Penelope & Prince Charming (16 page)

“I will go riding tomorrow,” Alex announced. “Mama is too ill to ride, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“My nurse says she will die soon. Is that true?”

“I am afraid so.” Alexander saw no reason to hide the truth from the boy. He’d learn of it soon enough.

“Poor Mama.”

“Yes.”

There had never been any intimacy between Sephronia and Alex. He knew her for his mother, but he watched her from afar and knew very little about her.

“Are you going to kill Prince Damien, Papa?” Alex asked.

Alexander shifted the boy’s weight on his shoulder. Alex was growing, getting heavier. “If I must.”

“Is he a very bad man?”

“He is.”

“Nurse says his father used to eat little boys for breakfast. Is that true?”

Alexander saw that he’d have to have a word with Nurse. Telling Alex the truth was one thing; embellishing tales was another.

“He was a bad man, but not a cannibal.”

“Oh.” Alex sounded a bit disappointed. “Is Prince Damien a cannibal?”

“I don’t know. When he returns, we will ask him.”

“And then you will kill him?”

Alex sounded interested, just like his mother. “Yes,” Alexander answered. “I will kill him.”

The ritual bonding of the bride- and groom-to-be commenced at the end of the week.

“About time,” Damien muttered as Petri dressed him in his most formal of uniforms.

“You are keen, sir.” Petri smirked. “I’ve never seen you so keen for a lady.”

“This is a very special lady. You ought to be congratulating me, not laughing at me.”

“I do congratulate you, sir.” Petri tugged the cravat tight. “She is a most entrancing young lady, and she will make a regal princess. I feel great happiness for you.”

“You also look forward to me slaking myself so I will stop grumbling.”

Petri’s blue eyes twinkled. “When the royal rod feels the taste of her flesh, the ache will ease up, sir.”

“I doubt it, Petri. I doubt it. I will not be sated with her until I’m old and gray and half dead.”

“You do have it bad, Your Highness.” The valet hid his grin, not very successfully.

Penelope had won over Sasha with her healing powers and now Petri with her understanding and concern. He had no doubt she could walk into Nvengaria and win over the Council of Dukes, the Council of Mages, and Alexander himself in the space of an hour. That is, if she got the chance. Alexander would not give up without a bloody and vicious fight.

Petri eased Damien’s tight-cut coat over his shoulders. For this ritual, Damien wore the military-style clothing of the rulers of Nvengaria, a dark blue coat hung with too many medals, military breeches and boots. Last, Petri settled a sash of gold cloth over Damien’s right shoulder and fastened it at his left hip.

“You are every inch the Imperial Prince, sir.”

Damien glanced at himself in the mirror. His hair curled from his forehead to his collar, and his blue eyes were dark with anticipation. He looked well enough, but the uniform also brought out the resemblance to his father.

“Let us get on with it,” he said, turning from his reflection.

“Right, sir. Sasha is in ecstasy downstairs. He’s been dying for this day forever.”

“Well, he deserves ecstasy. He’s worked hard.”

“He so much needs a woman,” Petri muttered. “Preferably two.”

“You could always spare him one of yours.”

Petri grinned. “Charity is not my strong point, sir. But I’ll find him a lass. I imagine after today, ladies around here will go for anything Nvengarian.”

As long as Penelope did, Damien did not care.

He had already endured several days of Sasha’s rituals, which had only heightened his need for Penelope. He’d spent a long dull night in a chapel, to cleanse him of sin. Then he and Penelope had attended no fewer than three feasts, where they served each other traditional Nvengarian fare—venison, hare, fish, and wine. Especially the wine. Sasha had brought crates of the stuff, thick and red from the vineyards of Nvengaria’s finest wine-makers. Each ritual needed a different wine, and the guests partook, enjoying the discovery that Nvengarian wine was twice as heady as what they were used to imbibing.

The rituals were highly enjoyed by all but Damien. He’d not been able to touch Penelope, because the first round of rituals called for the couple to be celibate. No slaking needs on each other, no slaking them on anyone else.

But tonight was the bonding ritual, in which the couple would, in front of witnesses, agree to be bound to each other, by blood, forever. At the end of the ritual they’d be officially betrothed, and afterward they could slake all those needs that had built in the interim.

