Disenchanted is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2017 by Susan Carroll
Excerpt from Charmless by Susan Carroll © 2017 by Susan Carroll
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Charmless by Susan Carroll. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
Ebook ISBN 9780399178436
Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi
Cover photograph: Daria_Cherry/Shutterstock
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Dedication
By Susan Carroll
About the Author
Excerpt from Charmless
Chapter 1
Once upon a time…That is how a good story should begin or so I have been told. These tales always seem to involve a poor but sweet young maiden who attends a royal ball, falls in love with a charming prince and lives happily ever.
This is not my story. While I am certainly poor enough, no one would ever describe me as sweet and our kingdom’s prince is far from charming. When I did get the chance to go to a ball, my mind was more set on burglary than falling in love and…But I am getting ahead of myself.
My story actually starts on what promised to be another ordinary day until someone came hammering at my front door with enough force to snap the ancient brass lion knocker in half. At that moment, I was kneeling in front of the library hearth, ramming a long-handled broom up the chimney while soot sifted down over my face and hands, speckling the apron I wore over my old grey woolen gown. Only the kerchief knotted about my head prevented my hair from becoming a shade of ash blond. I was in no fit state to receive callers.
When the insistent rapping continued, I shouted out, “Can someone please answer the front door?”
I knew both of my stepsisters were near at hand, entertaining one of their vapid beaux in the parlor. But when Amy and Netta were anywhere in the vicinity of an eligible young man, they tended to become so pixified that it affected their hearing. There was no response to my plea other than the sound of muffled giggling.
I sighed, hoping whoever was at the front door would have the wit to go away and come back later. I gave the broom another shove, but only succeeded in dislodging a little more soot. There was definitely something up there blocking the flue, some poor swallow perhaps or even an owl. I flexed my shoulder muscles and rammed harder. There was a loud crack as the ancient broom snapped in half.
I rocked back on my haunches, staring in dismay at the splintered spear of wood in my hand. The top half of the broom was stuck somewhere up the shaft, further blocking the flue.
“Oh, frap!” I swore since there was no one around to frown or be shocked at my vulgarity.
Meanwhile the rapping continued; the idiot at the door as persistent as a hedgefly trying to get at the sugar bowl.
“Amy! Netta! Get the door,” I bellowed.
At least this time, I managed to get a response.
“We are busy, Ella, dear,” Amy sang out. There was more giggling.
As if I am not, I started to shout back only to give up, muttering, “Never mind.”
I struggled to my feet, trying to wipe my hands clean on my apron, but it was only making matters worse. I stomped from the library, aware that I was leaving a trail of soot all along the main hall I would be obliged to clean up later. Just add that to the many other tasks facing me this afternoon. The thought did nothing to improve my mood.
I flung open the door, stopping the caller in mid-rap. “What?” I demanded.
The round florid-faced little man on the doorstep drew back in dismay at the sight of me. He was clad in all the accoutrements of a royal herald, a blue toque with a jaunty feather perched on top of his auburn curls. His costume was ridiculously antiquated, a sapphire blue doublet, the sleeves slashed with silver, the colors of the royal house of Helavalerian. The short baggy breeches and tight hose he wore were enough to make any man look absurd, never mind one as stout as him.
I was no more pleased to see him than he was me. If I had known the caller was a messenger from the palace, he could have rapped away until the knocker disintegrated. I would have never opened the door.
Recovering from his initial dismay, the herald puffed out his cheeks and raised his trumpet to his lips.
“Aw, don’t do that!” I grabbed the trumpet and wrenched it away from him, stopping him in mid-toot.
He gasped in outrage, bouncing on his toes as he tried to retrieve the trumpet, but I held it easily out of his reach.
“Miss! I must sound the trumpet. It is protocol.”
“You were supposed to have blown the horn before you ever knocked.”
He sank back on his heels, looking disgruntled. “I was warned that people are unlikely to answer their doors if I sound the trumpet first. Especially at this house, Miss Upton.”
Despite my layers of soot, the man knew who I was. Obviously he had been warned.
“What happened to George, the herald who used to work this street?” I asked.
“He retired.”
“Surely he is a little young for that.”
“The poor man’s nerves were a wreck. He’s gone off to join the Loyal Order of Hermits in the Red Grove Forest. He simply couldn’t endure any more of the abuse heaped upon him, all the insults and threats, being set upon by dogs or angry cats.” The herald directed a pointed glare at me. “Or having pails of dirty water flung on his head.”
“I was washing the second story windows and the bucket slipped from my hand,” I protested. It was an accident.”
Well, almost. It was George’s own fault for provoking me. When I refused to come down from the ladder to take his message, he had shouted the tidings up at me, that the palace had declared a new (and exorbitant) tax on windows. Dumping the wash water on his head had been a purely involuntary response. Still, if I had contributed in any way to poor George becoming a hermit, I did feel a twinge of remorse.
