Princes of Charming (Naughty Fairy Tales) Read online

  She exhaled sharply, glancing over her shoulder to be sure no one passing might have heard. "It was a case of mistaken identity. I was supposed to meet someone else on that bench and when you sat down I thought—"

  "No need to apologize." He chuckled. "I enjoyed it tremendously. That's why I followed you home. Imagine my disappointment when you refused to let me in."

  "Once I realized you were the wrong man and had deliberately misled me, of course I refused to—"

  "But I was the right man, Mrs. Kent. I mean to prove it to you. Do get into my carriage, unless we must discuss this matter in public and in the rain."

  She hesitated, because she did not like this one little bit. But her packages were already inside. What else could she do?

  Finally accepting his hand, she stepped up into the carriage. He followed her swiftly and shut the door. The horses moved and the wheels rumbled forward.

  "I'm afraid I had an accident this afternoon," he explained. "Ruddy horse balked at a hedge and decided to send me over it alone." He laughed merrily, showing her a tear in the seam of his breeches.

  "You have something on your face," she pointed out.

  "I have? Damn and blast. And I was hoping to make such a good impression." His eyes gleamed impishly. "Do you have a handkerchief?"

  Drusilla took one from a little pocket in her sleeve and offered it to him. Instead, he hitched closer on the edge of his seat and asked her to wipe it for him. After a brief hesitation, she licked the corner of her handkerchief and applied it gently to the little mark on his temple. It was now proven to be dirt, not a scratch, and came off with a few wipes. She returned quickly to a safer distance.

  "Am I better now?"

  "Yes."

  He slid back. "Thank you."

  For a few moments they rode along in silence. Drusilla had determined not to speak again, not to encourage him. His ideas were plain upon his handsome face, his intentions transparent as air. Yet she pretended not to see. Better ignore the boy. Since he was probably not ignored very often, it would do him good.

  "I want to know all about you," he said, sprawling in the seat opposite.

  "All you need know is that your grandfather hired me to teach you manners and find you a bride."

  The smile faded from his lips, but not his eyes. "That's what he thinks." He stretched out his arms, resting his long hands flat on the seat. "I don't want a wife. You may as well know that I suppose."

  "The Captain told me you are in agreement to marry."

  "Of course he thinks that. The way to keep my grandfather happy and generous is to tell him exactly what he wants to hear." He sighed. "But then you know that don't you, Mrs. Kent? You did the same thing when he came to see you. Let the old man believe what he wants. Makes life easier. He's paying you a nice fee, I'm sure. One he can't really afford."

  She thought about not answering, but changed her mind, decided to be honest, straightforward. "Yes. He cares about you very much and is paying me extremely well to arrange a good match."

  "So you and I can play his error to our advantage and both get something out of it. We'll pretend you're trying your hardest to find me a bride and I'll let him go on thinking you're a respectable, discreet, society matchmaker, running charm school services."

  "And what do you get out of it?"

  "I get to share your...company, Mrs. Kent."

  "You mean, you would like to invite me to tea?"

  His eyes darkened. "I mean, Mrs. Kent, that I want to fuck you."

  Drusilla calmed her quick temper with the hasty reminder that he was just a boy. People of twenty one never knew half as much as they thought they did about life. "I don't think so."

  "I do." His gaze was on her lips, then her neck, then her bosom. "Now I have your company all to myself, thanks to Grandpapa."

  She'd been stared at by men before, young and old, but never quite like this. Drusilla began to feel scalded through her clothes.

  "Or else I'll tell him the truth about you. Grandpapa would be appalled to know what you really get up to behind those lace curtains. If he raises a hue and cry, accuses you of deliberate deception, all your high-profile patrons will flee won't they? You'll be out of business in a week."

  His menacing gaze stroked her up and down as she sat across from him, her knees only a few inches from his.

  "I see you have it all planned out," she said carefully. "Alas for you, Captain Wilder is not the only one confused about my services. I don't fuck, Mr. Wilder. I spank."

  There was a long pause while he studied her from across the carriage.

