The Beautiful Pretender (A Medieval Fairy Tale #2)(2)

“A suggestion from most people is a suggestion, but a suggestion from the king is a command. No, my lord, I believe you must choose a wife, and you must choose one from among the noble ladies in his letter. He particularly mentions the daughters of the Duke of Geitbart and the Earl of Plimmwald.”

He was expected to choose a wife based on who her father was, and the king had suggested the ladies whose fathers had feuded the most with the margraves of Thornbeck before him—his brother and father. The king wanted peace and unity among his noblemen, and there had been more contention than peace in the last thirty or forty years.

The Duke of Geitbart had once controlled both Thornbeck and Plimmwald, but when Geitbart’s father defied the king’s wishes and married a woman the king did not approve, the king had taken Thornbeck away from him and given it to the Margrave of Thornbeck, Reinhart’s father, and he gave Plimmwald to the present Earl of Plimmwald. And now Geitbart wanted them back.

Reinhart would be expected to purchase peace and unity for the people of his country by marrying a lady without ever seeing her or knowing anything of her character or temperament. This wife would be thrust upon him, for as long as they both lived, for his personal good or for ill.

“You should choose a wife as soon as possible,” Jorgen said.

“And how do you propose I do that?”

“Perhaps . . .” He turned to pace in a short path from the window to the middle of the floor and back. “So you could meet these ladies and choose which of them you deem worthiest, we could arrange to have them all come to Thornbeck Castle. It could be a ball, or better yet, a party lasting many days. Odette could help plan it. We could invite every lady on the king’s list and even put them through a series of tests, based on what you want in a wife.”

Jorgen stopped his pacing and turned to him, his brows raised. “What do you think of this plan, my lord?”

“I think . . . I hate it.”

“But is it not better than choosing without knowing anything about them?”

Of course it was better. But how did he know how to choose a wife? He knew nothing of women. His own parents’ marriage had been arranged for them, and they had hated each other. They rarely spoke more than two words to each other, and both of them had lovers. Reinhart certainly had no desire for that kind of marriage. But neither did he believe that husbands and wives “fell in love” before they married.

Believing there was one woman among many with whom he could fall in love was a naive concept invented by traveling minstrels and addled youths. And yet, Jorgen and his wife had chosen each other. Though neither of them had anything of material value to gain from the marriage, they had chosen each other solely because of a fondness for each other. And even Reinhart had to admit, they seemed very content.

Perhaps he should trust Jorgen’s judgment. But at the same time . . .

“I shall feel a fool, holding a party to choose my own wife.”

“You shall not feel a fool, my lord, and the ladies will feel very flattered that you invited them. Odette and I can arrange it so the ladies do not know you are putting them through tests. And Odette, as a woman, can give you her thoughts and can help you discern—that is, if you wish it. The ladies will enjoy the party, and you can observe them and see who would make the most ideal wife.”

But would they consider him an ideal husband? A man who couldn’t even walk without a cane? Reinhart stared down at the floor, at his maimed ankle. His blood went cold at the thought of appearing pitiable to the woman he would marry, of her scorning his weakness. But he had little choice but to try and choose wisely from among the ten.

“When should we plan it? Next summer?”

“Oh no, my lord. That’s nearly a year away. I believe the king will expect you to marry much sooner than that.”

“There is no knowing what the king expects. But even though I have more important things I should be doing with my time . . . you may begin the process now. I am leaving it in your hands.” Reinhart turned away from the window.

“Of course, my lord.”



Two weeks later, Plimmwald Castle, The Holy Roman Empire

Avelina stood behind Lady Dorothea, brushing her long golden hair.

What were Jacob and Brigitta doing today? Had they found the breakfast of bread and pea porridge she’d left for them? Would they remember to tend the vegetable garden and milk the goat? She would have to ask them if they had washed—

“Ow! What are you doing?” Dorothea spun around and snatched the brush out of Avelina’s hand. “Are you trying to tear out my hair?”

“No, of course not.” Avelina knew from experience that it was better not to cower but to look Dorothea in the eye when she was in a passion.

Dorothea frowned and handed her back the brush. “My ride this afternoon has my hair in a snarl. See that you don’t tear it out of my head.”

Dorothea turned back around on her stool, and Avelina continued brushing her thick, honey-colored hair, Dorothea’s fairest feature.

A knock sounded at the door, and Hildegard, one of the older maidservants, entered the room carrying a tray. “Lady Dorothea, Cook sent this up for you.” She smiled, flashing all her teeth. “She made it from the last of the cherries. A perfect tart for my lady.”

The last of the cherries. Avelina tried to keep her eyes off the tart, but the smell of warm fruit made her take a deep breath through her nose. Her mouth watered. She could almost taste it.