Penelope & Prince Charming (20 page)

A spark of anger lit Tavistock’s mild eyes. “So you say. I admit that I can imagine no man going to all this trouble to lure a young lady into his bed, but the point is, she has gone there. And you are
not
married. If you find a princess more to your taste on your way home, and abandon Penelope, she is unprotected and ruined.”

“She is not ruined under the laws of my people,” Damien said. “I assure you of this.”

“But she is not of your people, Prince Damien. Nvengaria is a land far away and most people in Oxfordshire and even London have never heard of it. The English guests you invited are already inventing jokes about a
maiden who cannot resist a prince. They wonder who you will charm into your bed next.”

Damien felt the temper inherited from his father rise. “Who dares say these things?” He was surprised at how icy his voice had become.

“The Prince Regent for one. He wonders if Penelope is partial to all princes. Shall you challenge him to a duel?” Tavistock looked angry enough to do it himself, or maybe to challenge Damien.

“Damn,” Damien said feelingly. He said a few more choice phrases in Nvengarian. His bodyguards glanced his way, wondering.

Tavistock went on. “I do not hold myself up as an example of excellent behavior. You know that Penelope’s mother and I have been lovers. My only excuse is that we are older, Lady Trask is a widow, and I hope we were discreet. Penelope is a maiden, with much to lose.”

“Do you think I would shame her?” Damien’s accent became thick as his anger increased. “She will be Princess of Nvengaria, not the lover of a backstreet scoundrel.”

“What I think is that you came from nowhere and have successfully enticed an innocent young woman into your bed.”

Damien growled again, but he knew that from Tavistock’s point of view, Damien’s actions looked exactly as described. Tavistock might have come ’round to believing in Damien, but not everyone in England would, including, it seemed, the damned Regent.

He held on to his temper. “What would you have me do?”

“Marry her,” Tavistock said. “Have an English wedding, here in the village.”

“I do not have time. The days are marching and the road home is long.”

Tavistock’s dark eyes were steady. “There are plenty of powerful and influential men staying here. I am certain
any of them can help you procure a special license. You need delay one or two days at most.”

Damien balled his fists, but he made himself stay polite. He needed these people to like him, because he needed them to let him have Penelope, and not only because of the prophecy. He wanted her. He was painfully aware of how much he wanted her.

“I will speak to Egan McDonald,” he said. “He will be able to obtain a special license from whoever gives them in your country. Everyone admires Egan.”

“Good.” The brown eyes, flinty hard, did not soften.

Damien understood. “You are waiting for me to tell you that I will keep myself away from Penelope until then. That she will sleep alone.”

“It would be best.”

He sighed. “That is a cruel, cruel thing to ask a man, Tavistock, whether he be Nvengarian or English.”

Tavistock shrugged. “I care very much for the Trask family. I do not want to see them compromised or slandered in any way.”

“Neither do I. Very well, you have won. I will marry Penelope in your English chapel with your English license. By the time the poor girl is finished, she will have married me three times over.”

“It will still the wagging tongues.”

Damien thought of the ritual that was to have been tonight, and closed his eyes in painful longing. The bathing ritual, in which the bride and groom were cleansed and then brought together to wash each other.

Sasha had supervised the building of a special bath in a ground-floor chamber. Traditionally, the ritual was attended by a crowd of the bride’s and groom’s families and friends, who drank wine and cheered them on. Damien had gotten Sasha to pare the number down to himself and Penelope’s mother and Meagan, to spare Penelope embarrassment.

He had been looking forward for a long time to standing behind Penelope in the deep water, drawing the ritual sponge over her neck and shoulders. Her hair would curl in the damp, strands clinging to bare skin flushed from the heat of the bath. He’d rinse her with a trickle of water, then follow the trickle with his tongue. His hand would come up to cover her breast, to pinch the tip into a firm peak, and she’d arch back against him in longing.

He willed his imagination to still, and opened his eyes. Tavistock was watching him narrowly.

Damien made a conceding gesture, as though it made no difference to him. “Very well,” he said with difficulty. “I will inform Sasha that the ritual is to be postponed.”

“Oh, Penelope, just fancy, I’ll be your bridesmaid after all.”

