The Wronged Princess - Book I

  The Wronged Princess – Book I

  copyright © 2012 by Kathy L Wheeler

  Excerpt “The Unlikely Heroine” Book II copyright © 2012 by Kathy L Wheeler

  Excerpt “The Surprising Enchantress” Book III copyright © 2012 by Kathy L Wheeler

  All Rights Reserved

  kae-elle-wheeler.com

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Kathy L Wheeler.

  Cover Art © romancenovelcovers.com

  e-book formatted by Kathy L Wheeler

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 - Chapter 33

  Epilogue I

  Epilogue II

  The Real Epilogue

  Excerpt “The Unlikely Heroine – Book II”

  Excerpt “The Surprising Enchantress – Book III”

  The Wronged Princess

  Book I

  Kae Elle Wheeler

  Prologue

  “’Tis time to set our plan in motion, Thomasine.”

  “She is very young, oui?” Queen Thomasine, of Chalmers Kingdom, spoke in hushed tones to her twin sister—Cinderella’s illustrious fairy godmother. “She cannot be more than all of seventeen, I vow.” The queen was mamán to none other than Prince Edric Osmond Thorn VIII, otherwise referred to as—Prince Charming,

  “’Tis only two years younger than my nephew, ma chére. You know as well as I, some of these backward monarchies approve marriages for their heirs as young as twelve. And to such elderly sovereigns.” The vision in pink shuddered. “Why, Eleanor of Castile was sent to England as Edward’s bride when she was but ten. Absolutely appalling.”

  Thomasine ignored her sister’s comment with compressed lips and paced the small sparse chamber. She preferred not to think of a ten year old being forced into such a situation. What she did prefer to think of, however, was how enamored her son was over the unknown beauty seen fleeing the ballroom at the stroke of midnight a sennight prior. A lovely ball she herself had staged. “Are you certain this scheme of yours shall work? The chit managed to dislodge her glass slipper on the stair in her haste to depart. That silly boy of mine has the ridiculous notion of trying it on every maiden in the kingdom to find her. If that is not the most preposterous idea I have ever heard…”

  A suspicious snort sounded from her twin. Thomasine looked up quickly. She detected nothing in her sister’s gaze, just intelligent gray eyes that mirrored her own.

  Thomasine sighed. “I realize he is only nineteen, but I fear he may be following in my dear Osmond’s stead. As much as I adore my husband and king—why I vow this monarchy would have long since perished without my brains and intuitiveness.”

  The smile her sister bestowed was condescending at best. “’Twill be difficult, dear, but ’tis all for the greater good, just as we’d discussed. You shall see.” Her sister’s lack of concern was most unnerving. It was all Thomasine could do, restraining the efforts to confront her son to tell him her vexations on the matter. But young men rarely listened to their mothers, no matter how wise the action.

  Hands fisted at hips, Thomasine considered Faustine’s petite figure and elegantly styled coiffure, so similar to her own. “You realize a skilled formula is necessary in camouflaging Prince’s powers of recognition, non? We would not want to hamper the outcome of our little undertaking. The whole purpose is teaching him to think through his impulsive tendencies.”

  “Oui, oui.” Faustine stood quickly—poised—rather, to make her unusual exit.

  “Not to mention our future princess has seen you. Once she sees me—I am queen, you know…and, well, we do resemble one another, non?”

  “Oui, Thomasine. Now, if you’ve no more obstructions to impinge my delay?”

  “Vite…wait!” Thomasine said. The frothy pink gown her sister wore reminded Thomasine of an overly sweet confection. Dotted with an egregious host of tiny diamonds—a bit much in her opinion—she thought the dress might better serve as a beacon in the eye of a storm. “What of the powers bestowed by the mysterious Monsieur Pinetti?”

  “What of them?”

  Thomasine studied her expression carefully. Still, not a twinge of concern marred her brow. How did she do it? “Will he consider this an abuse of power?”

