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She served generous portions onto the sisters’ pre-warmed plates. “Here everything is, hot and fresh, as you like it.”
Dorothea poked at her eggs with her fork, testing their consistency for some failing to report back to her mother—who always asked for the latest ways Cynthia had failed to live up to expectations.
Stasia simply groaned and dropped her face lower into her hands, ignoring the repast altogether.
Cynthia’s stomach growled as she set the remaining dishes on the sideboard, though she knew better than to take a seat at the table.
Dorothea’s black cat, Morningstar, darted out from beneath the sideboard.
“Rowr!” he screeched, clawing at Cynthia’s slipper as he passed.
“Leave Morningstar alone!” Dorothea scolded Cynthia, despite her not having stepped anywhere near his paws or tail, scooping the demon feline onto her lap in order to feed him bits of her kippers.
“Please scream at her quietly,” Stasia mumbled into her palms.
The sound of trumpets blaring at a distance startled Cynthia from arranging the dishes. “What was that?”
Dorothea rolled her eyes. “The royal parade.”
“How dare they,” Stasia moaned. “It’s barely past noon.”
“How dare who?” Cynthia asked, befuddled. “The Prince Regent?”
“Not Prinny, you featherwit. The visiting royalty from Italy. Prince Azzurro’s hunt for an English bride is the only thing anyone has been talking about for months.”
Cynthia was no featherwit. She had once boasted the finest tutors in London. It was not her fault that once the staff had been dismissed, there was no one left for Cynthia to chat with. Her only interaction with the outside world came from reading scraps of discarded newspapers and overhearing snippets of gossip between her stepmother and stepsisters.
“Come on, Stasia.” Dorothea threw a bun at her sister. “We cannot miss him!”
“Cynthia didn’t brush my hair,” Stasia protested, lifting her face from her hands.
“Put on a bonnet,” Dorothea snapped. “Or stay here with her, whilst the prince falls in love with me.”
“Is he meant to select his bride this afternoon?” Cynthia asked.
“At tonight’s grand ball, unless he falls in love beforehand.” Dorothea dragged her sister out through the front door to the street, where a crowd was already forming.
Cynthia followed, careful to stay a few feet behind, lest the duo notice her presence and send her back into the kitchens.
Luckily, Dorothea and Stasia—like the rest of the gathering crowd—were too busy jostling each other and raising up on tiptoes to notice a scullery maid in a patched and tattered blue-and-brown dress lagging shyly behind.
Soldiers and musicians marched by first, followed by eight white stallions pulling an enormous, gilded open carriage. The crowd roared its approval at their first glimpse of the royal passengers. Several women shrieked in excitement. A few young ladies swooned at the sight of the Italian prince.
Even Cynthia’s mouth fell open in awe.
“Who is that?” she blurted, slack-jawed and blushing.
“Prince Azzurro,” a young woman to her right breathed dreamily. “He’s come to select a bride from the best England has to offer. I hope he chooses me. Have you ever seen eyes so blue, hair so black, and shoulders so wide?”
“Not him.” Cynthia pointed as surreptitiously as she could. “There, seated next to him.”
“That’s his spinster sister, Princess Ammalia. She’s here to help him find his match.”
Dorothea spun about and caught Cynthia staring. “Don’t think for a second that his royal highness will spare a glance for the likes of you. At that ball, either Stasia or I will win the hand of the prince. You won’t even leave the scullery.”
Cynthia couldn’t care less about the prince. Her eyes dazzled and her stomach filled with butterflies at the sight of the resplendent Princess Ammalia…
Whose black-lashed, bright blue gaze had just locked with Cynthia’s.