In the garden at the Trask home, Meagan threw her arms around Penelope’s waist. Penelope hugged her friend back, then released her without a word. Not far from them, Wulf sat in an unused flower bed, digging to his heart’s content.

He loved to dig, much like any boy his age, making little trenches and strange forts out of the rich earth. His wounds had healed with alarming speed, an event which both Sasha and Wulf attributed to the healing powers of the true princess.

No one in the house was particularly happy to hear that the logosh, albeit turned to a small boy, was staying.

“Penny, dear,” her mother had said as she entered the small servants’ room to which Penelope had carried Wulf. Wulf had lain under a pile of blankets, his pale face bruised and scratched, his hand firmly closed around Penelope’s.

Lady Trask hovered in the doorway, her hands fluttering nervously. “What if he turns into a demon again and tries to eat us all?”

“He will not,” Penelope said. She did not know how she knew this, but she knew it with all her heart. “He will not turn into his other form unless I tell him to.”

Lady Trask shot Wulf a last look around the door. “Well, please be certain not to tell him to, there’s a good girl.”

They had discovered this morning that Wulf liked sugar very much, after he’d eaten an entire bowlful in the kitchen. He’d showed no ill effects, and Penelope had soothed the cook’s temper and dragged the boy away. He also liked carrots, and happily munched through the bunch that Penelope gave him.

Penelope watched him dig and burrow, getting himself filthy, but humming a happy tune while he did it.

She herself was beyond frustration. Last evening, Damien had appeared at supper and made the abrupt announcement that he would be marrying Penelope by special license in the village chapel tomorrow or the day after that, as soon as he could arrange it.

Everyone had stared in surprise, except Michael Tavistock, who looked satisfied, and Sasha, who looked unhappy. Penelope understood his unhappiness when Damien went on to say that the rest of the Nvengarian rituals would be postponed until he and Penelope were properly married.

The supper guests had clapped happily and said their congratulations. Damien had warmed them with his benevolent smile and raised his glass to Penelope.

Penelope had sat in stunned silence, wondering what on earth had just happened. But she had no opportunity to speak to Damien or argue with him or even look at him. He had disappeared after supper, and she had not seen him since.

“I wish I had time to get a proper dress made, but there it is,” Meagan was saying. “You are so lucky, Penelope. A
handsome prince riding out of nowhere, sweeping you off your feet, and marrying you. It is too romantic.”

“It is, rather,” Penelope said colorlessly.

“Please remind him, when you reach Nvengaria, that he has promised me someone ten times better than a duke.” She tilted her head to one side. “I wonder what he means by that?”

Penelope shook her head. It was another fine day, and the sun shone hot. Her parasol cast a blue shade over her, while Meagan’s sent a yellowish glow over her face.

“I’ve been hoping to get you alone,” Meagan said, a little pink creeping into her cheeks. “Yesterday, when we were all running after Wulf and then falling asleep, did you…” She waggled her brows. “You know.”

Penelope had tried to put it from her mind, but in a rush, she remembered the heavy weight of Damien’s body on hers, the feeling of being stretched and opened, and the strange fullness of his length inside her.

She remembered it vividly, as though her body transported itself back to the hot room with him for a time, then was deposited again in the garden with a crash. She drew a breath and opened her eyes. “Yes,” she said.

Meagan squeezed the handle of her parasol. “Oh, my dear friend, how wonderful for you. Was it—I mean, did it hurt?”

“Not really. Not as much as I’d feared.” Penelope was blushing, too, and she looked over at Wulf to distract herself. He was getting dirtier by the minute.

“Goodness, I am relieved to hear that. Maddie Roper said she screamed aloud when she was first—well. She also said her husband did nothing but grunt, rather like a pig. I hope Damien said sweet nothings instead.”

Penelope remembered him whispering under the shadow of the canopy while he kissed her with hot thoroughness. “He said things in Nvengarian.”

“Ah. Well, when you learn more Nvengarian, you will
understand them. That would make me wish to study harder.”

Penelope looked at Meagan’s eager, teasing face, and dissolved into laughter. “You always make me feel better.”

“Why should you not? I am pleased he is such a good husband already. I will bless your good fortune and hope to be wed myself to a gentleman with tight trousers who does not grunt in bed. That is as much as an old maid like myself can wish for.”