  “Bah, how will he find out, ma chére? Do not worry so. What can go wrong?” With a flick of the thin silver baton she held—Poof! She dissipated, leaving an air of sparkling shimmers in her wake.

  “What, indeed?” Thomasine said to the now empty chamber.

  Chapter 1

  Cinderella could not believe it—she’d lost her shoe, and it was glass too. “Oh,” she choked out to her friend in the corner, Marcel, her own sweet pet; a gray dormouse so generous with his company. “What will Fairy Godmother say?” She sniffed back irritating tears.

  Marcel cocked his head to one side and perched on his hind legs squeaking his acquiescence.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your loyal support. But the answer is easy,” she told him, shaking her head in complete disagreement. “She will only tell me how irresponsible I’ve been.” Cinderella scowled. ’Twas a shame her nature disallowed her dropping to the floor in the wake of self-pity. “There’s no way back to find the blasted thing either. That ridiculous coach has already morphed back into a big fat pumpkin.” ’Twas only by sheer luck she, in the interim, had not been dwarfed into a seed.

  Flying back on a broomstick had been out of the question—who did she think she was, the Wicked Witch of the West?

  Cinderella paced the floor from her own little corner to the cottage door. Back and forth she wore a path on gleaming worn-wood floors, peering through cheerful red and white gingham-checked curtains with each pass. She needed these few moments compose herself. Why, what if they’d somehow recognized her as the unknown guest at the ball? Stepmamá was sure to kill her.

  “Non. Non. Stepmamá would not kill me,” she assured Marcel. “Fairy Godmother would surely save me from a fate as dire as death.” But Cinderella frowned, not all that convinced.

  Still, ’twould be best if Stepmamá, Esmeralda and Pricilla would hurry from the ball, for reassure, if nothing else. The vibration of carriage wheels rattled the window panes, trundling down the isolated road in their small corner of Chalmers Kingdom. Knots of trepidation formed in her stomach. Mayhap she was not so ready for them after all.

  Oh, how had she allowed herself into this predicament? Hands twisted in anguish through her apron. She should have heeded her lessons, she berated herself. This is what came of believing in fairy tales.

  Heartbreak and fear.

  With deep measured breaths, Cinderella made a concerted effort to crush her restive nerves. But they failed to quell the anxiety that palpitated through her veins. Each passing second the carriage drew closer, and with it roiling queasiness. Cheeks warm with distress she rushed to the wool padded-footstool and plopped down. Even that was not enough to soothe such apprehension. A place where she’d spent many a day dreaming of being a young Norwegian princess or a milkmaid.

  She rose and peered through the parted curtains unable to remain immobile. She brushed clammy, trembling hands over her drab skirts and waited for the conveyance to creak to its excruciating stop, and inhaling deeply, again.

  In silent torture she watched Stepmamá sweep from the buggy with the aid of their only footman. Mu
ch like a reigning queen. Ha. In Stepmamá’s wildest dreams.

  Stepmamá’s nose, long and crooked, made for a less than attractive sight. The deep furrows in her forehead reflected blatant, narrow-mindedness. Bitter lines about her mouth aged her more than her actual years. Mayhap Stepmamá was the Wicked Witch of the West and she cast her ugly spell.

  Cinderella pushed the terrible thoughts away. After all, Papá must truly have loved her. He’d married her when Cinderella was but a wee child of three. A feat she still struggled to comprehend. Why else would he have married her?

  Anonymity provided decent cover for Cinderella’s true feelings as her eyes followed the procession of her mean and vicious stepsisters, less attractive than their evil mamá, were that even possible. She cast a quick glance to Marcel. He gave her an encouraging nod.

  Having suffered at their hands for many years, Cinderella knew when to speak and when to hold her tongue. Now that she and her sisters were at the marriageable ages of seventeen and eighteen, Cinderella hugged a spark of hope with the advantage of one little secret.

  Prince Charming of Chalmers Kingdom was in love with her.

