The Ugly Stepsister (Unfinished Fairy Tales Book 1) (27 page)

Mr. Wellesley gives him a thumb up and a wink. “Good luck.”

Edward’s hand closes over my elbow when we’re back upstairs. I bump against a stack of leather-bound volumes and stoop to pick up a few that fell on the floor.

“Kat,” he says quietly. An undercurrent in his tone makes me look up; his eyes are blazing. Feeling slightly alarmed, I move away till my back presses against a bookshelf.

“Have you no consideration for your safety? Running off to the cotton factory by yourself to interview the children?”

I wasn’t alone, I want to argue. Krev would have saved me if I were in danger. But I can’t tell him that.

“The risk was worth it.” I stare back at him, determined that prince or not, he isn’t going to make me cower.

“No it isn’t.” His voice is harsh. “You may have succeeded this time by a stroke of luck, but I will not allow you to put yourself at risk again. Is that clear?”

“Oh right,” I scoff. His tone makes it sound like he’s my guardian. “And what brilliant plan did you come up with when the bill was rejected? What did you figure out to acquire more petition signatures?”

“Your safety is my priority.”

“Those children’s safety is mine.”

We engage in a glaring contest until he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Promise me, Kat. If you ever hatch a dangerous plot like that again, you will take Bertram along.”

But Bertram is his equerry; normally I can’t—shouldn’t—have the authority to order him around. However, judging from Edward’s firm, unwavering tone, I decide not to question him.

“All right.”

He smiles, obviously relieved. Before I can ask him about Elle, he steps closer and rests a hand on the bookshelf behind me, half trapping me with his body. Danger signals beep in my head, but my feet are glued to the spot.

“The palace will throw a ball in a month,” he says. “We will be sending out the invitations next week.”

About time.

“That’s…that’s wonderful,” I say, feeling my chest lighten. At least this is going according to plan. “I can’t wait to see what a ball in the palace will be like.”

“Good,” he smiles. One of his smiles that can melt ice cream. “Will you do me the honor of being my partner at the ball?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dance with me, Kat. I request you save the opening waltz for me. And the next dance, if you’d like.”

Adrenaline tingles through my body.
This can’t be happening.
The prince, inviting me to the ball. It should be Elle.

“Are you sure you want to risk it?” I say. Maybe I can scare him out of dancing. “I fell on my butt before the queen. I’d probably trip on my feet again and take you down with me.”

His lip curls. “I wouldn’t mind. Besides, I could catch you in time.”

“I…” I swallow. A hundred reasons run through my head, reasons I should refuse him. Every girl there will kill me, for one thing. But I can’t—don’t want to. I don’t want to get on his bad side. And I want to dance with him in that glittering ballroom with crystal chandeliers and painted ceilings and silken tapestries.

“One condition,” I finally say. “Save a dance for Elle as well.”

“Elle?” he frowns.

“Yes, my former maid that I asked you to offer employment. How’s she doing, by the way?”

“I’ve assigned her to work in the greenhouse with Galen. She seems content with the job so far.”

“I’m glad to hear she’s settling in okay,” I say. “Promise me you’ll check up on her often. Once you get to know her, you’ll find she’s a really sweet girl, and if she dresses up she’ll make heads turn.”

Edward nods, but his expression remains nonchalant. Better not overdo the Elle-praising, or he’ll get suspicious.

“Anyway, I know she’d love to come to the ball, and I want her to have a good time.”

“Certainly, if that is what you wish,” he says.

He agreed! Yes!

“Thank you.” I smile up at him—big mistake. His eyes darken, just like that day on the staircase in Henry’s house. Slowly, he lowers his head…

EMERGENCY ALERT!

“Gosh, look at the time!” I pull out my pocket watch and flash it before him like a shield. “Didn’t Mr. Wellesley say you have to attend a dinner? Let’s go! I don’t want to be blamed if you’re late.”

I don’t dare look him in the eye or wait for his answer. I slip past him and make a beeline for the door, my heart heavy and my head aching. I should have refused his invitation to the ball. It’s obvious that he has this growing attraction toward me. But how can I explain I can’t accept him?

TWENTY-NINE

The ball.

It’s finally happening.

Cinderella will be going. The prince will ask her to dance with him. The happy ending is nigh.

Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? If I don’t do something to influence Edward and Elle, it’ll more likely turn out that Henry claims all the rest of Elle’s dances, while Edward focuses his attention on me. Heck, if his parents told him to choose a bride, just like in the fairy tale, he might even propose!

Edward. He is everything a fairy tale prince should be, everything a girl could ask for. Smart, sympathetic, sexy as hell. His concern for me—slightly domineering but forgivable, given his status and Athelia’s old-fashioned concept of women—is simply sweet. Every time he smiles at me, every time he touches me, every time he tries to show me he cares, my heart melts a little.

I love him. When it occurs to me that I’ll open the ball with him but can’t end up with him, I want to curl up in bed and cry. Elle, despite all her sweetness and loveliness, doesn’t love him. Why oh why did I make such a mess of the fairy tale?

Martha enters my room, carrying a pear-shaped ceramic vase overflowing with violets and lavender and star flowers.

“Another of Miss Bianca’s suitors,” she says briskly, setting the vase on my nightstand. “We’ve already filled two vases from that enormous bouquet he sent. If this carries on, we’ll have enough to set up a flower stand.”

I force a laugh. The hollow sound makes Martha pause.

“Are you all right, miss? You look like you just woke up from a nightmare.”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Nothing to worry about. Seriously.”

She misinterprets my gloominess, perhaps because of Bianca’s bouquet. “The time for you will come, miss. You ain’t such a looker as your sister, but you’ve got a heart. When a young man chooses you over your sister, you’ll know his feelings are real.”

There’s no point arguing with her; I simply smile and assure her I’m not worried about my marriage prospects.

When Martha is gone, I glance at the vase. My room does look nicer, what with Edward’s roses on my window sill and now this fancy bouquet. A forest nymph is painted over the vase, her hair wreathed in leaves. It reminds me of the vase at the Mansfield dinner party.

I bolt up. Lady Gregory had talked about how fairies on the vase come alive and play when humans are asleep. Can there be the tiniest possibility that she knows how to summon a fairy? Right now it will take a miracle to get Elle and Edward together. I really, really need some magical intervention.

It won’t be easy, though. She’s Lord Mansfield’s aunt, and given what a party pooper I was at their dinner, I doubt the Mansfields would be happy to receive me. Maybe they’ll shut the door in my face before I’m allowed to see Lady Gregory.

I fret for some time, pacing in the room, until I shake my head and laugh. I’ve visited Andrew McVean’s factory and knocked out a man (Krev helped me, but he wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t made the first move) and interviewed a dozen factory children. Visiting Lady Gregory is a piece of cake. And judging from her friendliness toward me, maybe she’ll be willing to share any insider information she has about fairies.

“The lord and lady are currently away,” the doorman says when I arrive at the doorstep of the Mansfield mansion.

“That’s no problem. It’s Lady Gregory I would like to call on.” I hand the doorman my card. Ever since Henry sent me that invitation specifically addressed to me, Lady Bradshaw has allowed me to have my own calling cards. I don’t enjoy paying calls, but it is kind of satisfying, not having to rely on Bianca like an appendage.

The doorman returns in a minute. “She’ll receive you in her room, lady. If you’d follow me, please.”

Lady Gregory’s room is small and actually wouldn’t look out of place in any of the nicer bed-and-breakfast inns in the modern world. Pale blue wallpaper dotted with daisies, white-framed pictures, the rug and bedspread of warm pastel colors. It’s quaint and comfy and also rather out of place, compared to the splendor of other parts of the house.

“I hope you don’t mind being here instead?” Lady Gregory says affably. “I was in the middle of crocheting a pair of woolen stockings for my great-great nephew, and it bothers me to carry the basket and pins back and forth.”

“Oh no, not at all,” I say. Somehow she reminds me of Miss Marple.

“Do sit in that chair if you’d like,” Lady Gregory says, pointing to a low sofa draped with a bright multi-colored spread. “Yes, I made the spread myself. It’s one of the few things I can occupy myself with at my age. Would you like a cup of tea?”

I’m not really into tea, but I don’t feel like refusing. Besides, tea means a chance for a longer talk.

