Page 2 of The Discount Damsel

A reddish glob dropped onto the fluffy white head of the Persian loafing on her lap, but Duchess was used to sticky things in her fur after her many (nonconsenting) adventures into the nearby forest with Mildred.

The elder princess winked at the younger, and when she turned with a gentle rustle of orange silk, teacup and saucer gently in hand, Sicily found her voice.

“Mildred.” It came out more of a frog’s croak than a tutor’s reprimand. Sicily desperately tried to clear her throat, to find the words that would sway Mutineer Millie from her present course, but all she could manage was a whiny, “You promised.”

Just forty minutes ago, Miss Sicily had adjusted the lay of the dragonheart amber pendant upon the princess’s bosom while the two of them waited on the opposite side of the glass doors for the herald’s announcement. When the princess hadn’t acknowledged Sicily’s command, the etiquette tutor had flicked Mildred under the chin. “I’m waiting, child.”

Mildred had sighed, “Yes, Miss Sicily. I shall curtsy politely while screaming obscenities only in my head.”

“Quite right.” Miss Sicily had nodded sharply. “One must never let on what one is really thinking.”

Now the princess’s face half-turned, the corner of her lips quirking up so mischievously quick, Sicily could’ve sworn the smirk was just a figment of her imagination. The scheming light in Millie’s brown eyes as their gazes met convinced her otherwise, along with Millie revealing a set of crossed fingers from behind her back.

The brat had lied to her!

The exchange lasted only the span of two heartbeats, then the princess was striding smoothly away, taking the fate of Sicily’s employment, and her reputation, with her.

The suitors, who had been feigning interest in the nearby greenery and fragrant flowers, abandoned the foliage much the way a toddler does with a toy that no longer interests him: an abrupt cessation and a diversion to more interesting things.

And an Amberlian princess with a teacup in hand was a very interesting thing indeed.

With a jostling of elbows and a stepping on toes, plus one or more hissed threats, the suitors created a loose crescent. It was much more preferable than a straight line, for the curve allowed them more ease to witness and gloat at any snubbing, or to peacock before the others as the princess’s chosen, and all without the uncouth rubbernecking most common to the peasantry.

Mildred’s gaze swept over the gentlemen one final time, realizing that, despite the multitude of colors, fabrics, and adornments, they were all tiresomely the same. There was no adventure here. No promise of starry skies, the rush of wind against her face, or even the sound of her own voice. Here, there would only be plastered smiles and toe-destroying shoes and silence.

What her parents never understood, and certainly none of her etiquette tutors who were slaves to the demands of society, was that she was a woman who desired. Craved. And she would not go through this life to be told “no” at every turn.

She refused to grow old and look back upon her life and wonder what could have been.

So she would take what she wanted, just like a pirate.

Millie stepped up to the first suitor, teacup poised precisely three inches from her stomach as she’d been taught. “Lord Corydon.”

Pressing a hand against the paisley pocket square over his heart, the lord bent from the waist in a textbook bow. His brown toupee flopped to the side in its own version of a bow. “Princess Mildred. Is that tea for me?”

“Absolutely not.” He wasn’t like the others, merely a bore, and she simply refused to lead an uneventful life. Without elaboration, she side-stepped to the left to the next suitor in line.

As Lord Corydon stared at the vacant spot before him, lashes blinking rapidly as his brain fought to comprehend the princess’s succinct dismissal, Mildred addressed the next gentleman. “Viscount Saltreave.”

The viscount was her best chance at a life near the sea, but it would be a life chained to a hedonistic coward. The spineless man sported a truly impressive red mustache, whose tip he twirled with a flourish of manicured fingers.

He swept into a perfect bow. “Princess Mildred.”

“I would rather be stripped buck naked, doused in honey, and abandoned in the forest to take my chances with a bunch of grizzly bears than marry you.”

Princess Rosamund giggled, and the queen promptly fainted. The king flung up a hand to cover his gasp, the dragonheart amber of his signet ring winking and reflecting a dot of red light on the forehead of the next suitor. His eldest daughter homed in on the beacon like a mischievous cat.

“Baron Oremaster, I suspect marrying you would be equivalent to the experience of a strumpet fornicating with a pimpled pervert wearing a sandpaper condom: unpleasant.”

The Merlish baron’s round olive face turned the exact shade of a bruised pomegranate as Millie sashayed to the left.

“Miss Sicily,” the king growled icily, “is this what you’ve been teaching my daughter? The Delicate Art of sass-mouthing?”

“Your Majesty,” the tutor protested, truly surprised by this sudden accusation. He knew better, had witnessed some of Mildred’s lessons himself. But she didn’t get the chance to defend herself, as Millie was already taking another quick step to the left and focusing that vile tongue of hers on a new target.

The princess continued to greet and insult each suitor in turn, the teacup never wavering from its perfect position three inches in front of her stomach. She never raised her voice, and she never added cruelty to her tone—her words were abrasive enough. One suitor lost his composure so thoroughly that he momentarily forgot her rank and called her a spiteful bitch right to her face. Such is the noun always used to describe a woman who spoke with an unfiltered, unapologetic mind, regardless of conversation topic.

But it was all justly deserved, before you go thinking too poorly of Mutineer Millie. Could she have been more polite? Assuredly. But you were not with her hiding amongst the greenery and spying on the suitors in the hour before her expected arrival. Men say the most incriminating things when they think they’re alone, and even more so when amongst their peers.