Penelope & Prince Charming (25 page)

Penelope, who had never been asked her opinion on anything before, except by her father, answered the best she could and hoped she did not sound like a fool.

“You come from Oxfordshire,” one gentleman who smelled of port remarked. “What effect do you think enclosure has had there?”

“What think you of the idea of steam engines, Your
Highness? Is it the fantasy of a madman, or the future of England?”

“Do they have plays in Nvengaria? Like our Sheridan and Shakespeare?”

“What sort of flowers did you have when you married the prince? What did your dress look like? I saw a drawing in the newspaper, but it did not resemble you in the least.”

Penelope thanked heaven she’d listened for years to her mother make small talk about nothing. She was able to make replies that did not sound too insipid, and even had her own opinions about things such as enclosures and steam, thanks to her father.

By the time Egan and she made it through the crowd, she was already exhausted. They found Damien speaking at some length to a tall woman in a simple but elegant ensemble of deep blue, which offset her glossy brown hair. She was older than Penelope, probably Damien’s own age of thirty, with a lovely face and chocolate-brown eyes framed with lush black lashes. She wore only a circlet of pearls on her perfect white throat, and Penelope at once felt overdressed and over-glittering.

“Ah,” Egan said in a loud voice. “The lovely Anastasia. My dear, it has been too long.” He made a deep bow with a flourish, his McDonald plaids whirling.

“Do I behold Egan McDonald?” the creature said, her voice dusky and low, with hints of sultriness. “I last saw you chatting up lasses in Paris, drunk as a lord.”

“Or drunk as a laird,” Egan said cheerfully. “You are as beautiful as ever, my darling Anastasia.”

“You are as flattering as ever.” Her gaze moved to Penelope, but she would not speak until introduced.

Damien, whose dark gaze had landed and lingered on Penelope’s bared shoulders, said, “Penelope, may I present Anastasia Dimitri, Countess of Nvengaria. Anastasia, my wife, Her Imperial Highness, Princess Penelope.”

Anastasia curtsied as the other women had, but the look she cast over Penelope was more thorough, more careful. She laid her hand on Damien’s arm.

“Oh, Damien,” she breathed. “Yes, she’ll do.”

“You are Nvengarian?” Penelope asked politely, her heart thumping.

“Austrian,” Damien answered. “She married a Nvengarian count.”

Anastasia’s dark eyes flickered. “And I became more Nvengarian than the Nvengarians, Your Highness. If I may say so, you will make a splendid princess.”

She did not remove her hand from Damien’s arm. Damien did not seem to notice this. Egan did but said nothing. Anastasia continued to study Penelope, something behind her neutral expression that Penelope could not read.

Penelope’s throat felt tight, and she struggled to keep the inane smile on her face. “Thank you, Countess.”

“Anastasia is on our side,” Damien said in a low voice.

Anastasia sent him a sharp look. “Of course, I do believe some of Alexander’s reforms to be necessary. Some of them are overdue.”

“I do not deny that he is an intelligent man with excellent ideas,” Damien answered. “But his methods are to gut everything completely and start again, which is foolish.”

“If he could be put to use heading reforms, he would be a formidable ally.”

“That is, if he can take the time from attempting to murder me,” Damien said.

“True, but—”

To Penelope, it sounded like the two of them had argued the point countless times. Many arguments, many conversations, when Damien had barely spoken of Alexander to Penelope.

There is no reason I should be jealous,
she scolded herself.

And whyever not?
said the part of her that saw the world
very clearly. The two had obviously been friends, perhaps more than that. Damien had not seen his way to mentioning her before. Had they been lovers? Were they still?

“Are we to speak of wretched politics all night?” Egan broke in. “The pair of you would bore a tortoise. This is a ball; I say we join the dancing.”

The musicians were warming up in the gallery, the opulent ballroom clearing so that dancing could commence.

Anastasia squeezed Damien’s arm. “They will love to see you lead your bride out in the first minuet.”

“I intend to.” Damien’s eyes warmed, and he held out his gloved hand to Penelope. “My love?”

She put her hand into his strong one, trying to suppress the shiver that flowed through her. She had not slept with him since their wedding night, and her body craved him.

