Page 2 of Bride of the Fae Prince

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. ButwhenI 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, wavyrather than curly. “Elegantly, to show your good breeding. You want just enoughallureto 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 naïve 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 desperatelyrelievedto 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. Myoneduty.

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.

“Yourwiles,” 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 sofullof people, of colors.

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