London Fairy Tales
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Rachel Van Dyken
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518K
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29
PROLOGUE
That, if then I had waked after a long sleep, will make me sleep again;
and then, in dreaming, the clouds me thought would open and show riches ready to drop upon me;
that, when I waked I cried to dream again.
- William Shakespeare
STEFAN
London, England
Stefan made the mistake of looking into her deep brown eyes and instantly regretted it. She wasn’t his to admire, she belonged to someone else.
He was in love, or at least he thought he was, ever since he first saw her a year ago. But what good was his love when her heart was already taken?
She was promised to his brother, and Stefan despised himself for it. He was doomed to watch them share laughter and happiness for the rest of his life.
Each time her eyes met his brother’s, a piece of him died.
There were three of them, three brothers, and their father, The King, as they always called him, spoiled them rotten.
His youngest brother had fallen head over heels for Elaina at a dinner party. Just like the rest of the family had. With her long golden hair and deep brown eyes, she was the dream of every man.
And the youngest son—the one without a title, the one destined to be a vicar—had won the ultimate prize. The one thing that money and a title couldn’t buy—love.
Stefan looked away. How much heartache could one endure before it shattered? Could unrequited love destroy a person’s soul in one breath?
His body tensed when she breathed; his breath hitched when she spoke, and his passion ignited when she laughed.
Damn her, and damn his brother Fitz.
In moments like these, he wished he could be more like his carefree brother, James Gregory. But no, Stefan was too damn serious for that.
He was the heir—the Marquess, trapped in his own personal Purgatory.
“I’m going to tour India,” Stefan blurted out. His father had arranged it after seeing Stefan mope around for the past year.
It was decided that a tour of India was just what he needed—though Stefan sometimes wondered if his father hoped to get rid of him to ease the pain of seeing his eldest son so miserable.
The room fell silent; his father gave him a knowing look. His brother Fitz, always perceptive, gave a brief nod. “Do you think that’s the best decision, considering your position, Stefan?”
“I do.” His words were short and sharp.
Elaina tilted her head and smiled. “What’s gotten into you, Stefan? You’re not the adventurous type. Wouldn’t you be happier here? Where it’s safe? And you can live a quiet, happy life?”
If he hadn’t already made up his mind, her condescending assessment of his character would have done it for him. “I’ve made arrangements.”
His brother Fitz squinted through his looking glass. “Stefan, this isn’t like you. By Jove,” he laughed, “you’re afraid of your own shadow!”
The room erupted into laughter. All except his brother James, who with a twinkle in his eye said, “I hope you find what you’re looking for, brother. And do try to make it back in one piece. You wouldn’t want the title passed down to someone like me.”
Stefan Hudson, Marquess of Whitmore and future Duke of Montmouth, left the following week and never looked back.
ROSALIND
Rosalind Hartwell felt like she was being auctioned off to the highest bidder.
One moment she was engaged to the most ridiculous dandy she had ever seen, and the next, a man with dark skin and sandy blonde hair announced he was the rightful Marquess of Whitmore.
Her head was spinning as she reached for a glass of champagne and winced at the sight of the handsome stranger standing before her.
This man made every other man in the room look pale and sickly. His skin was dark, his teeth practically glowed against his square jaw.
How had her life come to this?
She looked around; surely someone would step forward and help her? But the ton, it seemed, had lost their tongues at the worst possible time for Rosalind.
The only help came from the infamous Lord Rawlings who had nearly punched her former fiancé—James—square in the face just moments before.
Abby, her best friend and now Lady Rawlings, looked her way. Rosalind shook her head. No, she would stay put. Let the man get his bearings before he realizes he’s betrothed.
Good heavens! He just came back from the dead. The last thing any shipwrecked man would want is to be chained to a woman he didn’t choose.
God! He probably didn’t even know about his bleak future!
Rosalind adjusted her gloves and waited. The man laughed; the music started. And she continued to wait.
That is until the Dowager Duchess of Barlowe looked her way, even though Rosalind was sure the plant had hidden her.
The bronze man walked towards her. She gulped, and for the life of her, couldn’t manage to smile, so stunned was she.
“Lady Rosalind?” He reached for her hand and kissed her knuckles. Shivers ran down her spine. Fear. That was it. She was scared. Surely she wasn’t attracted to this barbarian!
His next words—though she had no way of knowing it—sealed her fate, her eternity, with this man. “I release you.”
Stunned, she closed her eyes to gather herself. “Excuse me? Am I some sort of wild creature that needs to be released?”
