Page 1 of Bride of the Fae Prince

Chapter 1

The Princess

It’s easy to escapeFather’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 paintfor 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 ourhonored guestthat 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.

“Nottoounexpected,” 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.”

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