“Yes, please,” I say politely, using what I’ve learned in etiquette. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Oh, of course not, my dear. Two cups, then. And bring the scones Cook baked the other day, if the others haven’t gobbled them all up.” She quirks an eyebrow at me. “The scones are heavenly. One bite can make you forget all the troubles in the world.”

The sofa is just as comfortable as it looks. I sink into the seat, enjoying how deep and enveloping it is. “Really nice room you have here,” I say, meaning it.

“Thank you, dear,” Lady Gregory smiles. “See that bag hanging by the door? I also made it, and it won first prize at last year’s Ladies’ Crocheting Society’s annual show.”

We talk about her crocheting and other inconsequential stuff until the butler returns with the tea and scones. Lady Gregory dips her hands in the finger bowl and dries with a napkin, as daintily as if she were seventeen.

“Now, dear,” she says, with the air of our school guidance counselor. “What is it you wish to talk to me about?”

“Well…” I begin hesitantly, “I was wondering about your mention of fairies at the dinner party.”

“Ah yes, how well I remember. A most entertaining party it was.”

I flush, but am relieved that she merely looks amused.

“This is just asking out of curiosity, but do you know how to find a fairy?”

Her hand pauses in midair. “Find…a fairy?”

“I…well, to tell the truth, I’m under a curse,” I blurt. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have confessed, but she’s so friendly and seems to know so much more than meets the eye, that I can’t help it. “To break the curse, I’ve got to help El—a friend. But I can’t do it on my own. I need help—help from a fairy.”

She tilts her head. “Fairies are stringent with their magic,” she says in a low voice. She doesn’t question anything about the curse or Elle.

“This one won’t be,” I say quickly, though I’m not sure of it. “I have heard that this fairy is my friend’s godmother.”

“Then why do you need to seek this fairy, if you’re certain she will help your friend?”

“I’ve no idea why the fairy godmother hasn’t shown up, but I’ve only recently learned she is in the mountains near Ruby Red.”

It’s all pure guesswork that I gathered from what Martha told me. But apparently I’m on to something. Lady Gregory’s teacup crashes on the table. Hot tea spills over the white crocheted spread. Alarmed, I grab the napkins and dab furiously over the spread, but it’s too late.

“There, there, it doesn’t matter,” Lady Gregory says. “It’ll have to be washed. About your question, though…”

She gets this faraway look in her eyes. For a second, if you just look into her eyes and ignore the lines on her face, she looks like a young girl.

“I haven’t told anyone before, because no one will believe me, but I think you can understand. You are aware that I am a spinster?”

I shake my head.

“That’s what everyone thinks; I’m this old matronly woman who crochets all day long,” Lady Gregory smiles. “But in fact, I was married for fifteen years. To Lysander, my fairy husband.”

I choke on my scone. “Married to a fairy? Then when—why—”

“I left him,” she says simply. No bitterness, no angst, just stating a fact. “But I don’t regret it. Nor do I regret those years—they have given me the loveliest memories to cherish. I wouldn’t trade my fifteen years with Lysander for fifty years with the king of Athelia.

“I was seventeen, young and reckless. I was traveling to Ruby Red with my childhood sweetheart. He was the son of our local vicar, so you understand my parents were vehement in opposing our marriage. In fact, I was the one to persuade him to run away with me. On the way, we were unfortunately raided by robbers. My lover was killed. I plunged my dagger into the robber who murdered him, but the others swarmed around me. I was all prepared to die before I surrendered my honor, when a flash of light appeared in the air. He was tall, long-haired, with an ethereal beauty that doesn’t belong to this world. I never saw anything so beautiful.”

Lady Gregory sips on her tea. An image of the elves in
Lord of the Rings
comes to my mind.

“I was badly hurt, so he brought me back to the fairies’ den. We fell in love, Lysander and I. Since my relationship with my family was tenuous and strained, I was content to marry him and let them believe I was dead. We had fifteen gloriously happy years—until I discovered my first silver hair in the mirror.”

I have an inkling of what she is going to say, but I keep quiet.

“Fairies don’t age. You may argue that there are couples in which the wife is older, but how would it look when I was fifty and he still looked twenty? When I passed away while he lived on forever?”

It really is like
Lord of the Rings
. Only the roles of Arwen and Aragorn are reversed.