Bride of the Fae Prince: (Brides of the Fae)

Chapter 1

It’s easy to escape Father’s notice most evenings, but tonight I’m not so fortunate. He stops in front of me, standing third in the line of his five daughters, and looks me up and down. My white silk gloves mercifully hide my sweaty palms.

A line creases his forehead. Disapproval.

I try to keep my spine straight, even as everything inside me drops a little lower. The corset beneath my embroidered taffeta bodice considerably aids my efforts. I’m not sure I would have managed it otherwise.

Father lets out a sigh of resignation, hands behind his back, as he paces to the end of the line. He doesn’t even look at my two younger sisters. He stops, sets his shoulders, and lifts his head. Enough so he can stare at the far wall, and the gold-framed portrait of his severe, frowning grandfather. Ages ago, my youngest sister Amelia pointed out how the red patterned wallpaper in this room brings out the red of Great Grandfather’s lips and cheeks, making it look like he wore rouge and lip paint for his portrait. Until now, the portrait never failed to bring a smile to my lips.

“Where are the tides of war turned, my sweets?” Father’s voice is raspy and thin.

With his back turned, I let my gaze fall to the floor. Or rather, the lush magenta skirt flaring out in front of me, set with tiny reflective stones and mounds of lace. I pick one of those stones and stare at it. In my periphery, my sisters stand like slender, erect towers on either side of me in resplendent gowns of their own.

None of them received even the barest flicker of approval from Father, either.

“In the ballroom,” answers Vivienne, my eldest sister. She is the most beautiful of us all, and wears her beauty like a status granted to her. Her shoulders are straight, her head high, her rich dark curls perfectly and properly arranged. Not a single strand of hair is out of place.

“Very good,” says Father, turning around and facing the five of us. He isn’t a tall man, yet he has always felt that way to me. He wears a striking blue doublet with gold buttons, and a crown atop his salt-and-pepper hair. I find his eyebrow again—anything to avoid looking directly into his eyes when they pass over me. “Now, what is the battle plan for the evening?”

Yvonne, the next sister younger than me, pipes up, lifting her pert little cleft chin. “Vivienne, Jacquelle, and I are going to demonstrate for our honored guest that the daughters of King Roland of Aursailles are elegant and well-bred wives to be had.”

I shift my weight to my other foot.

“Much rests on your shoulders to make your betrotheds happy men during the ball,” says Father, eyeing my three engaged sisters in turn, “so Isabelle Louise can go for the killing blow.”

Five pairs of eyes turn on me. I swallow.

“Are you ready?” Father asks. The question surprises me—does he expect an answer? I’m spared when he frowns and continues. “You’re a little pale.”

Am I? I reach up to pinch my cheeks, but Jacquelle leans over quickly and pinches them for me. I wince. If that doesn’t bring color to my skin, nothing will.

Father sighs. “If only you weren’t still waiting on your bloom.”

I should have expected the comment. It stings nevertheless. When I’d stood before the mirror, my maids putting the final touches on my hair and ornaments, I’d thought I looked rather nice. I’d braved a tentative smile—had even imagined Father looking at me and saying that the elusive “bloom” that had graced all four of my sisters before me had finally arrived. Never would I claim the beauty of my two older sisters, but I’d certainly thought myself more than passable. At my sides Vivienne, Jacquelle, and Yvonne all nod sadly. Agreeing with Father.

“I love that raspberry color on you!” squeaks my very enthusiastic youngest sister, Amelia. She breaks out of line to hug my arm, leaning her sweet curly head on my shoulder with no care for the elaborate styling of her hair. A few wisps have escaped, but it only makes her lovelier, freer, brighter. “The king of Enslington will be besotted by the end of the night.”

I can’t restrain myself from giving her arm an affectionate pat.

“I hear he’s very serious and bookish,” says Vivienne. “Make sure to keep your mouth shut unless you’re eating or smiling. Bookish men do not like chatty women.”