Damien growled in anticipation. What to do first? Strip her right away, or make her remove her clothes bit by bit while he watched? He could position her in front of a mirror while he stood behind her, still dressed, and taught her about her body. He let this enjoyable vision thread his mind.

Or should he take her fully, on the bed, all at once, and when he was sated, teach her the myriad ways of pleasure? Or should he slowly build, starting at her fingertips, until their lovemaking was explosive for both of them?

Petri, as if knowing his thoughts, clapped him on the shoulders. “Time to go, sir.”

“Thank God. Let us get me betrothed.”

Petri grinned again, and the two of them left the room and headed downstairs.

At the bottom of the staircase paced a man dressed in a kilt with a white lawn shirt and a stiff black coat. He had dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck, with one escaped lock cascading over his cheek. He had a military bearing, and he walked restlessly, his hands behind him, holding himself apart from the murmuring guests in the ballroom.

When he heard Damien on the stairs, he looked up. He had a square, hard face, the face of a man who’d seen too much. But the hard face suddenly creased in an infectious grin, and the man’s restlessness vanished.

“Damien, you wild dog, why didn’t you tell me you were getting married?”

Damien came off the last step and clasped the man’s hand in a firm grip. The Scotsman thumped him on the shoulder, grinning hugely.

“What are you doing here, Egan?” Damien demanded. “I thought you had gone to chase bears in Russia.”

Egan McDonald laughed out loud. “Too many husbands after my Scottish blood. Thought it best to beat a retreat. Then I stroll through London and read that my old friend Damien of Nvengaria is sticking his head in the noose. How’d she catch you?”

“You have not met her yet, it is apparent.”

Egan raised his brows. “Oh-ho, you are well and truly snared. I see it in your eyes.” He turned to Petri and said in perfect Nvengarian, “You let him fall into the trap? I’m surprised at you, Petri. You’re supposed to protect him.”

Egan McDonald was one of the few friends Damien had made during his long years in exile. He’d met Egan in Rome, a few months after Waterloo. Egan, a captain in a Highland regiment, had gone to Vienna after the British victory, then had traveled to Rome, wanting to explore that city.

He’d met Damien late one night in a passage at a hotel, and they discovered they’d both been enticed to meet the
same woman. When Egan understood that Damien was Nvengarian, he’d suggested, in that language, that they leave the duplicitous lady and share a bottle of brandy instead.

Surprised at Egan’s command of Nvengarian, Damien had agreed, and they’d adjourned to a tavern. Egan had then told Damien an extraordinary story. While wandering the wilds of Europe some years before, he’d been waylaid by robbers, beaten, and left for dead by the side of the road. He admitted he was drunk and had little wherewithal to fight. He would have died, but for the kindness of a Nvengarian girl named Zarabeth, who had found him and convinced her mother and father to take him home with them. The family had nursed him back to health—“sobered me up,” he said—and he’d stayed with them until he healed.

The girl, Zarabeth, turned out to be Damien’s distant cousin.

Egan and Damien had become friends over the tale and the brandy. Damien liked finding a European who was neither fascinated nor awed by the fact that he was a Nvengarian prince. Egan, though son of a Scottish laird himself, had an easy way about him and cared nothing for a man’s rank, only his worth. This philosophy did not make him particularly popular with snobbish courtiers, but Damien enjoyed his egalitarian ways and found his good humor infectious. Egan could also let his brogue ebb and flow—when he found an Englishman annoying, Egan’s accent became so thick it could barely be deciphered, but in the next instant, he could speak in the clipped, clear tones of any high-born Englishman. The brogue slipped in again when he was drunk or angry, but when sober, he had the ability to turn it on and off at will.

Whereas Damien had acquired a reputation as a charming seducer, Egan had acquired one for being wild and reckless. He made love to women with the same enthusi
asm that he lost thousands on a roll of dice or proposed duels to defend a lady’s honor. He won at cards with the same recklessness, and would be one day flush with money, the next day destitute. He cared nothing for either state, living through it all with high good humor and an indifference that Damien admired.

Egan had commanded his troops on the Peninsula with careful efficiency. “Fine for me to walk the edge of the cliff,” he’d say in explanation, “but not for me to drag a hundred men with me.” He’d taken care of his lads so well that soldiers far and wide nearly worshipped him. They lauded his bravery and his wisdom and his ability to use gutter language like the lowest of them.