She sounded mournful, but her eyes danced.

“Do not let your father hear you speak so,” Penelope admonished.

Meagan deflated. “Poor Father. When we woke yesterday, he was holding your mama, and I so hoped that things were settled between them. But I am afraid not. Papa is being uncommonly stubborn.”

Penelope bit her lip. She’d not had the chance to speak to Michael during the whirlwind preparations and rituals that Sasha insisted on. Her mother seemed resigned that Michael would leave her. When Lady Trask no longer had the heart to have hysterics, Penelope knew that she was truly suffering.

“Damien has overturned all of our lives,” she said.

“That is true,” Meagan agreed. “I vow, I never dreamed I’d be chasing fairy-tale monsters and chatting with the Prince Regent and being a bridesmaid for my dearest friend who is marrying a prince.”

Penelope smiled. “You like the world upside-down, do you?”

“You must admit, Pen, that life was becoming deadly dull. Damien arrived just in time to save us from a summer of hideous ennui.” She sighed. “I did hope that I would be engaged myself to one of these Mayfair gentlemen before you left, but it is not to be.”

Penelope raised her brows. “I have seen you dancing with Mr. McDonald more than once. He is handsome
enough, even if he wears kilts instead of tight trousers. Have you not tried to gain his admiration?”

“Do not tease me, my darling friend. There is nothing wrong with kilts, especially when you wonder, you know, what is under them. No, the Mad Highlander is handsome and gallant, but he loves another.”

“Who?” Penelope said, interested in spite of herself.

“I have no idea. But I see it in his eyes. That faraway look, you know, as though he is wishing he could be with his beloved, though he knows he never can. It is terribly romantic.”

Meagan was not smitten, then, if she could look upon the roguish, teasing Highlander and weave a tragic tale about him.

“You are inventing things,” Penelope chided.

“No. It is there if you look for it. I know about people.”

Penelope had to concede that Meagan did. She acted like a silly young miss, but mature wisdom lurked behind her shrewd eyes. If she claimed that Egan McDonald was pining for love, he likely was. Penelope’s mother, too, was pining for love, though she did not hide it as well as Mr. McDonald.

“You have given me an idea,” Penelope said, her spirits picking up. “I believe I can resolve things between my mother and your father.”

“Truly? May I help?”

“I
believe
I can,” Penelope repeated. “Depending upon how stubborn the pair of them remain. The problem is that your father does not believe my mother loves him. At least, not enough.”

“Yes,” Meagan said. “What he fears is that he is not good enough for her, and that she will throw him over the moment she finds a gentleman wealthier or more handsome.”

Penelope began to answer, then stared at her friend in surprise. “You agree with him.”

Meagan shrugged, her face going pink. “She did get very excited when she saw Damien’s rubies.”

“That is simply her way, Meagan. She learned to be silly and frivolous because it kept her from being hurt. People
expect
her to be silly. But she loves your father very much, and I will prove it.”

“I hope that you can,” Meagan said, her eyes serious. “Father is near to brokenhearted.”

“I will prove it right away.” She folded her parasol with a determined jerk. “Can you watch Wulf for a moment?”

“No,” Meagan answered at once. She held her hands palms out as though trying to stop a runaway horse. “I love you, Pen, but no.”

Penelope glanced at the boy. “He is awfully dirty. He will have to bathe again or Mathers will scold something awful. Mathers hates dirt on the carpets.”

Fortunately, Wulf seemed to enjoy baths. He liked to splash water everywhere and dive below the surface, coming up spluttering. For all Penelope could see, he was enjoying being a little boy.

“Wulf,” she said.

The effect was instantaneous. Wulf dropped the piece of wood he was using to dig, leapt to his feet, and ran to Penelope’s side.

They’d given him clothes from one of the groom’s sons, serviceable breeches, shirt, and shoes. In them he looked like a normal ten-year-old boy. His eyes were a bit large in his small face, but other than that, he looked in no way out of place.

He stood before Penelope, smeared with dirt but peering avidly at her, as though he hung on her every word. He might look like a child, but he behaved almost like a feral dog, one who loved one master and one master only. He understood Nvengarian, but he spoke little, save for a few words at a time. Since Penelope only knew a little of
the language herself, their conversations were brief and halting.