The other two noticed their attention on each other, because Egan snickered and Anastasia’s smile grew wide.

Damien bent them a severe look. “Mind your own business. Egan, take the countess out.”

“The minuet is a bloody silly dance,” Egan said. “All that hopping and bobbing and bowing in place.”

Anastasia snaked her elegant arm around Egan’s. “Lead me out, McDonald. You can do a Highland sword dance for all I care, but I need people to see me enjoying myself in a frivolous fashion.”

Egan looked aggrieved. “Aye, it’s work, work, work for poor old Egan. Use him and discard him, he doesn’t care.” His grin fixed in place, he tucked her hand under his arm and strode smoothly to the forming squares.

Damien led Penelope a little way behind them, his arm bent formally at the elbow, her hand on his.

“Is she Egan’s long-lost love?” she asked. She remembered Meagan stating that she believed Egan had a secret sorrow, a love unrequited. Anastasia was certainly beautiful enough for any number of men to fall in love with.

Damien looked puzzled. “What are you saying?”

“Never mind. I thought perhaps the two of them—”

“Egan and Anastasia?” He looked so astonished that Penelope wished she’d said nothing. “No, Anastasia had one love, and that was her husband.”

“Was?”

He leaned close to her, his warm breath tickling her ear. “He was killed in the Peninsular War at Vitoria. He fought in an Austrian regiment, whose commander more or less abandoned his soldiers in an outcropping far from the town. The were pinned down by the French, and not one of them survived.”

Penelope looked up at him, startled. “Good heavens.”

“Yes. I can say no more at present.”

Penelope wondered what more there could be to the story, but they walked surrounded by glittering couples heading to begin the dance, all of whom eagerly watched the prince and princess. Nothing private could be said here.

It was the last moment alone Penelope had with Damien the entire night. They opened the dancing in the head square in the place of honor, the entire ballroom applauding when they appeared. Damien kissed Penelope’s hand before he released her so she could take her place, which engendered more applause.

The minuet began. Penelope had not seen Damien dance before. He moved with exquisite grace and animallike precision, his body moving in fluid time with the music. No hopping and bobbing, as Egan called it. She noted other ladies in the room turning heads to watch him, eyes sliding to Penelope in envy.

She caught sight of Egan from the corner of her eye. He bounced up and down, exaggerating the steps and hops, letting his kilt flap like a wild flag. But she saw that he, too, moved with feral grace, though he tried to hide it.

Damien noticed her watching him. “He plays the clown,” he breathed as they drew close.

Penelope wanted to lean to him, wanting him with a mindlessness that alarmed her. His medals clanged softly as he bowed and straightened. His eye caught hers, the spark in them telling her he sensed her longing.

“He distracts people,” she said softly in return.

His brows quirked at her perceptiveness. “He makes them forget what they want to pay attention to.”

They parted then, before he could elaborate on the cryptic statement. Penelope smiled at the other gentleman in the square, to whom the dance had her turn and curtsy.

When she and her husband drew together again, her need swamped her, and she gazed hungrily at him. One wisp of his hair fell to his brow, just above his heart-stopping blue eyes.

“Damien,” she murmured.

His hand tightened on hers. “I know.”

The pressure of his fingers told her. He wanted her, had for all the tedious time they’d spent in the Prince Regent’s overly elaborate palace.

She had a sudden vision of him closing his fingers hard over her wrists and dragging her through the crowd, out the ballroom doors, and up the many staircases to his high-ceilinged chamber and his huge curtained bed. She wanted it so much it put a sharp taste in her mouth.

His fingers slipped from hers, and he shook his head once, ever so slightly.

Disappointment cut her. She curtsied and stepped back to her place, trying to keep the hurt from her face.

This is what it is to be a princess,
she thought. Not spunsugar castles and happily ever after, but endless ceremony and parading before others when the heart longs only to be with the beloved.

She squared her shoulders. She could do it. She was made of stern stuff. She’d gone into this knowing she married Damien to save him, to fulfill his quest so his people would rally to him as prince. She loved him
enough to want to save his life, even at the expense of her own happiness.