  "The clients who visit my house require discipline in many forms," she continued. "If they need penetration it is dispensed by me, not by them. I am in control."

  Briefly he looked disconcerted, but his smile soon returned. "I'll be a novel experience for you then, won't I? I'll do the penetrating."

  She could hardly believe the young man's audacity. If her eyes did not deceive her, he already sported a sizable erection under his corduroy trousers. "Why do they call you Madame Pantoufle?" he demanded. "It's French for slippers, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "Why slippers?"

  "Because I have some that are used occasionally. For corrective measures."

  "Ah, I see! I had an old headmaster once who tanned our backsides with a rubber soled slipper. Hurt like a bugger. But only made our skin thicker."

  Drusilla decided it was time she took the conversation in another direction. "Why don't you want a wife, Master Nicholas?" Aha, that curbed his amusement. She'd call him Master Nicholas as if he was a boy in the nursery.

  Result achieved. His grin vanished and his mouth fell open, as if someone snapped a drawstring that held his lips together.

  "I'm too young," he muttered. "Too much life to live, thank you."

  "A wife will keep you out of trouble." She sincerely doubted that fact, but she spoke the words as if she believed it.

  "Aren't you funny, Madame Pantoufle! Do you preach to your other clients that way?"

  "Master Nicholas, your grandfather charged me to find you a bride and once I take on a client I never let them down."

  "Then you won't want to let me down either." He ran a hand down the crotch of his riding breeches and the line of an erect prick—a very well-made organ standing tall and proud, she noted with an expert eye—was definitely evident.

  Drusilla stared across the carriage, heat rising under her corset, but she kept her countenance and a moderate tone. "I must insist you stop that."

  "What will you do? Send me to bed without supper?"

  "I can tell your grandfather that you are beyond help."

  "And give him back his fee?"

  "Of course."

  "Then I'll tell him what you really are, just like I promised." With a slow hand he stroked his phallus through the corduroy and she saw it grow, thicken. "You may as well tell me about these disciplinary services you offer."

  "Don't you know?" She arched an eyebrow. "I thought young men like you always know it all."

  He spread his legs slightly. "I'd like to know more. All about you. I'm intrigued by you, Mrs. Kent."

  Turning her gaze to the window, she saw she was almost home. Thankfully.

  "Don't you think I need teaching a lesson, Mrs. Kent?"

  Yes, that was exactly what she was thinking.

  "My god, you've got splendid tits. If you're trying to hide them, you failed."

  At least he was to the point, she mused, looking at him again. It had been a long time since a young man like this one paid her any attention. Old age crept up on her every day. At thirty five, grey hairs and crows feet were not far off. It was unfair, but women were cast aside sooner than men, their sexual attractiveness often deemed over long before their needs faded.

  He reached boldly across the carriage and laid his palm over the curve of her left breast. His hand was warm through her gown and her nipple swelled rebelliously just above her tight corset, pushing at her chemise and
the satin of her dress.

  "Remove your hand from my person, young man."

  He licked his lips and in his brown eyes a wicked gleam leapt to life, like the flame on a newly struck match. "I'll show you mine, " he murmured. "If you show me yours."

  To her surprise she felt that familiar response between her tightly clenched thighs, the warming and opening, the surge of her own liquid desire. It was years since she had a man's cock inside her. Six years to be precise.

  But at his age he wouldn't even know what to do with it, she mused.

  "Master Nicholas Wilder, I shall count to three. If you have not removed your hand from my bosom by then, I shall remove it for you myself."

  He laughed, his fingers whispering across the satin, stroking the curve of her right breast. "What are you going to do? You are the weaker sex, madam."

  So she counted. "One...two....."

  She grabbed his wrist, twisted his arm and took him down on his knees to the carriage floor, with her other hand on his shoulder and her booted heel on his back. It was over in a flash, the young man's forehead pressed into the sawdust and scuff-marks.

  He cursed, turning his angry face up to her, cheeks flaming. "Damn you, woman!"