Jacquelle takes my other arm, and before I know it, we’re marching steadily toward the ballroom, leaving behind the warm fire in the grate, the red wallpaper, and Great Grandfather’s pink-cheeked glare. I want to set my heels into the ground like an ornery old goat and make them drag me. But that is hardly becoming of a princess.

This is my one duty, after all.

I was born to flutter my eyelashes at foreign kings and princes in hopes one of them would approach my father for an alliance. Then, when the days of my betrothal are fulfilled, my new husband will send for me and I will follow him to another kingdom, leaving my home behind.

“Vivienne always says men like quiet women,” Jacquelle whispers in my ear conspiratorially, giggling. While Vivienne may have the most beautiful face, all four of us are jealous of Jacquelle’s perfect figure. “She only says that because her betrothed could be her grandfather and needs to nap every two hours. King Ilbert is younger, like my betrothed—he’s not even forty-five!—and young men like clever women. You don’t have to say much, just so long as what you say surprises him. If you make him laugh, he’ll adore you.”

“Make him laugh,” I mumble. “Don’t talk too much.”

“Remember, clever and unexpected.” She winks.

“Not too unexpected,” says Vivienne with a frown, apparently overhearing us.

“Keep your distance from your sisters during the ball,” says Father, dismissing Amelia and offering me his elbow. “You don’t want to be overshadowed.”

Having Father’s attention on me is almost as disconcerting as the ballroom doors looming at the end of the hallway, flanked by statuesque manservants in starched livery. Light from beneath the doors illuminates the tiled floor we tread, and not much else, save the sconces lining the wall.

Don’t talk too much. But when I talk, be clever. Don’t be overshadowed. My gut churns. A wave of lightheadedness passes over me. I should have made myself eat earlier. It seemed impossible to eat when everything in my life has culminated in this one moment—where I will either succeed or fail completely.

“Remember how you move,” says Yvonne, with a bump of her hip against mine. She has long blonde hair, like mine, wavy rather than curly. “Elegantly, to show your good breeding. You want just enough allure to intrigue him, but not enough to ruin your reputation.”

I don’t want to listen to any of Yvonne’s advice. She’s betrothed to the most spoiled and cruel man I’ve ever laid eyes on. He is the nephew of the king of Osremer, and while he waits for his uncle to die and pass the crown to him, he throws revelries said to rival even the debauchery of the fae.

I’m not na?ve enough to hope for a young and handsome husband. All I hope for is kindness. I will take a homely man thrice my age if he is kind. Since Yvonne’s marriage was arranged, however, I’ve almost stopped hoping for even that. As horribly selfish as it was, that night I’d wept beneath my covers—so desperately relieved to be the least lovely of my sisters. Otherwise, it would have been me the licentious Osremer heir wanted.

My gown rustles with every step closer to those doors. Closer to my future.

This isn’t about me. This is about my people, my kingdom. It is my duty to make whatever match will most benefit my people. My one duty.

Scurrying footsteps make all six of us glance to the left, where a lanky young runner scurries down a hall toward us. Father lets go of me, stepping aside so the runner can deliver his message. Vivienne feigns disinterest, pointedly looking away while Jacquelle and Yvonne lean closer to catch a scrap of it. Amelia slips back to my side, and her presence is a sweet comfort when my heart cannot stop pounding.

Father’s jaw sets grimly as the runner leaves, and he straightens.

Amelia’s hand threads through my elbow. “What is it, Father?”

“News about those nasty fae?” asks Jacquelle.

He draws in a deep breath, his shoulders tight. “The fae have expanded the Long Lost Wood a mile along our southern lines in just the last week.” His gaze falls right to me, and I cannot find his brow fast enough before I’m trapped in his attention. I tense. “We need this alliance tonight, Isabelle Louise. If the king of Enslington allies with us, he will help us fight the fae and keep our people safe.”

“But King Ilbert doesn’t have a large military,” says Vivienne—the closest any of us would dare to asking the real question.

How is this alliance even going to help?

Father purses his lips. “Well, I still have one more daughter, don’t I?”

Amelia goes a little pale, then gives an uneasy giggle. “Of course, Father,” she says, and though her smile is bright enough to fool him, I don’t miss the delicate crease on her forehead.