No matter that she was a drooling pool of lust. She hadn’t slept with him or even kissed him in days. Would this be their life? Coming together once a fortnight for hastened greetings before being whisked off to other duties?

Well, she would not let that happen. Saving Damien and Nvengaria was important, but once that was finished, she would insist on having a marriage. Certainly they could be prince and princess during the day, but at night, when the servants were gone and the candles lit, they would be husband and wife, in all ways.

She sent Damien a determined glance. He caught it and gave her a faint lift of brows in return.

The dance ended. She curtsied to the other gentleman, then the lady. They were high-placed diplomats from Prussia, she remembered, and she said her thanks in German, what little she knew of it. The husband and wife, both white-haired and looking vastly experienced with the diplomatic life, smiled and pronounced her charming.

Damien’s fingers locked about her elbow as he led her away, burning her skin through his gloves. She was very aware of his powerful body close to hers, his heat against her side. He leaned down, his breath warming her ear. “Not long, love.”

She looked quickly up at him, hoping to catch the desire in his eyes, but some other diplomat was already sliding to them. Damien pasted a neutral smile on his lips and turned away to greet him.

Penelope did not dance with Damien again the rest of the night. She became separated from him quickly, but she was never alone.

The Regent himself claimed her attention and introduced her to ambassadors and diplomats, dukes and generals, and other fine people at his ball. He showed her off like a proud papa, and started putting out the story that he’d been instrumental in Penelope and Prince Charming coming together. Most people knew of the Regent’s propensity to exaggerate, and ignored him.

Penelope danced with dukes and foreign counts, ambassadors and emissaries. Each of her partners passed her to the next in a smooth exchange, and she was led into the supper room by a man called the Duke of St. Clair, who was young, handsome, and charming in his own way. He did something high-placed in the Admiralty, she gathered, though he was no naval man.

She caught sight of Damien escorting a middle-aged
duchess to a place somewhere down the long table, turning to charm her. Penelope could always tell when he slid into the role of Prince Charming. His smile became secretive, his movements more foreign, as though he struggled with the customs of the country and was making the best of it. His accent would become more pronounced, and he’d smile apologetically for his blunders while the woman he charmed melted under his serene blue gaze.

Penelope sent him an ironic smile when he caught her gaze on him. He used her attention to point her out to the duchess, smiling an almost bashful smile that caused the duchess to tap him with her fan and give him a “naughty boy” look.

Penelope restrained herself from rolling her eyes, and Damien gave her a surreptitious wink.

After supper, the dancing began again and became interminable. Penelope lost track of all the people she’d met and their names and faces, though of course, they all expected her to remember
them.
Egan, thank heavens, saved her more than once, rudely claiming a dance with her, rushing her off to the floor like a jealous suitor.

When she tried to thank him for the reprieve, he merely bowed and said, “At your service, Princess.”

It was Egan who led her out of the ballroom at last, when the crowd began to grow restless. Egan told her that they’d stay until the last trump unless she left first.

She had to go around the entire ballroom and say her good nights. She did not see Damien at all and wondered where he was, but no one else seemed to miss him.

Her feet aching, her face almost numb from smiling, she let Egan lead her out the doors, up the stairs, and through another door into the private halls and stairways of the palace.

They reached a deserted staircase, a silent sweep of
marble that led to the opulent private chambers. Penelope collapsed to a step with a heartfelt sigh. “Is it all over?”

Egan laughed as he plopped to the step next to her and leaned back on his elbows. He stretched out his legs, his kilt spilling over brawny thighs. “Must have drunk a vat of champagne tonight. My head’s spinning ’round and ’round. What is that woman doing up there?”

Penelope craned her head to look at the fat goddesses parading across the ceiling far above them. Most of them were overly plump and quite naked, and looked a bit silly.

She turned to make a quip to Egan and was startled to see his cheeks wet. She sat up. “Are you all right?”

“Aye,” he said, not moving. “I was remembering looking at paintings like these with a lass once, and what she said about them. She had a sharp wit, she did. I fell in love with her that day, I think.”

His eyes held vast sadness. Penelope put her hand on his shoulder. “And you lost her?” she asked.

