The Princess and the Pea Read online

  Victoria Alexander

  The Princess & The Pea

  This book is dedicated with affection and gratitude to:

  Diane, Pam and Sandi

  Carol, Deb and Mary.

  All firm believers that fairy tales do come true.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  “How pretentious! How terribly rude! Positively insufferable! The man’s a…

  Chapter Two

  “…. they arrived late last night for a nice, relaxing…

  Chapter Three

  “Explain to me again exactly why we’ve come to Paris.”

  Chapter Four

  “There she is. She’s the one I told you about.”

  Chapter Five

  “You told me she was a bloody butcher’s daughter!” Jared…

  Chapter Six

  The low murmur of excited voices greeted Cece on her…

  Chapter Seven

  “I believe that’s sufficient for our first lesson,” Jared said,…

  Chapter Eight

  Cece tossed and turned and turned and tossed until the…

  Chapter Nine

  “…therefore if I move the tiller like this, the automobile…

  Chapter Ten

  Cece surveyed the remnants of her rather hearty breakfast and…

  Chapter Eleven

  Phoebe White’s mind wandered and her gaze drifted. It was…

  Chapter Twelve

  Apprehension mingled with anticipation, and Phoebe could scarcely keep her…

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Where on earth is Jared?” Cece struggled to keep a…

  Chapter Fourteen

  The day dawned clear and crisp, bright and beautiful. It…

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Jared?” Cece said softly and squeezed through the barely opened…

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Where are we going anyway?” Emily panted in a vain…

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cece paced back and forth in her room in the…

  Epilogue

  “I think you’re being ridiculous.” Emily glared at Quentin. “Why,…

  Author’s Note

  Other Books by Victoria Alexander

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  * * *

  Dear Readers,

  I love fairy tales and The Princess and the Pea is one of my very favorites. And why not? Who can resist the idea of a real princess having to prove herself not merely to a prince but to the prince’s mother? Admittedly my love of the story was influenced as well by “Once Upon a Mattress,” the Broadway musical based on the fairy tale. How can anyone not love a princess named Winnifred?

  So, when it was my turn to put a new spin on the story, I set it in one of my favorite time periods, made the princess an American heiress, the prince a down-on-his-luck British earl who needed to marry for money, and his interfering mother a…well, interfering mother. Some things just can’t be improved!

  The Princess and the Pea originally came out in 1996. Now it’s back with a fabulous new cover. But it’s the same story, the same romance and the same happily ever after.

  Which is how all good fairy tales should end.

  Enjoy!

  All my best,

  Victoria Alexander

  * * *

  Chapter One

  “How pretentious! How terribly rude! Positively insufferable! The man’s a cad! A beast! Why he’s—” Cece White stopped in midpace, drew herself up to her imposing five-feet-six inches, and stared haughtily down a nose she acknowledged was too annoyingly pert to properly carry off the level of righteous outrage in her tone—“a snob!”

  “Oh, he is indeed.” Marybeth Anderson sniffed prettily and dabbed at the non ex is tent tears at the corners of her watery blue eyes. “They all are.”

  “I hardly think it’s fair to indict an entire country merely because of the actions of one or two of its male inhabitants,” Emily White said mildly, glancing up from the embroidery that occupied her hands.

  “Emily,” Cece said, widening her eyes in astonishment, “I can’t believe you would stand up for the man.”

  “I’m not.” Emily cast her sister a quelling glance. “I’m simply pointing out that just because one Englishman’s actions have been less than acceptable—”

  “He toyed with her affections,” Cece said indignantly.

  “Broke my heart.” Marybeth dabbed once again.

  Emily ignored the interruption. “—does not mean they are all like that.”

  “Hah.” Cece crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “They’re no better than common fortune hunters, the lot of them. They’re all only interested in the wealth of young, inexperienced Americans.”

  Marybeth nodded emphatically. “He as much as admitted it.”

  “You see, Emily,” Cece said with satisfaction. “They don’t even have the common courtesy to pretend they’re interested in anything but our money.”

  Emily shrugged and returned her attention to her handiwork. “It’s never been a secret. American heiresses have flocked to En gland for the past twenty years to trade their inheritances for titles. I don’t see why you are so irate that this one has deigned to confess what is common knowledge.” She glanced at Marybeth. “Since he did have the temerity to admit the truth, why is it you aren’t even now planning your wedding to this scoundrel?”

  Marybeth sighed dramatically. “It was his mother. She decided I was simply not good enough for her beloved son.” A dreamy look glazed her eyes. “I could have forgiven him that. I could have forgiven him anything. He was truly magnificent. Tall, with shoulders that stretched forever and hair the color of midnight. And his eyes…” she sighed again, “…and he had a castle.”

  “A castle?” Cece snorted in derision. “Unheated, drafty, and no doubt crumbling about his ears. Precisely why he needs the money of an American heiress.” She plopped down in an overstuffed armchair, a note of unfashionable discord in the perfectly appointed sitting room the girls shared between their bedchambers, but worn and comfortable and a favorite nonetheless. “What really bothers me is the way they all seem to think they’re somehow better than Americans.”

