Pleasuring the Prince Read Online Free PDF
Author: Patricia Grasso
said. “Real life will never mirror that old tale about the king and the beggar maid.”
“Charles is taking me to meet his mother on Sunday,” Belle told her. “If I can be accepted into society, then so can you.”
“I know you love Baron Wingate but”—Fancy could not mask her troubled thoughts—“I don’t trust him with your heart. Remember Mama, and let her pain—”
“Charles loves me,” Belle insisted. “Introducing me to his mother is the first step toward marriage.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. Mama loved a man unavailable to marry her.”
Fancy refused to argue the point. She sensed Charles Wingate was less than honest and hoped her sister would not be too hurt. Like their mother.
None of her sisters understood their mother’s pain. Why should they? Nanny Smudge had virtually raised them, insulating them from their mother’s anguish.
Fancy remembered what the others could not—joy and agony, happiness and grief. Emotional anguish, both hers and her mother’s, haunted Fancy during the night’s silent hours.
Many times the faint sound of her mother’s weeping awakened her. On several occasions, she had risen and gone to her mother’s bedchamber. When she opened the door, the weeping ceased, and the room was empty.
Gabrielle Flambeau did not rest in peace. Fancy did not want to suffer the same fate.
“Sisters, look at this.”
Fancy and Belle turned around. Clutching a newspaper, Blaze hurried across the garden.
“The Times mentions you.” Blaze passed her the newspaper.
LONDON’S FANCY announced the article in bold black letters. Beneath that, the reporter had written a whole article about her debut.
Miss Fancy Flambeau stole the show last night during her debut at the Royal Opera House, even outshining the current prima donna. Blessed with a full-bodied voice, the petite singer demonstrated incredible talent and versatility by effortlessly changing musical scales. Her perfect pitch and remarkable range stunned all, and her emotional intensity drained the audience, leaving nary a dry eye in the theater.
The daughter of a French emigré and, rumor says, a well-known English nobleman, Miss Flambeau won the hearts of London’s elite as evidenced by what transpired after the show. Gentlemen lined their coaches on both sides of Bow Street in hope of winning her favor and escorting her home. A certain Russian prince, one of society’s most eligible, disappointed the competition when he exited the theater with the lovely singer clinging to his arm.
This reporter will live on tenterhooks awaiting news of this liaison.
Fancy stared at the article, startled by the reporter’s arrogance. How dare this man write about her private life? She had expected a review of her performance but never this. Had the gossips written about her mother’s and father’s affair? How had her mother coped with the intrusive public? Was that the reason her mother had quit the opera? Was she destined to walk the same path?
Not all opera singers became mistresses, though. Patrice Tanner was a good example. The woman had been married four times and buried three husbands.
“You do not seem especially pleased,” Belle remarked.
“Becoming fodder for the gossips is a less than appealing prospect.”
“Fancy!”
What now? She looked toward the house, where her youngest sister stood.
Raven beckoned her. “The prince’s courier is waiting for you.”
Dressed in a footman’s uniform, a middle-aged man stood in the foyer. He passed her a long, thin package. “A gift from His Highness, Prince Stepan Kazanov.”
Fancy looked at the package and then at the man. “Thank you, Mister—?”
The footman appeared surprised by her question. “Milton.”
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Belle asked, once the man had gone.
Fancy unfastened the ribbon and opened the package. Inside lay a single white rose and a note. “Your beautiful eyes would have shamed my Persian violets,” she read
“Charles is taking me to meet his mother on Sunday,” Belle told her. “If I can be accepted into society, then so can you.”
“I know you love Baron Wingate but”—Fancy could not mask her troubled thoughts—“I don’t trust him with your heart. Remember Mama, and let her pain—”
“Charles loves me,” Belle insisted. “Introducing me to his mother is the first step toward marriage.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. Mama loved a man unavailable to marry her.”
Fancy refused to argue the point. She sensed Charles Wingate was less than honest and hoped her sister would not be too hurt. Like their mother.
None of her sisters understood their mother’s pain. Why should they? Nanny Smudge had virtually raised them, insulating them from their mother’s anguish.
Fancy remembered what the others could not—joy and agony, happiness and grief. Emotional anguish, both hers and her mother’s, haunted Fancy during the night’s silent hours.
Many times the faint sound of her mother’s weeping awakened her. On several occasions, she had risen and gone to her mother’s bedchamber. When she opened the door, the weeping ceased, and the room was empty.
Gabrielle Flambeau did not rest in peace. Fancy did not want to suffer the same fate.
“Sisters, look at this.”
Fancy and Belle turned around. Clutching a newspaper, Blaze hurried across the garden.
“The Times mentions you.” Blaze passed her the newspaper.
LONDON’S FANCY announced the article in bold black letters. Beneath that, the reporter had written a whole article about her debut.
Miss Fancy Flambeau stole the show last night during her debut at the Royal Opera House, even outshining the current prima donna. Blessed with a full-bodied voice, the petite singer demonstrated incredible talent and versatility by effortlessly changing musical scales. Her perfect pitch and remarkable range stunned all, and her emotional intensity drained the audience, leaving nary a dry eye in the theater.
The daughter of a French emigré and, rumor says, a well-known English nobleman, Miss Flambeau won the hearts of London’s elite as evidenced by what transpired after the show. Gentlemen lined their coaches on both sides of Bow Street in hope of winning her favor and escorting her home. A certain Russian prince, one of society’s most eligible, disappointed the competition when he exited the theater with the lovely singer clinging to his arm.
This reporter will live on tenterhooks awaiting news of this liaison.
Fancy stared at the article, startled by the reporter’s arrogance. How dare this man write about her private life? She had expected a review of her performance but never this. Had the gossips written about her mother’s and father’s affair? How had her mother coped with the intrusive public? Was that the reason her mother had quit the opera? Was she destined to walk the same path?
Not all opera singers became mistresses, though. Patrice Tanner was a good example. The woman had been married four times and buried three husbands.
“You do not seem especially pleased,” Belle remarked.
“Becoming fodder for the gossips is a less than appealing prospect.”
“Fancy!”
What now? She looked toward the house, where her youngest sister stood.
Raven beckoned her. “The prince’s courier is waiting for you.”
Dressed in a footman’s uniform, a middle-aged man stood in the foyer. He passed her a long, thin package. “A gift from His Highness, Prince Stepan Kazanov.”
Fancy looked at the package and then at the man. “Thank you, Mister—?”
The footman appeared surprised by her question. “Milton.”
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Belle asked, once the man had gone.
Fancy unfastened the ribbon and opened the package. Inside lay a single white rose and a note. “Your beautiful eyes would have shamed my Persian violets,” she read