He stared at her blankly, then blinked, as though he’d not meant to say the words out loud. He made a brushing-aside gesture. “Don’t listen to me, Princess. I’m bloody drroonk.”

“Do not begin the Scottish burr with me, Egan. Tell me about this woman.”

He made a face. “‘Tis nothing, lass. She married another. I’m man enough to get over it.”

Penelope gave him a skeptical look. Egan scrubbed his face with a sinewy, callused hand. “All right, she was a wee lass called Zarabeth. She saved my life; I fell in love with her. And if I weren’t so bloody stupid, I’d have snatched her up, instead of wandering the world drowning myself in malt whiskey. She made me promise to give it up. I didn’t. We quarreled. I left. That was years ago, and now she’s married some duke. End of story.”

He said the words in a hard voice, as though it was something he never thought about anymore.

Penelope knew better. “I am sorry.”

He pointed a thick finger at her. “Don’t you dare tell a soul. I don’t want to read stories in the newspaper about the Mad Highlander and his broken heart.”

“I’d never betray a confidence, Egan.”

The finger wavered. “Sorry, Princess, I didn’t mean to doubt you.” He put his hand to his head. “Och, teach me to drink champagne. Damn bubbly froth with no body. Nvengarian whiskey, now that stuff will give you balls of brass.”

Penelope laughed. Egan glanced at her as though he’d forgotten who he was speaking to. “Ignore my manners. I’m only the Mad Highlander.”

She opened her mouth to tell him she liked him the way he was, but she saw Damien below, walking swiftly through the open and deserted hall. Anastasia was by his side, her arm locked through his, the train of her skirt a silken ripple on the marble.

Penelope rose, ready to go down to them. At that moment, Damien turned and pressed Anastasia against the wall, putting his large body over hers.

Penelope heard nothing over the rushing in her ears, could see nothing but her husband leaning close to Anastasia, resting his weight on his arm above her head, her white hands pressing back into the marble wall.

Two lackeys in the Regent’s livery clattered past the couple below, thankfully not looking up to spy Penelope, rigid and openmouthed on the stairs. The lackeys skirted Damien and Anastasia, pretending not to see them, and hurried through another door on whatever errand they pursued.

Damien took a step back from Anastasia, but she remained against the wall, looking up at him with her sculpted face.

Penelope became aware of Egan’s fingers heavy on her elbow, his voice in her ear devoid of its Scots accent and champagne-drenched slur. “It’s not what it looks like, lass.”

Her cold fingers closed on her skirts. She wanted to run, to flee the palace, flee London, run all the way back to the safety of Oxfordshire. Her throat felt tight, her legs weak.

“What is it, then?” she asked stiffly.

“Damien will have to tell you that. An open stairwell is no place for it.”

He made her proceed with him up the stairs. Penelope turned her head to stare down at Damien, who’d leaned toward Anastasia again.

The catty part of her wanted to race down the stairs, yank Damien away, and tell the fair Anastasia to stay away from her husband.
Like a fishwife,
she thought, cringing.
Perhaps I’d strike her, too, maybe rake my claws across her face.

Then she’d die of mortification. A lady never twitted her husband about his mistresses. She looked the other way and pretended they did not exist. That was the only way husband and wife could live in harmony.

Gentlemen took mistresses. It was the way of things. Her father never had because he’d had no use for women at all, but he’d never had much use for his wife, either. However, she knew good and well that most gentlemen of the
ton
gave their wives one house and tucked ladybirds into another.

She bit her lip and turned away, hoping Egan was right about it not being what it looked like, and then hoping she was not being too dreadfully naive.

Damien shed his tight coat like an unwanted skin, and Petri caught it in waiting hands. “Thank God that pantomime is over,” he said.

Damien was used to being an object of fascination at
European courts, but tonight, he’d been fawned over and followed and teased and bantered with like never before. The elusive, charming bachelor Prince Damien had caught himself a beautiful bride.

“But you ought to have seen her, Petri,” he said as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. “She makes an astonishing princess. She knows how to talk to people, how to say what they want to hear, how to be charming and pretty and yet not so pretty and charming that people envy her. They
like
her.”