We reach the ballroom door much too quickly. I follow the crack between the doors all the way up to the ceiling until my neck is arched back. It’s the only distraction to be found from the black spots dancing across my vision.

“Places, girls!” barks Father. We hurry to obey, arranging ourselves in order from eldest to youngest—except that I am to take Father’s side.

Because I am the sacrificial bride of tonight’s dance.

Don’t talk too much. Be clever and unexpected—but not too unexpected. Show my refined breeding. Be alluring—but not too alluring. Don’t be overshadowed.

I swallow heavily. This is my chance to save our kingdom. This is my chance to serve our people. It doesn’t matter what my future husband is like. I don’t have to like him—I’m only marrying him. It’s not as though I’ll have to talk to him much after we wed.

I just have to make him like me. No matter his preferences or inclinations—I must be what he wants. Whatever that is.

I hope he doesn’t want a bold bride, because my hands will not stop shaking. Father glances down reprovingly at them as they shudder on his arm.

“Remember,” he whispers, leaning down toward my ear. I stiffen, focusing my attention on the dancing flame in the sconces lining the wall. “Use your feminine wiles and he won’t be able to resist you. Do nothing to scare him away.”

I turn frantic eyes up at him, balking as the great doors open outward and the announcer cries, “King Roland! Princess Isabelle Louise, Princess Vivienne, Princess Jacquelle, Princess Yvonne, Princess Amelia.”

“My what?” I whisper back.

“Your wiles,” Father hisses through a smile.

I force my lips to tilt upward as my mind spins frantically. Won’t feminine wiles ruin my reputation? Do I even have any?

The ballroom opens before me in a gleam of a polished wood dance floor, golden arches and chandeliers against gold-inlaid embellishments of the slate gray walls and ceilings. Filigree detailing curves along the edges of the arches, the pillars set with statues of maidens and young men in various states of dress.

It’s so full of people, of colors.

The air turns stifling. Father’s arm is suddenly my only refuge, and I try not to give into the impulse to shrink a little closer to him. I hide my free hand in my skirts. Will King Ilbert notice how sweaty it is through my glove? Will it scare him away?

I scan the crowd of courtiers, foreign ambassadors, and two of my sisters’ betrotheds. So many people. Will I know King Ilbert when I see him? He’s a king—and yet my vision swims with lace, brocade, taffeta, piled mounds of curls. I steal a glance up at Father, and find his eyes pinned in one direction of the room. I follow that look, and find a tall man setting his goblet on a servant’s tray, his full attention at Father. And me.

He’s actually . . . not unbecoming. He is certainly much older than I am—twice my age, at least, I suspect—but he has a crisp jawline with a close-shaved beard and a pronounced brow that bespeaks a firmness of character, yet a pleasant smile stretches across his face when he sees us. A kind smile, I think?

My heart lifts.

He has a very slender physique, which is quite the opposite of my eldest sister’s intended, and he wears a finely cut black surcoat with elegant fur trimmings, a belt inlaid with precious stones, and a dark blue silk coat.

I can certainly do worse. Much, much worse.

Unless, of course, that jawline and smile are simply a veneer for a dark, malicious personality. How would I know? A ball doesn’t require masks to be a masquerade.

He bows cordially before my father, and then smiles at me as he bends over my hand. Can he feel how sweaty it is? Can he feel how I tremble? I hope my smile isn’t as wobbly as my fingers are in his.

“Princess Isabelle Louise,” he says, and flashes that warm smile once more.

I curtsy and my ankle chooses that very moment to waver—but I don’t fall or sway too grandly, I think. Does he notice? Am I to be known as the clumsy daughter as well as the least comely?

“Y-your Majesty,” I say. My voice is rail-thin and weak.

“May I have this dance?”

My gut thrills. Are my so-called wiles working? Or is he merely fulfilling his obligations? I hardly trust my voice when my stomach is so unsettled, so I merely incline my head and offer a smile.