  In a moment of panic she remembered Marcel and gasped. “Hide!” she hissed at him. With a tiny mew he fled beneath the baseboard, and with a patience long sensed honed, backed from the window and donned her most earnest and heartfelt expression as her family barged through the door. “Was the ball just wonderful?” She was gushing. Ugh. Yet survival remained vital in this quaint cottage. So if she must gush, then gush she would.

  “Of course, Cinderella.” Amazing how Pricilla and Esmeralda could spat in unison like rusted cringing door hinges. Cinderella strived for bland and nonchalant tones.

  Pricilla bit out, “Until that mysterious princess showed up.”

  Cinderella swallowed. Soundlessly, she prayed. “Mysterious princess?” It came out similar to Marcel’s squeak but she mustered every ounce of innocence she could manage into the one tiny question.

  “Once she showed up, the prince ceased casting his attentions toward any other marriageable prospects.” Esmeralda snarled through thin lips, and sniffed her disdain, tossing a head of copper curls.

  Cinderella mustered her mask of practiced blankness. Excruciating as it would be, she must languish through the next unbearable hour if she had any hope of learning what happened after her untimely departure. As expected, Pricilla and Esmeralda droned on with illustrated mundane descriptions on the varying dresses, and ballroom decorations. A shame she possessed not enough skills to redirect the conversation to Prince and the monopolization of his “mysterious princess.”

  The thought even crossed her mind throughout their incessant droning, she might rather be washing the floors. Instead, she stifled the many urges to roll her eyes as they prattled on. Well, she had asked had she not? She deserved the torture, she supposed with an inward sigh, having let curiosity get the better of her.

  Still, she struggled to repress the impulse to spill her secret, but experience had given her the gift of patience. She cheered at the thought.

  “What is with you, Cinderella?” Stepmamá’s gaze narrowed on her with penetrating suspicion and undisguised curiosity.

  Cinderella, who had been rocking back and forth in soft flat slippers, froze. “No...nothing, Stepmamá.”

  “You seem almost—giddy,” Stepmamá accused in her nasal and high pitched grate. She peered closer, her beaked nose almost touching Cinderella. "Scrape those cobwebs from your hair. If I did not know better I would allege that glitter covered your head.” Stepmamá paused as if considering such a possibility before her loud cackle burst forth. Cinderella swallowed the overwhelming temptation to tell her it was glitter in a painful gulp.

  "Oui, Stepmamá.” Cinderella glanced round for something, anything to redirect Stepmamá’s attention. “Tea. May I get you tea, Madám?”

  Stepmamá appeared to consider it for a moment, then, said—or hissed, more like, “Non. My feet desire a soaking. Obtain the water for my tired and aching limbs.” Cinderella knew an escape when one presented itself.

  “Oui, Stepmamá. Right away.” Stepmamá dropped her massive frame into the one comfortable chair and shifted her unnerving consideration to Esmeralda, sending shudders down Cinderella’s spine. Stop that incessant blinking at once. How am to I ever marry you off with that repulsive twitch?” Cinderella slipped through the cottage door to fetch the pail of water, Stepmamá’s bellowing screech pealing against the walls.

  Once beyond sight Cinderella bent and shook out her long dark hair out where shiny particles, indeed, floated like magic dust to the ground in a shower of shimmering sparkles.

  She found she was unable to suppress her grin.

  *****

  Prince Charming of Chalmers Kingdom lay reclined on his royal bed atop red velvet coverlets seemingly unaffected by the evenings’ catastrophe. One arm folded behind his head, ankles crossed, he still wore his shined boots and contemplated the disastrous result of the ball.

  Candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows along the walls, competing with a roaring fire in the grate. So accustomed to the rich red and golds of the chamber, he ceased to see them as his memory regenerated the surprising, and miracle, if you will, of the ball. A ball his dear mamán had insisted upon to facilitate the finding of his bride.

