were all high class enough to suit society and possessed, in addition, personalities more substantial than those of average young ladies. Frederick had conversed with them to make sure they had at least some sense, and observed them to ensure they had kindness.

  Beyond that, he didn’t really have time to know them better; Mother had been particular that he fulfill his princely duty soon. He must simply pick one and hope she turned out to be gentle and lovable.

  And have a sense of humor, Frederick added. He surveyed his now-short list dubiously. The names all looked about the same to him. He wasn’t excited about marrying any of them. But one of them it must be. He closed his eyes and jabbed the paper.

  Miss Maud Alize Clea.

  He frowned. She had been nice enough, but he didn’t exactly want to marry her. Not at all, as a matter of fact. He jabbed again.

  Miss Elissa Galot.

  He frowned again. There was nothing really wrong with her, either. But just the same . . .

  Frederick sighed. His problem was that he expected too much. Noble birth, good looks, sensible mind, gracious manner. And on top of all this, he thought it necessary to have feelings for the girl? He must stop being so particular. One more jab couldn’t hurt, though.

  Miss Gwendolyn Beckett.

  She was no better than the first two. Neither was his last option. He tapped his pencil nervously against the desk. “Feelings come and go, Frederick,” he lectured himself. “You’ll surely fall in love eventually.”

  But it wasn’t simply a lack of emotions, he realized. Were any of these women worthy of being queen? Were they women who would make strong leaders, strong supporters?

  “Honestly, Frederick. You won’t find someone who’s perfect—and goodness knows, you aren’t perfect. You’re looking for an above-average measure of wisdom, grace, kindness, tact, and humor; and you won’t find that—outside of Drusilla, of course,” he added as an afterthought.

  Drusilla.

  The idea hit him with the force of a thunderbolt.

  Arella surveyed the messy kitchen despondently. It had not taken her long at all to realize that occasionally “helping” prepare food in a large, rich household was a far cry from preparing daily meals on a limited budget. Alfie was sweet about it, but she knew that she had a long way to go before she could be called a good cook, or even a mediocre one. She wondered if he ever regretted not choosing a more competent wife.

  She sighed and set to scrubbing burnt goo from the pans. She hadn’t realized before how much she took for granted. She wouldn’t trade this life with Alfie for anything, but it certainly was different from the life she had known.

  And it was different from the life she had expected. If she had thought running away from the city would leave behind all prying eyes and unwanted attention, she was wrong. The prying eyes here were lowlier than those of the society she used to know, but the gossip mill ran just as smoothly here as it had in the city. Arella was new, unused to this way of life, and the principal player in a rather shocking scandal. At times she felt as uncomfortable in the center of this village as she had in the center of the castle ballroom.

  No, cottage life wasn’t as romantic as she had imagined it would be.

  Alfie stopped in the doorway to admire his pretty wife. She was working furiously to scrub something off a large pot, her forehead furrowed with concentration. With a frown? Alfie wondered if she was unhappy. After all, this life was a far cry from what she had known, though he was doing his best to make a good home for her.

  Arella saw him out of the corner of her eye and turned, a smile lighting her face. It was replaced immediately with an embarrassed look. “Alfie! Supper’s . . . almost ready. I don’t think it will be much good.”

  He smiled. “It will be wonderful,” he replied, walking over to kiss her. She hoped it would be edible, at least, for his sake. “I brought you something,” he continued, pulling a letter from his pocket.

  She took it, her eyes shining with delight. “From Drusilla!”

  “Do you miss them very much?” he asked, a hint of anxiety in his voice.

  “Very much,” Arella answered with a sigh. “They were so kind to me, though I doubt I deserved it.”

  Alfie thought this ridiculous. Arella deserved every kindness! He hesitated a moment. “Do you . . . ever wish you hadn’t left?” He looked around their small home. “I know I can’t give you what you’re used to.”

  “No, Alfie, never,” she replied. “I mean, that is . . . you give me you.”

  Alfie felt his heart flip at the sweetness of her smile. He put his hands on her waist and pulled her closer. “Don’t you think I should get something in exchange for the letter then?”

  Arella blushed and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  Yes, she was very happy in the life she’d chosen.

  14

  Marry Drusilla. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

  “Because it’s crazy!” Frederick argued with himself, shocked at his own idea. “Your brother-in-law would be this—this—Alfred Stone! Your sister-in-law would be Arella!”

  It wouldn’t work. It couldn’t.

  “She’s only the daughter of a baron, and she isn’t pretty at all.” He felt the walls staring at him. “Well, she’s not,” he protested.

  But, on the other hand . . .

  She was wise; she had proven that. And he trusted her. She was gracious, easy to talk to, easy to like. Every time he had called on Arella, Drusilla was pleasant, keeping the conversation flowing and peaceful. Her manners were excellent—those born royal could not have better. And she could laugh and make him laugh in turn.

  What more could he ask? And furthermore, the thought of spending the rest of his life with her didn’t fill him with dread. Actually—he smiled to himself in disbelief—he rather liked the idea.

  “Find a woman worthy of being queen,” his mother had instructed. It was as if she’d been telling him to marry Drusilla.

  He shook his head. “That’s impossible,” he said to himself.
“You forget, prince, that it takes two to make a match, and Drusilla is probably too good for you.” Hadn’t she seen his fault when he had been blind to it? Hadn’t she known him for the shallow, thoughtless man he was? Why would she want him?

  And yet, even when she condemned him for his shallowness, she had called him more than a title. Was it possible that such a woman could accept him, could even love him eventually?

  “It’s crazy,” he smiled to himself. “But, if I can get her to agree . . . it’s perfect.”

  “Where are you off to, Drusilla?” Anastasia asked, looking up from the latest in a series of love letters.

  “Mrs. Wright sent word that the little Willow children have been taken ill,” Drusilla explained, buttoning her coat. “I thought they might like these.” Next to her sat a basket. Anastasia observed the contents: warm food, a ragdoll, several picture books.

  Anastasia smiled at her older sister. “You’re so kind,” she said. “It isn’t contagious, though, is it?”

  Drusilla laughed at her sister’s anxious look. “I’m sure it isn’t,” she replied. “Mrs. Wright would have warned me if it were.” She turned before walking away. “Did you want to come?”

  Anastasia replied with a trace of guilt. “Not today. It’s cold. Besides, you never know if someone important might come.”

  Drusilla laughed. “If someone important comes, tell him or her hello for me.”

  The awkward thing was deciding how to go about it. Frederick had finally determined to pay a call and declare himself to Drusilla. Then . . . he would see what happened.

  He felt a knot growing in the pit of his stomach as he rode closer to their house, which was nonsensical. He didn’t love her. He had just thought of marrying her this morning. Yet he still felt nervous.

  There could be no harm done except to his pride, and that had already suffered a blow; it could surely handle another. He took a deep breath and dismounted at the door of the town house.