Even the French he’d defeated had known of Egan Mc-Donald, the Mad Highlander, and vied to introduce themselves to him when he captured them. In London, former soldiers inevitably came up to him in the street to shake his hand. “Now that’s a
real
officer,” they’d say to their companions.

Egan took his celebrity like he took anything else, with a shrug and good-natured indifference.

Even with Egan’s easy friendliness, however, Damien sensed he’d never gotten to know the true man. Egan kept something buried within him that he showed no one. It swam to the surface sometimes when Damien and he talked about Nvengaria, but just when Damien thought he’d at last broken through the Mad Highlander facade, Egan would change the subject.

Damien saw a glimpse of the real Egan now as Egan asked, “And how is your wee cousin Zarabeth? Remember me to her, and tell her I am bad at writing letters.”

“My ‘wee’ cousin is a grown woman and married to a duke. One of the damned Council.”

Egan stopped, his mouth opening. He looked almost comical in his surprise. “Married?”

“Three years now. An arrangement between her parents
and his family. I do not like the man, but I was not there to prevent it, unfortunately.”

“But good lord, she’s just a bit of a thing. She can’t be after being married yet.”

“She is, I believe, twenty-two.”

Egan’s brows furrowed as though trying to reconcile the loss of time. “You say you don’t like him?”

“No, but no need to bring your claymore. He has given her a huge estate of her own and plenty of money and jewels. She is the toast of the town, much admired by one and all.”

His harsh face took on a faraway expression. “Little Zarabeth. She was always so quiet and kind.”

“Quiet? Zarabeth? She was a wild hellion. But tenderhearted.”

“She was kind to me.” Egan stopped and pulled his face back into its usual carefree lines. “Does she ever mention me?”

Damien shook his head. “I’ve not had opportunity to speak with her much of late.”

“Damn,” Egan said softly. He stood a moment, lost in thought, then seemed to remember their present situation. He straightened up and clapped Damien on the shoulder. “Come on, old man. Time for you to lose your freedom.”

The moved together toward the ballroom. “I take it you have never thought of marrying?” Damien asked, although he knew the answer already. Egan had very strong ideas about marriage—the English expression was “over my dead body.”

“Not me,” Egan replied fervently. “A carefree bachelor to the end of my days.”

“You might change your mind when you see my lady. But if you do, remember she is already taken, and that I am a dead shot.”

“No fear,” said Egan, then they entered the ballroom, and the Highlander’s words died on his lips.

Damien wanted to stop in stunned admiration as well. He had not much paid attention to the London seamstresses who had swarmed the house, but now he saw the results of their labors.

Penelope was resplendent in a gown of cream silk that gathered under her breasts and fell in a smooth line to the floor. Seed pearls decorated the bodice, which bared a hint of bosom. Lace draped her upper arms, leaving her lower arms bare. Her honey-colored hair was gathered in ropy curls and wound about her head. Pearls glistened against her locks, and a single curl artfully escaped and dangled to her shoulder.

At least a hundred people stood in the room, most between her and him, and yet, her gaze went immediately to him and stayed there. Her red lips, lush and ripe, parted as he approached.

The guests moved aside for him, growing silent as he crossed the room, like a breeze rippling through wheat. He never noticed them. He saw only Penelope and her gold-green eyes and her sweet body in its glorious dress that he wanted to rip from her body.

Sasha stood next to Penelope, waiting like a father about to give away the bride. He smiled benevolently as Damien stopped before Penelope.

Damien looked down at her, scarcely able to believe that in the space of a few minutes, he would be betrothed to this incredible young woman. He felt the corners of his mouth pulling upward in a grin. Penelope, on the other hand, did not smile. She watched him, her eyes shining—
with tears of joy?
he wondered.

“Honored guests,” Sasha said. “Let us begin.”

Every person in the room had already riveted attention on Penelope and Damien. Sasha beckoned to Petri, who
stepped forward bearing a tray. On the tray lay a small, clean, sharp knife and a piece of rope. That was all. Penelope’s brows twitched as she regarded the tray; they had not told her beforehand what the ritual would entail.