London Fairy Tales

It is never too late to be what you might have been.

George Eliot

ROSALIND

That same cursed day…

Snowflakes danced in the afternoon sky, and Rosalind watched them from her hiding spot. It should have felt lonely, but she cherished these quiet moments alone.

Her godmother, Mary, was always bustling around the manor, making it a miracle that Rosalind could find a place to hide at all. When she was younger, she’d asked her father why she needed a godmother. Wasn’t the house staff enough? He’d just patted her head and told her she was special and needed more than one guardian.

Mary, however, had scoffed at that idea, insisting it was just a precaution in case one of them died. They saw Mary as an insurance policy, but Rosalind knew better. Mary loved her, and she loved Mary. Since leaving her mother in London, Mary was all she had.

Her family had abandoned her after her father's death, hoping the curse would follow only Rosalind.

“What have you done?” he had asked. She shivered, pulling her arms closer to her chest and sinking deeper into the chair.

“Rose!” Mary's voice broke the silence. “Rose! I know you’re hiding! Come here at once!”

Hide from Mary? Rosalind laughed. That was impossible. Mary was always there, watching over her as if she were fragile. It was annoying, to say the least.

“I'm here!” Rosalind called back, closing the book in her lap. She straightened her shoulders and waited for Mary to enter.

Mary stormed into the room, her face flushed. “Child! You can’t just disappear for hours without a word!”

“Peep,” Rosalind replied with a mischievous smile.

Ignoring her, Mary walked over to the window where Rosalind sat. “Don’t you have anything better to do the day before your birthday than read?”

Rosalind stretched. “What would you have me do, Mary? It’s snowing. Should I go for a ride?”

“What a wonderful idea! I'll tell the groom right away!”

Mary rushed out of the room, shouting for Rosalind's horse to be readied.

Rosalind should have known better than to suggest anything to Mary, who believed that idle hands were the devil's playground.

With a sigh, she got up and went to her room to put on a warm riding habit lined with fur and a muff. The last thing she wanted was to freeze to death in the snow the day before her nineteenth birthday—her last one, according to the best doctors in London.

She took her time going down the stairs, careful with each step. She must be crazy to go riding in her condition, but she wondered if Mary just wanted her out of the house. She had been spending a lot of time reading and looking out the window, and her muscles were more tired than ever.

The woman who was once fearless was now full of fear. It seemed to choke the life out of her.

The winter air stung her nose. It wasn’t extremely cold, but it would be a chilly ride. She made her way to the stables, her legs still working properly.

“And how is Duke today?” The familiar smell of horses and sweat greeted her as she saw Duke, already saddled and ready to go.

Hubert, her groom, laughed. “He's as feisty as ever, Miss. Be careful out there. Duke is ready for a long run.”

“We'll be fine, I'm sure.” She closed her eyes, running her hand over Duke's black coat, enjoying the warmth of his fur. She mounted without help and started off at a trot.

As much as she hated to admit it, Mary was right. The cool air was invigorating, and the snow fell gently around her. The only sounds were the birds singing and flying overhead.

How could everything seem so peaceful when there was a war raging within her and her family?

The curse—it was the cause of all this. And there was no escape, according to her mother and sisters.

So, she wasn’t in Sussex for a holiday. She was here to die, away from her family, in the hope that the curse would lift once Rosalind paid the price for defying it.

Her sisters had protested, but her mother was slowly losing her mind since her father's death. In a way, Rosalind was the sacrifice her mother was willing to make to rid the family of the generational curse.

Was it so wrong to want to marry for love? If she’d known that decision would cost her father his life, she would have run down the aisle, dragging that Nordic god with her if she had to.

But all hope was lost. It was the beginning of December, and if her mother's madness was any indication, the curse would lift only if Rosalind married before the end of the year.

And not just anyone. It had to be one of the late duke's sons. The youngest was ill with a deadly disease, and the second oldest was ruined. Her mother wouldn’t even let her speak of him, let alone marry him, even if it meant the end of the curse. According to her mother, it would be better to die than to be tied to such a man.

That left only the current Duke of Montmouth, Stefan. The rogue.

If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the warmth of his skin and smell the spices on his jacket as he carried her through the night air.

She shuddered, pushing the thought away. Surely, he had already found a more suitable bride. She looked around. No one in sight.

It was safe to say that any sort of marriage for Rosalind was impossible. Not that it mattered. The tonics had stopped working; her sickness was getting worse.

Rosalind’s spells were becoming less frequent, but when they did occur, she had little control over her body. It was a mystery that no one could explain.

Who would want to marry a woman who was prone to sudden sleeping spells?

It seemed the only time she could sleep was when these spells took over.

To make matters worse, she was becoming an insomniac, unable to sleep at night. She had resorted to a family tea recipe that was supposed to help her relax.

But for some reason, the recipe was kept under lock and key by the staff in London.

She had sent a letter earlier in the week to get the recipe.

Lost in her thoughts, she nudged her horse, Duke, with her heels. He bolted forward, sending her hat flying. Her hair, now free from its pins, spread wildly around her shoulders.

Her long red hair whipped down her back as she galloped; small strands brushed against her cheek as the cold air stung her face. Laughter bubbled out of her as she urged Duke to go faster.

“Ho.” She pulled back on the reins, bringing Duke to an abrupt stop at her favorite creek. She jumped off.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” she asked Duke. He neighed in response, bobbing his head up and down. She pulled an apple from her satchel and shared it with him.

Humming, she closed her eyes, letting her daydreams take over. Her dreams were all she had, as she was constantly falling asleep.