  “Well,” Marybeth rose to her feet, gathered her gloves and parasol, and said with newfound determination, “I wash my hands of them all. If Mother wants a title in the family, she’ll have to get it herself. I’ll not step from the shores of this country again to seek a husband. There are more than enough eligible men right here in Chicago.” A wistful expression drifted across her face. “Still, he was charming…”

  “Pity you couldn’t live up to the high standards of his mother,” Cece said sarcastically. “I think you’ve had a narrow escape.”

  Marybeth nodded reluctantly and took her leave. Poor girl. When she had left for London several months ago Marybeth had thought surely she would be the next American heiress to capture a British lord. Cece hated to see her friend return in so defeated a state, even though privately she suspected it was for the best. The mere idea of “Lady Marybeth” was enough to send Cece into spasms of laughter. She’d known Marybeth most of her life, and while the girl could handle the social rigors of Chicago, Cece doubted she could survive life in the rarified, rigid society of the English aristocracy.

  Of course, who could? And who would want to? Still, for a young woman whose parents were pressing her to choose a husband…

  “It would get me out of Chicago,” she said, more to herself than to Emily, the seed of a scheme growing in the fertile soil of a highly inventive mind.

  “Did you say something?”

  “No…Emily,” Cece said casually, “I have an interesting idea.
”

  Emily’s head jerked upright, her eyes wide with apprehension. “Oh no, Cece, not an ‘interesting idea.’”

  Cece toyed with a frayed spot on the arm of her chair. “I was just thinking…”

  Emily groaned. “You always get in such trouble when you think.”

  Cece waved the chastisement aside. “Mother and Father have made no secret of their eagerness for me to marry. I suspect they would leap at the possibility of a marriage involving an English lord. Mother still gets that funny, far-off look whenever she talks about her trip there as a girl.”

  “But you said they were all fortune hunters, only interested in American money.”

  “And I meant it.” Cece leapt to her feet and paced the room, the excitement in her voice matching the beat of her footfalls. “That’s the very thing that makes this idea so delightful. Marybeth was no match for them. She’s a darling girl but lacks the kind of cunning necessary for a challenge like this.” Cece grinned. “I, however, do not.”

  Emily shook her head. “You can’t seriously expect me to believe you actually want to marry an Englishman.”

  “Of course not, Emily. It’s absurd, the way they have used their titles to rob this country of the flower of American womanhood, all the while considering us inferior.”

  “You’ve been reading the Times again,” Emily muttered.

  Cece ignored her. “Americans have trounced the British in every conflict since this country was born. We lead the world in innovation and invention. It’s time we put them firmly in their place.” Her voice rose. “We shall convince Mother and Father to take us to London. We will meet the British head on and, in the best American tradition, we shall defeat them.” She turned to her sister. “What was that beastly man’s name again? The Duke of Blackrock?”

  Emily stared with the look of one watching a runaway carriage and unable to do more than pray the innocent would get out of its careening path. “The Earl of Graystone.”

  “Only an earl?” Cece smiled smugly. “Well, I am the daughter of a captain of industry. The child of American ingenuity. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “What are you planning?” Caution edged Emily’s voice.

  Cece favored her with a confident glance. “I shall meet this high-and-mighty earl and charm the aristocratic pants off him. Then, when he is mine to do with as I wish, I’ll simply inform him he does not meet my standards, or the standards of my family or my country. Then we’ll see who is too good for whom.”

  Emily shook her head slowly. “This is ridiculous. Aside from the obvious difficulties of selecting a particular man and setting your cap for him, you could actually end up married.”

  “Nonsense.” Cece tossed her head confidently. “I will be in complete control.”

  “It’s a dangerous game you’re proposing.”

  Cece shrugged. “No more so than the ones we play here. I have already experienced more than my share of American fortune hunters. It can’t be that different. Besides—” she sank back in her chair, her voice abruptly serious—“if I don’t leave Chicago, I shall surely end up married to Clarence Hillsdale. Father sees such a wedding as more a business merger than a marriage. With his family’s railroad holdings and Father’s meatpacking interests…” Her voice hardened. “I refuse to marry Clarence.”

  “He’s a nice boy,” Emily said helpfully.

  Cece scoffed. “He has no chin.”

  “His family has nearly as much money as ours. You can’t claim he wants you for your inheritance.”

  “That’s virtually his only asset.”

  “Still…” Emily cast about for words and her eyes brightened. “What about love?”

  “Love? Emily, I am nearly twenty-one. If I was going to find love, I would have found it by now. I doubt the emotion even exists.” She sighed in theatrical exaggeration. “I have given up on love.”

  “I haven’t,” Emily said firmly, her gaze dropping back to her embroidery.