Something flashed in his eyes before he regained his composure and answered, “Surely, you don’t want to be betrothed to a man you hardly know?”
Rosalind scoffed.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how engagements work. I’d disgrace my family if I called it off. But you’re doing this for me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he replied.
Rosalind’s arms suddenly felt heavy, and she clenched her fists. Her eyes and legs felt the same way.
Oh no. Not again.
Not in the middle of the ballroom! Her tongue felt like a lead weight in her mouth. She swayed on her feet, managing to mumble, “As you wi—” before collapsing into his arms.
STEFAN
Stefan was dumbfounded. Completely taken aback. No woman had ever fallen asleep while he was talking.
Not even once.
That included the ninety-seven-year-old Indian woman who was always smoking that devil's herb.
She stayed awake.
But his fiancée didn’t.
“Lady Rosalind?” he asked softly, though he wasn’t sure why.
He’d already caused a major scandal by showing up alive at the end of the Season, and now his fiancée had fainted in his arms.
“Good heavens! Is she dead?” The Dowager Barlowe fanned herself frantically, signaling for help.
Whispers spread through the crowd as they watched the scandal unfold. Lady Rosalind moaned in his arms.
She looked a bit tipsy, but he knew she was just sleeping.
Just what he needed. More attention. Come on over, everyone! Looks like I’ve killed the woman I’m supposed to marry. Enjoy the show.
“Is there somewhere I can take her?” Without waiting for an answer, he scooped her up and made his way through the crowd to the nearest room.
Not wanting to ruin her reputation, but with no other options, he entered the first room the dowager pointed to and gently laid her on the leather settee.
“We can’t just leave her here alone. It’s not proper!” The dowager continued fanning herself as Lady Rosalind let out a very unladylike snore.
“Is she…” He looked down at her beautiful face. No way. He couldn’t trust his own ears. And then her mouth opened slightly, releasing a puff of air. “Snoring?” he finished, completely shocked.
Stefan felt around for a chair, not daring to take his eyes off the sleeping beauty. He finally found something to sit on.
Right on top of his grandmother.
“Do you mind?” the dowager hissed.
“Sorry,” he said, quickly getting off his grandmother's lap. He ran his hands through his long, unfashionable hair.
Three unbelievable things had happened that night—the last being that he was so focused on Lady Rosalind, he ended up sitting on his grandmother's lap.
Something he hadn’t done since he was eight.
“Well, I’m off then, have a great time, Stefan. It’s good to see you back. I’ll see you in the morning, and sorry about all the fuss out there.
“I had to play my part. Couldn’t let on that I knew you were back before everyone else. Your father would have a fit!”
“You did great.”
The dowager smiled. “Yes, well, I once tried for the theater, many years ago, but did you know they don’t like women with opinions?”
“I can imagine.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll leave you with—” She pointed, but stopped talking. Instead, she shook her head and tsked before closing the door behind her.
Stefan’s eyes stayed on the door his grandmother had just left through, waiting for what he knew was coming.
The door opened again. “Oh my! I almost forgot. You can’t be alone with her!”
His grandmother hadn’t changed a bit in the six years he’d been gone. Even birds flying around could distract her.
And he loved her for it. “Well, Grandmother, I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman. Why don’t you go have some sherry?”
“Yes, yes, only if you think it’s best, Stefan. After all, you are engaged.”
What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. With a satisfied huff, she patted his head — quite a feat considering she had to jump to reach it — and closed the door again.
Alone. Completely alone with a woman.
Not that she was a stranger, but he had managed to shock her into sleep. How he’d done that was beyond him.
With nothing else to do but watch her, he sat on the sofa across from her and waited.
Time dragged when there was nothing to do but wait. He looked away from her peaceful face and did the only thing he could think of.
First he hummed.
Then he got tired of his own voice, so he started counting.
But he was never good at math.
So he risked another look at the beauty before him.
And cursed.
How was he engaged? And to a woman like this? Rosalind Hartwell! Was his father crazy?
Stefan couldn’t understand what had happened since his supposed death. It hurt to think that his family hadn’t even tried to look for him!
They just took a sailor’s word that the ship he was on had sunk, taking all the cargo and passengers, except for one sailor and himself, to the bottom of the sea.
And to come back months later to find that his brother had gone mad, and his father had lost control of the family.
The only control he seemed to have was to pawn off the Marquess to the Hartwell family in hopes of an alliance.
The Hartwells and Hudsons had a history that spanned over a hundred years. The tale was that an heir must always marry a Hartwell, or some terrible curse would befall them.