“Music!” calls Father, clapping his hands at the musicians in the corner on their dais. Immediately, a lively tune begins on fiddles and an Algravian imported harpsichord. I glance at him as King Ilbert draws me toward the center of the ballroom. I’m almost struck dumb at the sight of Father—beaming at me.

Something lifts in my chest. I haven’t ruined this yet. Maybe there’s hope that by the end of the fortnight, I’ll be betrothed.

I peek up at the King of Enslington and smile.

He’s not looking at me. He’s looking over my shoulder at the rest of my sisters. As though sensing my gaze, he glances down, finds me staring, and offers me another polite smile. He slips his hand around my waist as we take our position on the dance floor. Inside, my courage falters.

“This is a lovely dance, Princess Isabelle Louise,” he says. “You look beautiful in your gown.”

Just like that, my courage is bolstered. My eyes widen as warmth floods my cheeks. He thinks I look beautiful? I catch myself just before I let my smile widen too much. What if he thinks me vain? Vivienne always cautions against appearing too vain. Or perhaps his compliment was merely polite. I duck my head and say a quick, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

We dance in silence. Sweat slides down my neck with each passing minute. My glove must be growing damp. I desperately hope he cannot feel it!

Wait—was I supposed to compliment him back? It must be too clumsy and awkward to compliment him now, after the silence has lasted. Besides, every compliment that comes to mind is vastly more awkward than the silence. You are far better looking than Vivienne’s betrothed. I am glad that you are not an old drunkard. Your smile makes me think you have a good heart.

I hate this. I hate it, hate it, hate it. There is only one thing I was born to do—only one thing in my entire life I need to accomplish, and it comes down to this moment. What if I mess everything up? What if I cannot get him to agree to marry me? What if he decides he’d rather marry some other kingdom’s princess? What if my father cannot get the military strength he needs to fight the fae? What if people die because I cannot flirt well enough?

“Are you quite well? Forgive me, but you seem rather pale,” says King Ilbert.

Pale? I’m pale? Heavens, I need to pinch my cheeks! But we’re dancing, and my hands are occupied. Does King Ilbert mind pale wives?

Deep breath.

This panicking will get me nowhere.

“I’m quite well, thank you,” I manage with a breathy laugh.

The lightheadedness returns in full force just as the dance ends. King Ilbert takes my hand, his brow knit with something akin to concern as he leads me off the dance floor.

“The dance is too lively for you, Highness,” he says as he escorts me to a seat. “Please rest and allow me to fetch you some refreshment.”

Fetch me—what? He releases my hand, straightens, and strides off toward the table of refreshments and crystalline goblets of wine. I stare at him unabashedly. He’s a king! Does he consider himself a servant? None of my sisters’ betrotheds would offer to fetch refreshments. They’d hardly even order a servant to take care of her needs.

I stare after his tall form as he threads his way through the crowds, and try to pretend I don’t notice my sisters staring bug-eyed at me from across the ballroom.

“Why did he leave you here?” demands a familiar voice from my right.

I flinch, turn, and find my father’s disapproving frown hovering above me. “H-he is g-getting me r-ref-ref—something to drink.”

“Did you stutter like that during the dance?”

I duck my head. “N-no.”

That frown won’t go away, no matter how much I long for it to. I want him to beam at me again—but what does it matter? It wasn’t as if it could last, and I was a fool if a tiny part of me thought it might.

“I thought you’d made progress on it with your tutors,” says Father.

I made extremely great strides with my tutors. When I was a child, I could hardly get a full sentence out. Where I am now is as different as day is from night. But Father wouldn’t know that, because a small stutter always returns when I’m anxious.

“If only you were as beautiful as Jacquelle and Vivienne,” says Father with a sigh and a shake of his head, as if this is already a lost cause, “you could make up for this defect. Just avoid talking.”

“King Ilbert called me beautiful,” I want to say, but I bite my tongue.

“Ah! King Roland!” cries a loud, boisterous man from behind Father.

Father loses his frown as he turns, donning his warm kingly mask before I can even blink. “My friend, you are enjoying the wine, it seems.”

