“The new girl?” Madame Irmina tilted her head. “I do not know who you mean, Your Highness.”
“She... she reminds me of someone.” The prince shook his head. “Never mind, it’s—”
“Oh, you must mean Louisa’s street urchin. Yes, she was assigned to your aunt this morning.”
“Ah.” Hearing his voice brighten, he cleared his throat self-consciously. “I believe so. But what do you mean, street urchin?”
Madame Irmina’s composure wavered, and she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “A slip of the tongue, Your Highness. My niece brought the girl in this morning. She had nowhere else to go.”
“This morning,” Charles repeated. “So she only just arrived.”
“Yes. Just. Sounds like she’s an orphan, poor thing.”
He sighed. An orphan with nowhere else to go. His father and the duke were convinced his mystery maiden was of noble birth, but her guilelessness and the earnest way she’d spoken to him weren’t anything like the ladies at court he’d met. Still, common sense dictated that no penniless orphan could be the young lady he’d danced with, a girl with glass slippers and a pale blue gown that shone like moonlight.
But those eyes... he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen them somewhere before.
“Thank you for your help.”
Madame Irmina curtsied. “It is my pleasure, Your Highness. I haven’t had a chance to tell you this personally until now, but everyone in the household is so happy to have you home from your studies.”
“And I have looked forward to returning,” replied Charles. He gave a slight, grateful bow of his head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
It wasn’t a lie, not entirely. Hehadbeen looking forward to returning to the palace and seeing his father. But was he happy to be back? Of that, he wasn’t quite so sure.
Four years at the Royal University of Aurelais had changed him. He’d lived in a dormitory instead of a palace, and his professors had called him by his name instead of his title. His classmates whispered behind his back, turning up their noses at him for sending away his valet and for staying in the university dormitory instead of at one of his father’s nearby estates, but he’d never minded. He relished not being reminded of his royal status at every turn.
The girl at the ball was the first person he had ever met who seemed to want to get to know him forhim, not because he was the crown prince of Aurelais. She’d had no idea he was the prince, and Charles could not forget how refreshing that was, how wonderful it’d been to simply talk to her.
She hadn’t cared about his title, and he wouldn’t care about hers. Whatever—whoevershe was, he was utterly smitten all the same.
But she had vanished, and with each passing day, Charles despaired that he would never see her again.
“The young lady has left without a trace,” the Grand Duke had reported on the night of the ball, after sending his men to chase after her coach. Then, after a snide pause—in which he had taken undisguised pleasure—he had added, “Don’t you suppose that if she had wanted to marry His Royal Highness, she would have stayed?”
Charles couldn’t get Ferdinand’s words out of his head. What if they were true? He wanted to believe she had fled the ball because it had been midnight, as she’d said—but what if she had left because ofhim?
The doors to the royal dining room opened, and a familiar voice from inside called to him, “Charles!”
Lifting his head, Prince Charles smiled, filled with a new sense of hope and determination.
If anyone would help him find the girl of his dreams, it was Aunt Genevieve.
Try as she might, Cinderella could not forget her second encounter with Prince Charles.
Every free moment she had, she ran through their brief conversation in her head. She couldn’t forget how her heart had swelled when he’d stopped to speak with her. And how it sank once she realized he hadn’t recognized her at all. It still stung whenever she thought of it.
“You have your answer,” she told herself. “He doesn’t remember you. So you should stop thinking about him.”
Easier said than done. The only way that would happen was if she didn’t have any free moments to think about him.
She threw herself into her new routine as the duchess’s attendant, working from dawn until long past dusk over the next week. Being a royal attendant was taxing; Cinderella had thought that serving only one mistress instead of three would be easier, but the palace was far bigger than her stepmother’s house. The walk alone from the kitchen to the duchess’s chambers with her tea took a quarter of an hour.
Not to mention, Genevieve was a demanding mistress with a keen eye, and few things pleased her.
“My collar is crooked,” she would say. Then, a minute later: “My hair is uneven. You’ll have to do it again.”
Or: “The rouge on my left cheek is darker than on the right. Can’t you do anything properly?”