  "Yes...quite." Slowly releasing him from her hold, she reached up and tapped on the roof of the carriage with her knuckles. The motion rumbled to a halt. Nicholas scrambled upright and sat glaring at her, rubbing his arm, sulking.

  "Poor Master Wilder," she remarked coolly. "You have been in the wars today. I would advise you to take greater care in your encounters with horses and women. Good day." She gathered her packages and stepped down into the rain.

  Surprisingly he recovered enough to leap out and open the gate for her. "You are the most unusual woman I ever met," he admitted affably.

  "Why is that? Because I refused your attentions?"

  He gave her a crooked grin. "In part, yes."

  She shook her head, walking through the gate he held open for her.

  "You haven't put me off you know," he said.

  "I'll try harder next time," she replied.

  She heard his laughter as he closed her gate and bounced up into his carriage again, an irrepressible young scoundrel who quickly got over being tackled by the "weaker" sex. In fact, she wouldn't be at all surprised if he'd taunted her with that insult deliberately to get her dander up.

  Boisterous youth.

  Oh, what had she taken on?

  Three in the Afternoon

  November 22nd

  She chose a deep mauve muslin suit for afternoon tea with Nicky—their first "official" meeting. In the plush, very proper environs of the glamorous Dalton Hotel, Drusilla knew she would be safe from his tricks. Then she could concentrate on improving his etiquette. It surprised her that Nicky's great-grandmama, Elinor Charming, hadn't taken the boy's tutelage in hand herself, if she was that concerned. But according to Captain Wilder, the old lady had no patience and her temper was so like Nicky's that they clashed severely. The Captain feared this haughty matriarch might end up striking his grandson out of her will too.

  After her brief encounter with Nicholas, Drusilla could see she had her work cut out for her.

  "I am told you are very strict, Madam," the Captain had said, when they made their agreement. "That you will soon have the boy whipped into shape."

  He completely had the wrong end of the stick—or in this case, the paddle, she mused as she stood before the cheval mirror in her bedroom and assessed her appearance for the appointment with Nicholas. Mauve, she decided, was just right. It was not too young for her and not too old. Drusilla usually wore black, but this was a different occasion, of course. It even warranted a plumed hat, if she wasn't to look out of place in the dining room of the Dalton Hotel.

  "You look beautiful, ma'am," her maid exclaimed, standing behind her shoulder, looking into the tall mirror. "Quite a picture. Like Lilly Langtry. Better even."

  Drusilla smiled at that. "Have you ever laid eyes on Lilly Langtry, Polly?"

  The young girl looked crestfallen. "No ma'am." Then she brightened, her small face lighting up her reflection with a wide smile. "But they say she's the most beautiful woman in the world. Obviously they've never seen you beside her, ma'am."

  She chuckled. "I might have to raise your wages."

  "It's the truth, ma'am."

  Turning to check her profile in the mirror, she smoothed down her corseted waist. Not bad. She could almost span it with her fingers. Those tight laces would make her dizzy in a few hours, but pain must be endured for fashion.

  "My father always said it's better to be poor and honest, than rich and deceitful, ma'am."

  "Your father is a wise man. Is he in service too?"

  "Oh no, ma'am. My father worked on the land. We had a small tithe cottage on a farm south of here." The girl looked pensive suddenly. "But my ma didn't like living there. I heard her shouting at my pa all the time that he should go to London and make money so that we didn't have to be poor. She said she wanted more excitement in her life."

  Don't we all, thought Drusilla.

  "Then one day a travelling salesman sold my pa some seeds, saying they were magical and would bring us happiness. My pa planted those seeds in the ground and waited."

  "And?"

  "The seeds just grew into pumpkins."

  "Pumpkins?" She'd never tasted one in her life, although she'd once worked in a house where a cook made a pie from pumpkin custard.

  "And my ma ran off with the traveling salesman," Polly added with a gusty sigh.

  "Oh, dear," Drusilla shook her head. "How dreadful."

  "It was. We had to eat pumpkin every day for months."