  Cece considered her younger sister in silence. Emily was just seventeen and had a great deal to learn about the world. But she was far too accommodating and proper for her own good and could be quite stubborn about what one should and shouldn’t do. The girl simply had no spirit of adventure. It was such a pity. Emily was almost ethereally lovely, with light brown hair, amber eyes, and a delicate face and figure. Cece, on the other hand, considered herself far too bold, both in spirit and appearance. Her hair and eyes were a deeper, darker version of the younger girl’s, her bosom a shade too full, her hips a bit too curved. Cece had long thought it a shame there wasn’t a third sister who combined the characteristics of the other two.

  “I’m not really interested in love anymore; or marriage, for that matter.”

  Emily looked up in mute surprise.

  “I know it’s what’s expected of me, but…I have other plans.”

  “What other plans?” Suspicion colored Emily’s voice.

  Cece debated the wisdom of revealing her ambitions, even to Emily. It was a secret she’d held close for years, a desire she’d nearly given up on. Now, this idea of going to London, allegedly to look for a husband, could well give her the opportunity she longed for.

  She drew a deep breath and leaned toward her sister. “Promise me you won’t say a word.”

  Emily nodded warily.

  Cece hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I want to travel the world. I want to float down the Amazon, climb the pyramids, see the Taj Mahal. I want to meet fascinating people and see amazing sights and do remarkable things. I want to be an in de pen dent woman. On my own. And I want to write about my experiences and adventures.”

  Emily shook her head skeptically. “I rarely see you write so much as a letter.”

  “I’ve been saving myself,” Cece said loftily. “Regardless, I want—” she paused, considering the impact of her words and deciding once and for all to reveal everything—“I want to be a newspaper reporter. A journalist. Like Nellie Bly.”

  Emily stared. Stunned silence stretched between them.

  “It’s a wonderful idea. Practically flawless. Don’t you see?” Cece’s words tumbled out in an eager, rushing stream. “If we go to Europe and I don’t marry, perhaps even cause a minor uproar, just the tiniest scandal, Mother and Father will surely see the futility of continuing their quest for a husband. And if I stretch it out long enough, say six months for an engagement and another year to get over my broken heart—”

  “Your broken heart?” Emily said in disbelief.

  “Well, I can’t very well let our parents know my true purpose at that point.” She threw her sister an exasperated glare. Sometimes Emily could be so annoyingly practical. Where did she get it from? “At any rate, by then I will be past my prime for marriage, practically a spinster. Oh, they will no doubt rant and rave for a time, but they won’t bring me back home. It would be far too embarrassing to admit the meatpacking king’s daughter couldn’t snare a mere British lord. Then I can very likely do as I wish.”

  “They’ll never agree with your plans. Why, you’re talking about working for a living. About making your own way.” Emily’s face paled, and Cece feared she’d made the wrong decision in divulging her dream. “And Nellie Bly? She’s so…so…”

  “Daring? Courageous? Intrepid?”

  “Scandalous!”

  “Emily, she’s positively wonderful. I have saved every article she wrote for the Times-Herald here, and quite a few from the New York World, as well.”

  “Do Mother and Father even suspect this absurd ambition of yours?”

  “No, and they won’t find out until it’s too late,” Cece said. “Remember, you promised.”

  Emily swallowed visibly, her tone grim. “I won’t tell.”

  “Good,” Cece said briskly and nodded. “Now, the first thing we must do is convince Mother and Father of the need to go to En gland. I’ll talk to them in the morning. Father’s always so wonderfully easy to manipulate at breakfast. Then we shall have to devise our campaign car
efully. Draw up a sort of battle plan.”

  She steepled her fingers under her chin and grinned. “We are, after all, Americans. We defeated the English in the War for Independence and the War of 1812. We have the blood of George Washington and Andrew Jackson flowing in our veins. Nothing will stand in the way of showing them, once and for all, that Americans are not merely their equals but their betters. And I, Cecily Gwendolyn White, vow right here and now to best them on their own ground. On my own terms.”

  Emily stared at her sister in amazement, her words faint with disbelief. “God help the British.”

  Jared Grayson prowled the edges of his mother’s parlor, cluttered with the treasures and trophies of generations. His restless gaze skimmed the opulent setting, its flaws apparent only to the knowing eye. Visitors never noticed the chip in the Ming vase strategically turned toward the wall, the fraying edges of the Persian carpet, the cracks in the ornate plaster ceiling. He stepped to the marble-topped table bearing a crystal brandy decanter amid its other offerings. At least the liquor was still the best. He poured a generous glass and swiftly downed a hefty swallow. The satisfying burn of the amber liquid steeled him to the inevitable confrontation ahead.

  “So, Mother,” he said casually, “what was wrong with the last one?”

  “Did you say something, dear?” Lady Olivia Grayson glanced up from her position behind a delicate ladies’ writing desk strewn with calling cards, notes, and invitations. Strands of graying hair escaped the confines of her perfectly arranged coiffure. Spectacles perched on her nose. She was the picture of harmless domesticity. Jared knew better.

  “I said what was wrong with the last one?”