Book Teaser: Not A Wicked Stepmother

Chapter 1 - Where Lord Percival Fairfax is flumuxed.

POV: Percival Fairfax, Earl of Thorncroft

Prologue In Which I Am Struck Down by a Woman Who Looks Like She’d Gut Me for Interrupting Her Nap

A headache throbbed behind my left eye as yet another waltz screeched to its inevitable, merciful conclusion. The Midwinter Masquerade's orchestra seemed determined to make violins sound like dying cats.

I swirled my champagne—lukewarm, naturally—and shifted away from the woman in a towering swan headdress who'd cornered me for the past quarter-hour.

"And then Sir Featherwing wrote back to me—imagine, a goose with such penmanship!—and said the Queen herself had knighted him for his service to the royal pond!" She fluttered her fan expectantly.

"Fascinating," I murmured, scanning the room for escape routes. The conservatory door stood tantalizingly unguarded. The windows had promising latches. I calculated my odds of "accidentally" setting my coattails on fire as an exit strategy.

That's when I saw her.

Not twirling beneath the crystal chandeliers. Not giggling behind a bejeweled mask. She lurked in the shadow of what the sculptor had likely intended to be a majestic griffin, but instead resembled a cat having a violent sneeze.

Her gown was a deep emerald—unfashionably somber against the pastel explosion surrounding her. Her posture was military-straight, chin lifted as if daring anyone to engage her in small talk. She looked as if she were cataloging the room's occupants in order of who she'd throw overboard first if the ballroom suddenly became a sinking ship.

She sipped her wine and actually winced.

My heart stuttered.

"Who in God's name is that?" The words escaped before I could catch them.

Lord Bexley followed my gaze, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.

"Her? That's Lady Margot Ashbourne." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Widow. Penniless one, too. Stepmother to that glittering confection the prince married." He nodded toward the center of the ballroom, where a blonde girl in a dress that could double as a wedding cake twirled in her husband's arms.

"Stepmother?" I frowned. "I thought she was..." My brain grasped for words. "A duchess at minimum. Or possibly some ancient goddess of vengeance."

Bexley snorted into his drink. "Goddess? More like witch. Word has it she worked that poor stepdaughter like a scullery maid. Kept her locked in a coal chute until fairy magic freed her." He chuckled. "Wouldn't be surprised if she transforms into a bat when the clock strikes twelve."

I made a noncommittal noise, eyes fixed on Lady Ashbourne. I could see her clearly now—the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, as if her shoes were instruments of torture she'd willingly endure to maintain dignity. The slight downturn of her mouth as she watched the spectacle before her, not with envy, but with the expression of someone watching a particularly predictable play for the twelfth time.

Her fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against her glass.

She was magnificent.

"Excuse me," I thrust my glass at Bexley. "I need to... inspect the... griffin." I straightened my cravat, wondering why my throat suddenly felt too tight.

Lady Ashbourne wasn't looking at me. Her eyes were locked on her stepdaughter, who spun across the floor trailing glitter and adoration, while society matrons dabbed at tears and whispered about "destiny" and "true love."

I approached with the caution one might use near a sleeping lioness. The closer I got, the more details I absorbed—the tiny crease between her brows, the single loose curl that had escaped her severe coiffure, the white-knuckled grip on her fan.

"Lady Ashbourne." I executed my finest bow, the one that had once made my grandmother declare me "almost acceptable." "You look—"

"If you say 'radiant,' I will beat you to death with this fan," she said, without moving her gaze from the dancing couple. "They'll never find your body."

I blinked. A grin cracked across my face, so wide it almost hurt.

"I was going to say 'furious,' actually."

That made her turn. Her eyes—hazel with flecks of gold, I noted with a strange flip in my stomach—narrowed as she assessed me.

"Fairfax," she said, her voice cool and precise. "Thorncroft. Yes, I remember you." A ghost of a smirk touched her lips. "You're the one who wore that ivory waistcoat to the Pemberton funeral and nearly caused Duchess Mallory to suffocate in her own vapors. She fell face-first into a chocolate soufflé."

Heat crawled up my neck. "It was winter cream."

"It was sedition," she countered, but I caught the tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth.

A silence stretched between us. Not awkward. Electric. Like the air before lightning strikes.

She sighed then, a sound containing multitudes of exasperation, and returned her attention to the ballroom.

"She's going to trip over that ridiculous hem any moment," Lady Ashbourne muttered, watching her stepdaughter's dress billow dangerously near the prince's feet. "I told her the final ruffle was excessive. But no, the fairy godmother insisted it was 'essential to the magic.'" Her fingers made mocking quote marks in the air.

"You don't seem particularly overjoyed by your stepdaughter's fairytale romance," I ventured.

She barked a laugh that turned several nearby heads. "Oh, I'm ecstatic," she drawled, lifting her glass in mock toast. "She gets a palace and jewels, and servants who clean. I get dry rot, unpaid debts, and two remaining stepdaughters whose greatest skill is fainting artfully onto furniture I can't afford to replace." Her smile could cut glass. "Truly, I've never felt more blessed."

Before I could respond—before I could summon the wit to say something irresistible like "dance with me" or "you fascinate me" or "please continue listing household calamities, I find it oddly arousing"—her entire body tensed.

"Oh, bloody hell." The curse hissed through her teeth like steam from a kettle.

I turned to follow her gaze.

Across the ballroom, a flushed-faced baron had just stumbled backward onto the train of Cinderella's magical gown—and ripped it with a sound audible even over the music. A swath of glittering fabric hung from the girl's waist, exposing layers of petticoats.

The orchestra screeched to a discordant halt.

The prince's mouth opened and closed like a bewildered fish.

Lady Ashbourne was already moving, her skirts swishing like an approaching storm.

"Pardon me," she muttered, eyes narrowed with grim determination. "Someone with actual competence has to fix this disaster."

She stalked across the ballroom, people instinctively parting before her like the Red Sea before Moses. Her back straight, her movements precise, she disappeared into the circle of gasping onlookers surrounding the mortified girl.

I stood frozen, empty-handed, surrounded by the wreckage of the evening—discarded glasses, half-eaten canapés, and nobles whose expressions ranged from horror to barely concealed delight at the scandal.

"...Well," I said to no one in particular, unable to tear my eyes from the spot where she'd vanished. "That's definitely not how fairy tales go."

God help me, I'd never been more enchanted.