  She struggled to hide a chuckle and it was good she did, for then Polly continued her story.

  "My pa's heart was broke. One night he drank too much brandy, fell asleep by the fire and burned the cottage down, himself with it. I got my little brothers and sister out or we would have been ashes too I daresay."

  Drusilla was horrified and felt awful for being on the verge of laughter just a few moments ago. "Polly! I'm sorry. I never knew—"

  "That's all right, ma'am. I was just a girl when it happened. That's why I had to go into service. We all did—my brothers, sister and me. I brought them to London."

  "Just a girl? You're still just a girl, surely."

  "I grew up fast after that. But I'm eighteen now, ma'am."

  Drusilla looked at the girl in the mirror. She was a pretty creature with silky, dark skin. Her eyes were wide, lush brown, and her lips curved like those of a playful cherub. Her hair, under that white cap was very dark and shone like silk. Dru wondered why she'd never known about the girl's tragic past before. Then she remembered Polly had introduced herself at the interview as an orphan. That was probably why she'd asked nothing about family.

  "Don't look so sad, ma'am," Polly exclaimed, patting the puffed shoulders of Drusilla's blouse. "These things happen and there are folk worse off than me in this world."

  The girl was a perky, eternal optimist it seemed. It was, perhaps, her one annoying characteristic.

  "Me and my brothers and sisters, ma'am, we rose up out o' the cinders," Polly was saying, "Like the phoenix in that fable."

  "Yes, I suppose so," she muttered, dourly amused by the little maid's enthusiasm and surprised by her knowledge of fables. Still, why should she be surprised? Did she think she was the only girl who began poor, but taught herself to read and wanted to better herself?

  "What about a brooch ma'am. This jet one?"

  Drusilla considered. "No. I think not." A woman in her position—running a successful, discreet business—could not afford to draw attention to herself. She noticed Polly eyeing the box of chocolates on her dresser. A gift sent from Nicholas along with a bunch of chrysanthemums. Apparently she was forgiven for tackling him to the floor of his carriage. Knowing her luck and his impudence, her actions had only increased the boy's ardor. Well, today would be all business and he would not lay
a finger on her again. "You may try the chocolates, Polly."

  "Really, ma'am?"

  "Just don't eat too many or you'll be sick." Drusilla had familiarity with that particular over-indulgence herself and if no one helped her out she was likely to eat the entire box.

  The maid lifted the round, gold lid, her eyes like saucers as she surveyed the rows of dainty, rich dark chocolates nestled in gold and pink tissue paper cups. "Charming's Chocolates. I only ever saw these in a shop window, ma'am." It took her a few minutes to choose one and then she swallowed it whole, much to Drusilla's amusement.

  * * * *

  According to the Maitre d', when she asked for Mr. Wilder's table, he was already waiting for her. She was impressed. When obliged to meet an older woman for tea, most young men of twenty one could not be relied upon to get the date correct, let alone the time.

  Led by a waiter, and carefully avoiding eye contact with any guest, she moved between the crisp white table cloths. In the distance a quartet played cheerful but restrained music, just heard above the low clamor of voices and refined chink of silver spoons against thin china, but not loud enough to be intrusive. The scent of light floral perfume mingled with the warm sweetness of tea and a refreshingly crisp touch of cucumber. To think, she mused, there were people in the world who would never experience tea at the Dalton Hotel. Such a pity for them. A soul should experience this at least once.

  Of course, had her life not taken the turn it did ten years ago, she might never have known this treat either. She might still be making dinner for the Earl of Helmsley, if he hadn't stumbled down to the kitchens of his own manor house one evening, very late, and found her reprimanding an errant footman, whom she'd caught spying on her as she washed her hair in the scullery. She still remembered the look on both men's faces, their lust, sheer as her wet nightgown. When the Earl decided he wanted the same treatment as she'd been giving the naughty footman—a spanking with the egg whisk and a grooved butter paddle— Drusilla went along with it rather than risk losing her place. Soon after that she was plucked out of the servants' hall and became the Earl's mistress.