“Best wine on the continent,” cries the newcomer, whom I recognize to be the old Prince Brochfael. He is heir to the throne of Algravia, and with the king on his sickbed, it is looking like Prince Brochfael will have some years on the throne before his enthusiastic relationship with alcohol takes him to an early grave. “Perfect for coping with these rambunctious fae, now isn’t it?”

“Aye, aye, my old friend,” says Father with a laugh.

Prince Brochfael spots me, sitting where King Ilbert left me. “Ho! Is this the young bride you’ve promised me, Roland?”

My eyes go wide. Father’s face flushes scarlet, and he doesn’t meet my gaze. My stomach drops straight to the floor.

Father promised one of us to Prince Brochfael?But the man has five wives already—and legend certainly has not regaled him as a magnanimous husband. I press a hand to my unsteady stomach.

“I have two unpromised daughters,” says Father, and places a hand on the prince’s shoulder to guide him away from me. “It is yet to be seen which will have the privilege of your attentions.”

Even though my knees wobble so much I cannot trust them to hold my weight, should I decide to stand, I understand now. Prince Brochfael will soon be king, and Algravia is known for its military strength. Father cares enough about his daughters to give us a chance at something besides being the sixth wife of an old drunk, but whichever of us couldn’t secure an alliance fast enough . . . Father had this arrangement made. A backup plan.

If I succeed in this alliance, that only leaves—

Amelia.

King Ilbert is taking much longer to get my refreshments than I would have imagined, but at this moment, I’m relieved he hasn’t returned. I pinch my cheeks quickly, hoping that will fight the sudden pallor that must have overtaken my features.

Then, after flattening the skirts of my gown to disguise wiping the sweat seeping through my gloves, I arch my neck as I try to locate where King Ilbert has disappeared to and if he is returning soon.

There he is!

A goblet glitters in his hand like a garnet, the facets of crystal catching the light. Is that for me? The thought should ease my cascade of panic, but it only sharpens it. If I am successful tonight in ensnaring his interest, then sweet little Amelia, barely eighteen, will be wed to Prince Brochfael.

I cannot let that happen.

I won’t.

It would be better if I went, if I were the prince’s bride. I can endure being the sixth wife of an old goat, can’t I? If I am one among six, then surely I can slip notice easier. Perhaps he has mistresses, too. It wouldn’t be too bad for me to handle.

But I cannot let Amelia endure it. She needs someone kind, someone gentle. Someone who will be good to her and cherish her sweet nature. I glance down and discover my hands are fisted in my skirts. Quickly, I smooth them out again.

King Ilbert is caught in conversation. I cannot see to whom he speaks, only that it’s someone by the food, and he’s smiling. The smile is just as kind as the ones he gave me, but it seems both easier and warmer. To my surprise, he throws back his head and laughs—and it’s quite a nice sound.

The selfish part of me wants to pretend I heard nothing from Father about his deal with Prince Brochfael. I want to be blissfully ignorant as I waltz into a marriage with King Ilbert. I want to claim the attentions of what seems to be a genuinely kind, not altogether unbecoming, and relatively young man.

I give myself a little shake. I won’t do that to Amelia. I’ll leave the ball if I must. I’ll go get her and make sure she’s introduced to King Ilbert.

But when I stand, I’m finally able to see who the king of Enslington is speaking to. Who he is laughing with as he holds the goblet he went to fetch for me.

It’s Amelia.

Her face is flushed a pretty pink, complimenting her lovely lilac gown. With that grin on her face, she’s a vision. She isn’t like my other sisters, however, who are beauty paired with some starkly undesirable trait such as coldness or arrogance. She is beautiful, and she is pure goodness.

I don’t blame King Ilbert for the way he looks at her.

It’s a relief, truly. From what I’ve surmised, he is a good man. And more than I care about my own happiness, I want Amelia to be cared for.

A boisterous laugh echoes from farther down the ballroom. I follow the sound until my eyes land on a guffawing Prince Brochfael smacking a servant so hard on the back, he nearly trips and drops his tray of empty goblets.

I’m yet again only relieved I’m no great beauty. Beauty will do me no service in my future.