  A bride for which he’d had no desire—until now. After all, ten and nine was much too young for marriage. Even for an heir apparent. Modern men married older these days, he grimaced. Mayhap, someone should enlighten Mamán.

  But…a vision in creamy ivory silk floated before him. Though hours had since passed, seared in his memory was the entrance of the spellbinding beauty appearing atop the grandiose staircase far above the ballroom. Her path blazed with the light of a thousand candles. She’d needed no introduction. He’d been stymied from the moment he’d set eyes on her. And he hadn’t been the only one.

  Stunned silence rumbled through the ballroom. Just before the snippets of buzzing rippled all round as he made his way to her.

  “Who is she?” they’d breathed.

  “Where did she come from?” they’d whispered.

  “Such a beauty,” they’d murmured.

  Star struck gazes riveted his attention. But they focused, not on him. Non. ’Twas an unusual sensation, to be sure. Mouth dry, he tried to swallow as nothing short of death could tear his eyes from the white velvet, trimmed gown. A left shoulder bared accentuated her graceful neck and slender shoulders but for the sliver of a delicate gold chain adorned by a single teardrop diamond.

  The sight before him had the room shimmering with an iridescent glow. Her arrival held the entire population enthralled—the entire kingdom ceased to exist.

  He forged forward, his path opening magically.

  Long, slender fingers slid along the massive balustrade, stealing his breath, constricting his chest. He found himself afraid to blink lest she disappear. But step after step, the folds of her graceful gown billowed over fragile glass slippers—until that moment.

  The moment she’d moved straight into his waiting arms.

  He twirled her through the ballroom with one perfect waltz following another. Knowing he’d stepped, or danced, past the stricture of protocol, helpless against its pull. Rich mahogany locks lay piled high on her head in a sophisticated twist clasped into place with a small, elegant jeweled crown. No curls to mar its thickness or beauty.

  He was breathless, speechless, captivated.

  Whomever this mysterious princess was, she was his now. Or soon would be. He must remember to thank Mamán for her insistence on searching out his bride. He grinned at the frescoed ceiling.

  The air had shimmered round her like the halo of an angel, eyes of the darkest, most decadent chocolate one could only dream, and full lips that trembled with a timid and tremulous smile.

  He was caught.

  “Will I love you because you’re beautiful?” he said softly against her cheek. “Or because you’re wonderful?
”

  “I am but a dream,” she responded. Her voice matched her, soft, enticing, mysterious.

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. He did not know. He could not know. He only knew he wanted to sing from the rooftops. A defining moment, he decreed. Because he now knew…he’d found…

  Princess Charming.

  The evening raced past in a whirlwind of dancing where no words were needed. They would have a lifetime to talk. Right now ’twas enough to revel in the feel of her arms, the scent of her hair. She floated like the whisper of a cloud, the mist of a ghost.

  ’Twas a lovely night. One he knew he’d never see, again.

  Then—disaster struck.

  As sure as the stroke of midnight sounding from the tower clock. Twelve bongs that would change his life—forever.

  It seemed only ten minutes since he’d met her.

  “What’s that noise?” she’d asked. Her voice was as soft as feather down. Her smile disarmed him so. He smiled back.

  “The tower clock,” he’d responded, mesmerized those luscious, full, red lips. “The night is young, my lady. ’Tis only midnight.” He could not decide if the fragranced blooms inundating his senses came from the surrounding gardens, or the flower in his arms.

  “Midnight,” she breathed—then blinked. She’d stilled at the word. Halted in the middle of the dance floor, alarm marring her lovely features, panic colored her voice. “I-I must go.”

  Before he’d realized her intentions, she’d spun, and run from the garden, through the ballroom. Flying, up the stairs and out of his life. The ballroom doors parted as if on command, allowing—non—assisting her escape.

  And yet, there he’d stood, dumbstruck, bewildered. His limbs thick, heavy leads of steel as hundreds of people cleared the way, mindful of her haste. He jerked to the present, torn from his dream.

  He should have them all beheaded.