The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales(20)
So her supposed fiancé intended to peruse her like some prized mare he was purchasing, free to toss her aside, while she was expected to just meekly accept her fate, all the while being supremely grateful his princely highness deemed to take her as a bride? Well, we would just see about that. When he arrived, she would send that prince scurrying home just like all the other lily-livered suitors her father had thrown before her.
In her rage, Beatrice took the knife she was holding and pierced the portrait of herself hanging over the dining room fireplace. She did not stop till she had put several slashes in the precious canvas. The gypsy was right. Beauty was a curse.
The two men rode their horses to the cliff top edge over-looking the floral valley.
“Is everything in readiness?” asked the first.
“Yes, your highness.”
Prince Jeanne-Marious de Rhysmont, Rhys to his friends, continued to look over the valley with the sharp-eyed look of a hawk. His features closely resembling the sleek, black Friesian stallion he rode. Tall with a muscular build and commanding presence. His thick hair, worn unfashionably long, so black it shone midnight blue in the sunlight. An angular nose, strong jaw and lowered brow framed sharp emerald green eyes which missed nothing.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
The smaller man by his side, his valet Gonsalvus, obliged. “According to my sources, the father, Frederick de Villeneuve, should have already departed for Florence.”
“Sources?” asked Rhys with a raised eyebrow in Gonsalvus’ direction.
Gonsalvus gave an only slightly conciliatory look. “Your father has had spies within the household for several months, long before he approached the father regarding marriage.”
Rhys smiled. His father made Machiavelli look like a pandering weakling. One might think a father arranging a marriage for his son had the makings of a Shakespearean tragedy, especially an equally strong-minded, intelligent son like Rhys. On the contrary, Rhys trusted his father’s instincts. If the man thought this woman had the spirit and intelligence to make a good future queen, he would give him the benefit of the doubt. However, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t verify it himself…in his own way. His father had spies. Rhys had a different plan.
“Proceed.”
“We have given purses of gold to Mr. Watchman, the butler, Mrs. Pans, the housekeeper and Mr. Candal, the head steward. They have all agreed to…ahem…look the other way no matter what may transpire between you and your intended as well as intercept any letters she may send to her father,” continued Gonsalvus.
Rhys’ mouth quirked up at the right corner. “They sound more like a collection of animated objects rather than the head staff of the largest, most profitable estate in southern France.”
Gonsalvus rolled his shoulders. “They are English. Brought over with the mother’s household as part of her dowry when she married de Villeneuve. Who can account for the English?”
Rhys laughed. Gonsalvus was Spanish and still held a grudge against the English for that whole misunderstanding several hundred years ago around 1588.
“We thought we would have to use…ahem…persuasive methods beyond just the gold to get the staff to comply, but as it so happens, they were all too willing to turn a blind eye. They didn’t even require much gold to be convinced.”
“Really?”
Gonsalvus cast the prince a cautious look. Hesitating to proceed. After receiving a pointed look from Rhys, he reluctantly supplied. “It seems your intended is well…ahem…a bit as they say…temperamental. As it so happens, they have a rather colorful name for her. Beatrice the Beastly.”
Rhys let out a bark of laughter so sudden and loud that had his horse been less disciplined under his hand, it may have shied and started.
“Beatrice the Beastly?” repeated Rhys. “You are sure?”
“Quite sure, your highness. The staff were eager to share their many…interesting…stories regarding Miss Beatrice and her spirited nature, shall we say.”
That would explain his father’s amusement as Rhys left his home to travel to France to meet his future bride. He had warned Rhys not to assume his choice of a marriage match for him would be easily managed. Rhys knew his father would not be so foolish as to choose some milksop of a female. Rhys’ refusal to settle his fate on some inbred, weakling of a royal princess was why the King had finally resigned himself to finding a bride among the wealthy merchant class throughout Europe. The marriage contracts would only be binding if Rhys approved of the match. The lady’s opinion on the matter was of no consequence.
Rhys had refused to read the papers the King’s courtiers had prepared on Beatrice. Refusing to even glance at the small oval portrait her father had provided to show her beauty as an enticement to the match. Beauty was a shallow farce, a mere reflection in glass. He wanted more from a wife. He wanted someone with intelligence and spirit. That was true beauty in his mind.
Rhys preferred to draw his own impression of his intended bride without another’s influence. It was also how he determined his current course of action, arranging for her to be alone so that he may engage with her without the formalities of a royal courtship…without her knowledge of his royal blood.
“As it so happens, I hear she is also a very, very beautiful woman. A man can forgive many, many things if the woman is beautiful, no?”