The spells never lasted long, but they were always accompanied by dreams—dreams filled with dancing, laughter, bright colors, and teasing. And always his face.

It was the only face she remembered, even though she tried so hard to forget.

And always in her dreams, he would pick her up in his arms and carry her to the dance floor. He would wrap his large arms around her and they would dance.

The music never ended. And Rosalind would laugh in his arms, enjoying the feel of his strength. Admiring the beauty of his perfectly sculpted face.

Lost in her fantasy, Rosalind curtsied, held out her hand, and began twirling in circles. Snow flurries swirled around her feet as she spun. She hummed and then began singing.

STEFAN

“Do you hear that, Samson?” Stefan slowed his horse to a walk as he listened to the air.

A voice echoed through the skies.

It was soft, but so incredibly captivating that for a moment, Stefan wondered if he was going mad.

Who would be out in this weather? And singing, at that? He led his horse towards the sound of the music.

Sensing his urgency, Samson trotted through the trees until they reached a small creek.

“Hmm,” Stefan said aloud. “We'll have to cross it. What do you say, old boy? Are you up for it?”

Samson neighed in response. Stefan guided him carefully across the stream. When they reached the other side, he dismounted and led Samson through the thick brush of trees.

“Have I found you? The one who makes me sing? Once upon a midnight dream…”

The voice haunted him, sending chills down his spine. He couldn't help but selfishly hope that this song was about him. And the voice behind it. So clear, so perfect. Like an angel.

Surprised by his physical reaction to something so simple, he cursed himself and moved closer to the voice.

“As I lay me down to sleep, my midnight dream I know will keep. The stars in your eyes tell me what your heart is afraid to say. That while I wait for my prince, he will one day say…”

Driven by an unknown urgency, Stefan knew he needed to see who was singing. For his own sanity, he needed just one glimpse.

Ignoring all reason, he finally reached the clearing. And swore.

It was her.

Lady Rosalind, dancing with reckless abandon, her head uncovered. Her glorious red hair flowed past her waist. Her arms were held high above her head as she twirled and sang.

Stefan felt as if he had been punched, and then kicked for good measure.

He found it hard to breathe, and could do nothing but stare, slack-jawed, at the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

Closer—his body demanded he get closer.

He moved forward and motioned for Samson to be quiet. Maybe he was a bit mad. He knew horses couldn't speak.

But he gave the signal anyway, and if that horse didn't seem to be tiptoeing just like Stefan was.

At the clearing, he stood only a few feet from her. A nervous chill ran down his spine as he watched her swaying hips. And then she curtsied.

As if she was dancing with another man. Jealousy surged through him until he realized she was bowing to her horse.

At least they had that in common—both talking to their horses as if they were people. His mother would probably blame that on the curse as well.

Samson nudged him, causing him to lose his footing and stumble. A branch snapped beneath his boot.

Lady Rosalind froze and slowly turned to face him.

“Damn.” He closed his eyes, wishing he could disappear; he had just been caught staring at her like a fool.

“Your Grace?” Her voice was husky, filled with promises of seduction. His body warmed. “Is that you?”

Stefan stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the clearing. He led Samson but kept his eyes on her. Not because he had to, but because he couldn't look away.

“I apologize, Lady Rosalind. I didn't mean to spy. I heard your voice and followed.” Like a fool.

She laughed, an amused sound that made her pink lips part slightly.

Those lips were made to give a man pleasure, to make him think about warm, wet kisses and pleasures he had no right to be thinking about.

She shook her head. “And how did you like the entertainment, Your Grace?”

A slow, seductive smile spread across his face as he reached for her hand, his body acting without his consent.

He knelt before her, pressing a kiss to her hand before standing up again.

“You seemed to be without a partner at the festivities. I was a bit disappointed.” He was lying, of course. Disappointment was far from what he was feeling right now.

It was more like a raw, burning desire. And a touch of jealousy.

She narrowed her eyes, glancing down at his hand, which was still holding hers.

“Dance with me.” The words felt so strange, he wondered if he was losing his mind.

Because he had just asked Rosalind Hartwell to dance with him. In the snow, with no music, and only their horses as their audience.

An emotion he couldn’t quite read flickered across her face.

She clenched her other hand at her side, seeming to think it over. Then, with a determined set to her brow, she moved her clenched hand away from her side and curtsied.

“I’d be honored, Your Grace.”

And just like that, Stefan found himself laughing for the first time since his father’s death. Who would have thought that a dance in a meadow with a goddess could bring him back to his usual self?

If the London Society Papers could see him now, he wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Peabody’s quill snapped in half. Rosalind’s hands, warm and small, fit perfectly in his.

Even though they were both wearing gloves, he could swear he felt her heartbeat through the thin material. He imagined her delicate hands, so feminine and fragile, held within his own.

He pulled her into his large frame, humming the same tune she had started as he spun her around, only to pull her back in.

It was amazing how his body reacted to this woman. Her hair tickled his nose as she leaned her head closer to his. Desire surged through him when she pulled back and licked her lips.

Just one kiss.

After all, wasn’t he here to sweep her off her feet and marry her as soon as possible?

As much as he wanted to convince himself that a kiss was just part of the wooing process, his heart tightened in his chest, his knees felt weak, and he could have sworn the birds started singing.

He gently tilted her chin up, giving him a full view of her beautiful pale skin and luscious lips.

Just one kiss. He leaned in. Their lips met. A sigh escaped from Lady Rosalind at the touch of their lips.