Stefan hadn’t paid much attention when his father droned on about these peculiar family traditions.
After all, he was too busy falling head over heels for his brother’s wife.
He cursed under his breath and shook his head. Maybe he should have stayed on the tiny island where he was shipwrecked. That would have been a more welcoming place.
He had food, if you could call a daily diet of fish food. He had clothes, if a torn shirt and a useless cravat counted. And he had company—a small squirrel who often squabbled with him over nuts and wild berries.
Woodland creatures. That’s what he had for company when he was shipwrecked.
Could it be that he was actually envious of the woodland creatures and their simple life now that he was trapped in this damned room with Rosalind Hartwell?
And why on earth did he keep using her full name in his thoughts?
“Rosalind Hartwell,” he tested it on his tongue. Well, damn it if it didn’t feel good. But of course it would.
Just one more peek, his mind urged him. After all, for some cursed reason, she was still asleep.
He gave in.
Soft red hair framed her face. Pale milky skin and a body that would make a goddess green with envy. One thing was for sure, Rosalind Hartwell was a sight to behold.
And as much as it annoyed him, even when she snored, her lips looked beautiful, untouched, and begging to be kissed.
Kissed?
Maybe he had malaria. Yes, that was it. He was sick. That’s why he was thinking about kissing, no, devouring a sleeping woman.
Or maybe it was just because he hadn’t been with a woman in…
Well, as previously mentioned, math wasn’t his strong suit.
“Mmmm.” The beauty stirred. As did something in him.
Just what he needed at that moment. Another reason to follow his primal instincts.
“Mmmm,” she moaned again, but her eyes were still closed, though now he noticed that they seemed to move back and forth rapidly as if she was trying to blink, but her eyelids were too heavy to make the effort.
“Mmmm!” Louder this time.
Gritting his teeth, he managed not to choke, or curse, or think too many sinful thoughts when the woman stretched her arms high above her head and yawned.
Her beautiful curves strained against the confines of her dress until the devil in him hoped they would spill over the dress, giving him a valid reason to be lusting after her as much as he already was.
“Where…” her deep voice spoke, eyes still closed.
He waited.
“Where am I?” She blinked several times, then looked directly at him and let out a scream so ear-piercingly loud that he was sure his ears were bleeding from the pain.
“Shhhh!” he put his hand over her mouth, which in hindsight probably wasn’t the best idea considering she had just met him.
But her fear moved her. With a swift motion, the woman bit into his vulnerable hand. When he pulled back in surprise, she elbowed him in the ribs and tried to escape him.
He caught her around the waist and pulled her back into his lap in one smooth motion, holding her tight until she finally stopped struggling against him.
“Hello,” he said, knowing it was the worst possible way to wake a well-bred lady—watch her while she slept, scare her senseless, pull her into his lap, and offer an awkward greeting.
Savages, shipwrecks, and squirrels were looking better by the minute.
“Let me go, you brute!”
“Promise not to bite, elbow, or scream? I'm not sure my ears can handle another one of your screams. Maybe we can come up with a signal next time you feel the need to open your mouth?”
She started to squirm again, making things all the more difficult for him, given his current state of… fascination with her body.
“Lady, stop moving before I give you a real reason to scream.”
Stefan tightened his grip on her waist and slowly, effortlessly, planted a kiss on the exposed side of her neck. He told himself it was to scare her, and it was. Sort of.
The moment his lips touched her neck, she froze. He let go of her and deliberately placed her next to him on the sofa.
“I must say,” Stefan adjusted his cravat. “That was a first for me. I imagine it's not common for a woman to faint into your arms so willingly.”
Rosalind snorted and turned her brilliant green eyes onto him. “Surely you don't think it was your presence that caused my fainting? I was simply hot.”
She fanned her face with her hand as if needing to show him how sweltering it had been.
“Right,” he said smugly. “And that explains how your body went completely stiff when you fell?”
Did she think him a fool?
Turning away, she shrugged. “Are we going to discuss my fainting all night, or did you have other business with me?”
“Business?” He laughed. “I was in the middle of releasing you from the betrothal contract. So, yes. Let's call it business.”
“And I believe I said, “As you wish”
“No, actually you said, “As you wi”—and then promptly fell, quite wantonly into my arms. Since I am a gentleman, I've decided not to hold it against you.”
Rosalind scooted away. “Are we finished here?”
Trying to hide the concern he felt, he replied, “Only if you assure me that you are in perfect health.”