“So what is your name?” I asked.
The new herald bowed with a great flourish, his soft round stomach doubling over his belt. “Rhufawn Smythe, at your service, miss.”
“Rhufawn?” I chuckled.
He straightened, scowling at me. “I am sure it is no more amusing than being called Prunella.”
Although I utterly loathed my first name, I said, “Prunella is an old family name among the Uptons.”
“So is Rhufawn among the Smythes.” He sniffed. “You know, I think it very unfair that we royal heralds should constantly be subjected to such mockery and abuse. It is not our fault that the news coming from the palace is not always pleasant. We are simply doing our duty and—”
“All right!” I cut him off with a
n upraised gesture to call a truce. “So do your duty.
“But no trumpet,” I warned as I returned the instrument to him.
He pouted, but he attached the horn back to the loop on his belt. Rhufawn delved into the large leather pouch, which I could see was crammed with rolled parchments. He produced one and prepared to unfurl it.
“Just give it here.” I grabbed for the parchment but the new herald was prepared this time. His pudgy fingers clamped down, refusing to release it.
“I am supposed to read it to you.”
“I have been reading since I was three.” I tugged harder. He pulled just as stubbornly in the opposite direction.
“It is protocol, miss. I have to make sure you have heard and understood the proclamation. And you will want to hear, because I assure you it is good tidings.”
Good tidings from the palace? That was as unlikely as the fabled cow being able to jump over the moon. Our tug of war continued until the royal parchment was likely to be torn in half. That would not have bothered me, but the prospect alarmed Rhufawn enough that he released his grip.
“Very well, Miss Upton. But you must promise me you will read it. You won’t just chuck it into the fire or anything. Because it is really good news.”
“Yes, yes.” I waved him off, preparing to retreat into the house. But his hand shot out to stay the door being closed.
He cleared his throat, “Er…I understand it was the custom of old to offer the royal messenger a small token of appreciation. Just a penny or two. It wouldn’t even have to be silver. Bronze would be quite acceptable.”
Was he serious? “You expect me to tip you for bringing me bad tidings?”
“I told you it is good news, great news, exciting news. News so wonderful it has inspired many of your neighbors along the street to be quite generous to me. It would be such a nice gesture, welcoming me to my new route. A new beginning as it were, after what happened with poor George. Not that you were entirely to blame for his coming undone.”
Rhufawn fluttered his pale lashes at me, his humble demeanor not quite able to disguise the sly calculation in his eyes.
I smiled sweetly at him. “Here’s a tip for you.” When he leaned eagerly forward, I used my forefinger to smudge his pug-like nose with soot. “Find yourself a better kind of employment.”
Stepping back, I slammed the door in his face. I heard a muffled sound that could have been a curse or a pitiful “ow” because he had been standing so close, I had banged the door against him.
My attention had already shifted away from the royal herald to the battered parchment I clutched in my hand. I stared warily at it, as though it might explode at any second. Despite all of the herald’s assurances, I could not believe the parchment contained anything that could be construed as good news.
No doubt the proclamation would be worded with a cordial elegance. It would even contain a charming note of regret as the royal government went on to explain there was to be another new excise levied much as King August deplored the necessity of it. The new tax, whatever it was, would be made to sound oh so very reasonable.
I regarded the parchment glumly, wondering what sort of tax our greedy king and his even greedier council had dreamed up this time. We were already taxed on our food, our clothing, our wine, our candles, our livestock, our horses, our carriages, our dogs—providing that they were working dogs such as hunting hounds or herding collies. Household pets were exempt.
Whatever the latest exaction might prove to be, I did not feel up to dealing with it at the moment. I tossed the parchment atop the hall table next to a dapper-looking top hat and kid gloves. At that moment, the parlor door opened and my two stepsisters, Amy and Netta, fluttered out like two gauzy white moths released from the confinement of the winter cupboard.
Their proper names are Amethyst and Garnet, their late father, Albert Wendover, Esq., having been a wealthy and distinguished jeweler. At least he was until he had been caught trying to pass off colored glass as a costly dwarf sapphire in a medallion he’d designed for the king. His trial and subsequent execution had been swift and brutal.
Determined to distance herself from her husband’s infamy, my stepmother, Imelda, had insisted her daughters adopt the Upton name when she married my father. She seldom referred to her girls as Amethyst and Garnet—not unless she was excessively vexed with them.
My stepsisters had inherited their mother’s luxuriant ebony hair, but otherwise there was little resemblance between them despite the fact that Imelda still found it precious to insist the girls dress alike. This morning, they were clad in similar gowns cut according to the current fashion for high waists and puffed sleeves although in a small display of defiance, Netta had opted to wear a blue sash instead of pink.
