“You mean, it’s not thirty courses at every meal and servants waiting on you hand and foot?” Cinderella teased.
“Not always. Everything is always planned out for you. You don’t get to choose where you want to go or what you want to do. But you do get to learn more about the world, and see lots of operas and ballets.”
Cinderella covered her mouth, hiding a laugh. “To anyone else, that would sound wonderful. Especially the ballet. I haven’t been to see one since I was a little girl, but I can easily do without the thirty-course meal and the servants.”
Prince Charles grimaced. “I’m sounding spoiled, aren’t I?”
“You grew up being told how to act. What to wear, what to say, where to go, and what to eat. I understand that.... It wasn’t so different for me.”
He took her hand. “It is silly feeling sorry for a prince. But up until now, I never had a choice in anything. Before I left for school, the only time I left the palace was when I was out with my father on official business. Even when I did go out, I saw only a sliver of Aurelais. I should have gotten to know my country. I’ll have to rule Aurelais one day, and everything I do will be scrutinized by my council and my people. If there’s one freedom I’m determined to have, it’s to choose who I love and marry.”
The warmth in his words made Cinderella’s stomach flip. Strange, they’d only been together for a few hours at most, yet how familiar he was becoming to her.
She looked into his eyes, suddenly feeling bold. “I want to go everywhere with you. Whether we get to choose where we go, or not.” She brightened, an idea hitting her. “Louisa and I sneaked away to go to the masquerade—wecould dress up as merchants when everyone’s sleeping and slip out.” She grinned. “See the real Aurelais, as you say.”
“You mean it?” Charles asked. When she nodded, he clasped her hands, bringing them to his chest. “Let’s start tonight. I’ll try to get Aunt Genevieve to dismiss you early for the evening. Meet me by the coach house? I have someplace I want to bring you.”
The coach house wasn’t far from the stables, which Cinderella often passed on her morning walks with Bruno after she’d brought the duchess breakfast. She hadn’t paid much attention to it before; it was where the royal carriages were kept. There had to be over a dozen carriages, each with gilded trimmings along the doors, fine velvet upholstery, and thick blue flags.
She didn’t see the prince anywhere, or any attendants.
“Charles?” she called out.
No answer.
The coach house was empty.
Cinderella walked toward the stables, wondering where the prince could be. He’d told her to wait outside the coach house on the path, but—
There, at the very end of the road, was a carriage that had none of the royal finishes. It was plain, with faded white paint peeling along the edges, and open windows instead of glass panes or curtains. In the driver’s seat was a shadowy figure she couldn’t make out in the dim lamplight. The wheels grumbled against the gravel path and the horses nickered.
The carriage stopped, and Cinderella gasped.
The driver was Charles!
Setting down the reins and climbing down from his seat, he looked at her sheepishly, the slightest pink tinge coloring his cheeks. A driver’s cap covered most of his black hair, and he wore a twill coat that was ever so slightly too boxy and large. But for his face, he was almost unrecognizable.
“I encouraged everyone to take the evening off,” he explained, even though she hadn’t asked for an explanation. He seemed nervous, which was oddly comforting.
She was nervous, too.
Don’t be silly,she tried to reason with herself. There was nothing to worry about, and he knew who she was—a commoner, a former servant in her stepmother’s house—and he didn’t care in the least. So why was her heart racing?
Because she was finally spending time with him—as herself instead of as the maiden with the glass slippers or the princess with the mask. And also because she still needed to ask him about her fairy godmother, and whether he could help her return to Aurelais.
Unaware of her thoughts, Charles gestured at the carriage. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
He started to open the door for her, but Cinderella shook her head. “I’m sitting with you—in the driver’s seat.”
“It’s chilly out,” he protested.
She grabbed one of the blankets from inside the coach. “Then I’ll wear this.”
Gathering the folds of her skirt in her hand, she climbed up to the carriage box, ignoring Charles’s extended hand.
“It’s rather high. Are you sure you don’t—”