“Of course. I can't say I've ever fainted before. But I assure you I'm in perfect health! Good night, my lord.” With a huff, she pushed from the sofa, took two steps, and began to fall once more.
Stefan cursed and caught her just before she hit the floor. “You do realize this is twice in one night. If I were one for fairy tales, I'd say you just marked me as your long lost prince.”
ROSALIND
Rosalind shot him a glare, but she was still somewhat frozen in place. She wished she could somehow transmit the scolding thoughts she was having right now as she turned her icy stare onto his handsome face.
And, boy, was he handsome! It was just plain unfair that she’d only been engaged to him for a few measly hours.
Was it so wrong to hope for a kiss from a man like this? Just once before she died from this awful disease?
“Rosalind?” He brought his big hand to her cheek. “I’ll call for your carriage, you need to get to bed.”
“Yeah, more sleep, why didn’t I think of that?” she shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Her darn legs were still not moving, they’d fallen asleep too.
“Do I need to carry you again?”
Why did she have to be so stubborn? She silently pleaded with her legs to work, then finally said, “If you wouldn’t mind.”
He picked her up as if it was nothing. And it was kind of nice being in his arms, even if it was just for a few steps. From this angle, she could admire his strong jawline, like a Norse god or a Roman gladiator.
He looked like the type to fight first and ask questions later.
Unable to keep her head up any longer, she gave in to the urge to rest it against his broad shoulder. He smelled like warm cinnamon and soap.
Rosalind closed her eyes and breathed in his scent, it was unlike anything she’d ever smelled before.
That’s when she realized he’d stopped walking.
“Why did we stop?”
He chuckled, looking down at her. “I thought I’d give you a chance to get your fill before we head out into the night. Who knows how much the stinky night air could mask my scent, right?”
Feeling her face heat up, Rosalind buried it deeper into his shoulder. “I wasn’t doing that.”
He laughed. “Sure, Rose, sure.”
She snapped her head up to look at him, resisting the urge to comment on his use of her nickname, a name only her family used. The nerve.
The numbness in her limbs started to fade as he carried her out the servants’ entrance into the cool night air. She’d never had a spell hit her so suddenly, and right in the middle of a ball!
At least she could be thankful that people were more focused on Lord and Lady Rawlings than on her — well, that and the sudden reappearance of the real Marquess of Whitmore.
Damn him! Did that mean she had to call him that awful name? The thought of calling him Whitmore, as if he was anything like his slimy younger brother, left a bad taste in her mouth.
Her fingers and toes started to tingle, the sensation slowly spreading to her arms and legs. Good. This was a good sign.
She could walk and wouldn’t have to keep being carried by the Norse god who seemed to have no problem carrying her and touching her the way he was.
Oh boy. She could feel… him.
They stopped.
And she hated to admit that the thought of getting into her carriage without the warmth of his body next to hers made her a little sad and annoyed that in the short time they’d known each other, he could make her feel such silly emotions.
Well, he had released her from the contract, and now she was free to go to her estate in Sussex and spend the fall and winter months without the city air threatening to scorch her lungs.
“Rose?” He gently set her on her feet, and only then did she notice that her skirts were all puffed up and wrinkled, giving him a pretty scandalous view of her ankles.
Damn her body for getting a little thrill when his eyes lingered longer than they should have. Enjoy the view—because it’s the last you’ll get.
“And with that, I bid you goodnight.” He steadied her on her feet, then bowed in front of her before turning and walking away.
“Good night,” Rosalind gritted her teeth as she watched him walk away. Was he really going back to the ball? Didn’t he want to make sure she got home safe?
Was he whistling?
The high-pitched tune cut through the night air.
Apparently, he had a lot to be happy about. His fiancée hadn’t held him to his contract, and he was back from the dead, ready to claim his title and all the swooning women in London.
Gathering up her skirts, she climbed into the carriage. Really, he was doing her a favor. Now she was free to find a man of her own choosing.
A man who was tall, muscular, with beautiful eyes and—
“Damn it!” Just because she’d perfectly described him didn’t mean she wanted him.
He was just fresh in her mind. That was all! It had nothing to do with her desire, or anything else for that matter.
What she needed, she thought as the carriage started moving towards Mayfair, was to get away from London. Her best friend's wedding had messed with her head; that had to be it.
And the shock of not having to get married.
And, well, her disease didn’t help.
She’d forgotten about that. How was she supposed to explain that to anyone who asked? She was hardly the type to faint into a man’s arms. Quite the opposite, actually.