At the age of eighteen, she was two years older than Amy. She was as tall and angular as Amy was short, dimpled and plump. But their familial resemblance was marked as they drew up short, regarding me with twin expressions of horror.
“Oh, Ella, just look at you,” Netta cried. “You are all covered in soot.”
“Please tell me you didn’t answer the door that way,” Amy added.
“All right,” I said obligingly. “I won’t tell you that.”
“Gads, Miss Ella!” This last exclamation came from the young man who had followed Amy and Netta from the parlor. The girls made a frantic effort to shift position, blocking their beau’s view into the hall. It was futile. Fortescue Bafton easily squeezed past Netta to gawk at me.
Fortescue was the only son of a prosperous and fashionable tailor, although you would never guess that from his attire. He was poured into a pair of yellow breeches so tight, they clearly outlined his less than impressive masculine accoutrements. He wore a pea-green frock coat tightly nipped in at the waist. The collar on his frilled shirt was so high, Fortescue’s head poked out a like a turtle emerging from its shell.
“Gads,” he repeated. “Whatever have you been doing, Miss Ella?”
I thought of several clever retorts I could make, but I had discovered a long time ago that sarcasm was wasted upon Mr. Bafton.
“What does it look like I have been doing?” Recalling that he never understood rhetorical questions either, I added, “The library chimney has not been drawing properly. I am endeavoring to clear the flue.”
“Why don’t you just engage a chimney sweep?”
I heard Netta’s and Amy’s sharply indrawn breaths. They fixed pleading eyes on me, fearful of what I might say. They hated it whenever I let anything slip regarding our straitened circumstances, especially to one of their beaux.
So I told Fortescue, “I have become so bored with my needlework, I am thinking of adopting chimney sweeping as my new favorite pastime.”
“Truly? Then we may have to think of a new name for you. What about Miss Sooty-Ella?”
He guffawed and was echoed by Amy, who had a tendency to laugh heartily at any lame joke a young man chanced to make. I had tried to hint to her that this makes her seem too eager, even a little desperate, but to no avail.
Netta joined in, but hers was more of an uncertain titter. She cast an uncomfortable look at me, anxious that my feelings might be hurt by this jest at my expense. It would take a man far wittier than the likes of Fortescue Bafton to wound me.
Encouraged by Amy’s giggles, he continued, “No, wait! I have it—cinders! We should call you Cinder-Ella.”
“Cinder-Ella!” Amy chortled.
I rolled my eyes as the pair of them went off into peals of laughter. “Vastly amusing, Mr. Bafton,” I said. “If your wit were any sharper, it would be as keen as a butter knife.”
Chuckling, Fortescue started to bob his head in agreement, only to stop, his brow creasing. I could tell that somewhere in the recesses of his brain, he was trying to work out whether he had just been complimented or insulted. Before he could arrive at any conclusion, I offered him my best smile.
“If you would be pleased to accompany me to the library, I could show you somet
hing truly remarkable. Do you know if you look up the chimney shaft in the daytime, you can see the stars?”
“Oh, no, no, no!” Fortescue wagged his finger playfully at me. “I am familiar with that jest, Miss Cinder-Ella. You get me to look up the shaft and I end up with a face full of soot. You won’t be catching me with that trick again. No, ma’am!”
I already had caught him with it—twice. I had wagered my best friend, Malcolm Hawkridge, that I could get Fortescue to fall for it a third time. I believe I could have coaxed him into doing so, but my attention veered toward Netta. My oldest stepsister was an irrepressibly curious girl. Having noticed the royal parchment on the hall table, she had pounced upon it.
“Don’t bother with that,” I began but she had already cracked the seal and unrolled the parchment. Netta was excessively self-conscious about her height. She had a tendency to hunch forward, which inspired me with the urge to gently push her shoulders back, but I refrained. The poor girl endured enough criticism from my stepmother about this habit. Her hunch was more pronounced as she bent over the message. Suddenly, she straightened upright with a gasp, and she motioned frantically for Amy to join her.
Their dark heads drawn close together, the girls appeared stunned as they perused the document, eyes wide and round, mouths hanging open. My stomach flopped over in apprehension.
“What kind of new horror has the king devised?” I asked. “How bad of a tax is it?”
Instead of answering me, they raised their gazes from the parchment and stared at each other. They broke into simultaneous grins. Whooping with joy, they hugged each other. Gripping each other’s arms, they proceeded to bounce up and down, emitting delighted squeals shrill enough to crack my eardrums.
If my stepmother had been present, she would have rebuked the girls for behaving with a lack of ladylike dignity. Like Mr. Bafton, all I could do was stare at them in bewilderment. When I was finally able to make myself heard, I ventured, “So the royal herald was not trying to cozen me? It really is good news from the palace?”