The rational part of her brain told her she should see a doctor to check if it was getting worse.
The dreamy, girlish part of her brain said everything was fine, and it was just a one-time thing.
As the carriage pulled up to her parents’ house, she let out a sigh. Now that sleep was out of the question for the next few hours, she might as well tell her father about the broken contract.
Rosalind steadied herself on the edge of the carriage and slowly put weight on one foot, then the other.
Being careful not to trip, she made her way to the front door and opened it, completely worn out from the effort of doing something so simple.
It seemed like after every episode she was slow, her limbs not working right.
With a sigh she looked up at the big mansion. Correction, the second biggest mansion in Mayfair, because the biggest had always belonged to the Whitmore family.
Taking a deep, calming breath, she opened the door and walked in.
Her father, the hermit that he was, was probably in his study drinking tea—he’d given up brandy a long time ago—watching the fire in the fireplace for no other reason than he was slowly going crazy with age.
Or so he claimed whenever his wife, the current countess, nagged him.
“Dad?” She nudged the heavy oak door open.
As she’d guessed, he was perched in his favorite chair, facing the fireplace, a glass of brandy in his hand instead of his usual tea.
That was strange. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him drink. He usually preferred a hot cup of tea.
“Ah, Rose,” he greeted, not bothering to turn around. “What brings you to my study at this hour?”
“Boredom?” she suggested, settling into her favorite spot on the sofa across from him.
Her father, the Earl of Hariss, chuckled. “You think I’m too old to recognize when you’re joking, kiddo? Now, what really made you leave the Season's final ball so early?”
She didn’t want to worry him, so she fibbed. “I fainted. It was pretty hot, after all.”
“Fainted, you say? Rose, let’s be honest, I know you better than anyone and you don’t faint, no matter how hot it is. That’s nonsense, and you know it. I’m more likely to faint than you!”
He had a point. Fiddling with her gloves, she sighed. “I had an episode.”
Her father shot up from his chair, brandy splashing onto the Persian rug.
“An episode? At the ball? But I thought you were finally getting better—it's been weeks since the last one! The doctor said—”
“I know what the doctor said.” Rosalind’s voice was tight.
She despised doctors. They never seemed to know what was wrong with her. Instead, they treated her like some lab rat, poking and prodding until she was ready to scream.
“But it seems that the illness hasn’t left me yet.”
“He assured me you were cured,” her father said.
As if the doctor’s mere declaration that she was cured made it so. In her opinion, the doctor was a quack. He’d even performed some sort of incantation over her!
Not that she’d ever tell her father that.
But the doctor, despite being a top graduate and renowned as the best in London, was a bit strange. Sometimes, he’d stare at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.
His last visit had involved him chanting some sort of spell over her while she lay still on her bed.
He’d then scattered various herbs around her and, without any warning, declared her cured.
“Just like that?” she’d asked, skeptical.
“Of course! Am I not your doctor? Don’t you trust me to take care of you?”
Arrogant as he was, she’d just nodded and muttered “crazy” under her breath while he went to share the good news with her father.
The weird thing was she hadn’t had an episode until tonight, when she saw… him.
“There’s something else.” She cleared her throat, waiting for her father to stop his pacing and look her in the eyes.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
Rosalind bit her lip, wondering how to break the news. “It seems the Marquess of Whitmore isn’t dead.”
The earl said nothing. He just stared into the fire for a long time before asking, “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. He even spoke to me, and I can assure you he wasn’t a ghost.” No, he was far more solid and masculine than any ghost, with bulging muscles and a towering form that could intimidate anyone.
Puzzled, her father stuck his tongue out in thought before sinking back into his chair with a brooding look.
“And what did he say to you? I imagine he caused quite a scene at the ball?”
That was an understatement. “You could say that, yes. But there is some good news. He’s released me from our betrothal contract. However, I am not—”
She was cut off by her father’s face going pale. His eyes closed, and he muttered a curse.
“Tell me he didn’t break the contract. Tell me you’re joking, like you were about fainting.
“Please tell me that, sweetheart, tell me!” He sprang from his chair and grabbed her shoulders, sweat beading on his forehead. “Tell me, tell me!”
Scared, Rosalind’s voice trembled.
“Dad, I thought you’d be relieved, maybe even happy! You don’t owe that family anything. It’s ridiculous that we should stick to that old rule about our families. There’s no curse!”
Her father’s head dropped in defeat; his hands loosened their grip on her shoulders. “What have you done?”
Those were the last words her father said before he died.