Petri gave him a grin as he folded away the Imperial Prince’s sash. “I’m sure she was a paragon, sir.”

“This was thrust upon her before she had time to prepare, and she rose to the occasion. I thought we’d go straight to Nvengaria, where she’d have training and polishing before we ventured to entertain crowned heads. She is amazing.”

“A true princess, sir.”

“Cease your laughter, Petri. A man can be proud of his wife and still be a man.”

“Perhaps you should tell her this yourself, sir.”

Damien shot him a glance as Petri pulled off his silk waistcoat. “I intend to. And so much more than that.”

Petri chuckled. “I like you being in love, sir. It makes you—exuberant.”

“It maddens me. I want to snatch her away and spend a week in bed with her, but I have to woo the Regent and fight Alexander, instead. I want her in the sheets, with you occasionally pushing food under the door to us when we get hungry.”

“Happy to oblige, sir.”

Damien began unwinding his neckcloth, relieved to rid himself of the strangling folds. At the same time, someone tapped on the door, and Petri strolled to answer it.

A lackey announced, “The Princess Penelope,” and Penelope followed him in, agitation in every step.

She still wore her ball gown, cut to reveal her lovely shoulders, long neck, and beautiful breasts. The skirt brushed her hips and legs, reminding him of what they looked like bare.

Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling, gold and green, like amber and jade. Diamonds flashed in her hair, a fine net of them draped over a simple braid coiled on the crown of her head. He’d noted other ladies gazing over her coiffure with interest and predicted that “the Penelope” would soon become all the rage.

She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He slid his cravat from his neck and held the slithering linen folds to his manservant. “Petri,” he said.

Petri knew exactly what he meant. He caught the neckcloth before it dropped, took up the coat and sash, and discreetly faded into the next room.

Damien loosened the tapes that held his shirt closed, while he indulged himself in gazing at her. “Penelope, love,” he said, savoring the words. “What is the matter?”

She opened and closed her hands, took a step forward, then halted, as though not trusting herself to go too near him.

“I want you to teach me, Damien,” she said, her voice breathless. “I want you to teach me to do everything a Nvengarian woman would.”

He stilled, his body tightening. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“Be certain,” he repeated. “I do not want to hurt you, or shock you, or frighten you.”

She lifted her chin. “If Lady Anastasia of Austria can weather a Nvengarian marriage, then I can. I am of hearty English stock. I want you to have me do—whatever you would ask Lady Anastasia to do.”

He grinned suddenly. “Spy on the Austrians?”

She stopped, lips parting. “Spy?”

He drifted toward the huge, much-draperied bed that the Regent had assigned him and leaned against a post, hoping Penelope would take the hint and follow. “Anastasia is better than any intelligence officer you will ever meet. She keeps me informed, in detail, of what Prince Metternich is up to. He likes to cast his eye on Nvengaria, and I do not wish him to. He adores Anastasia, and tells her everything. He believes he keeps
her
spying on me.”

“And is she? Spying on you, I mean?”

She began to walk toward the bed, to his delight. “Anastasia blames the Austrian army for her husband’s death,” he said. “The Nvengarian contingent volunteered to follow them against Napoleon when Metternich entered the war. We little wanted him marching his forces in our direction. Only our mountains had stopped him from flushing us out, but that would not last forever. The Austrians had no compunction about using Nvengarians to decoy the French forces, were not interested in those men’s lives. Anastasia has never forgiven the generals or the entire Hapsburg empire. She will do anything to work to Austria’s detriment.”

“Oh.” She looked down, some of her bravado fading. “Egan told me you had her working for you. I assume that you embraced her in the hall for the benefit of the servants who walked by.”

So she had seen that. He’d thought her safely upstairs where his actions would not hurt her. Damn Egan McDonald for not whisking her out of sight.

“You assume correctly.” When he had leaned against the wall, pressing Anastasia against it, she had kept up a snarling diatribe under her breath about the Regent, his servants, his house. The Austrian ambassador was trying
to interest the Regent in a bite of Nvengaria, although the Regent exuded confidence that Damien would let him have more in return for a stand against such a thing. Anastasia promised to bring Damien more exact intelligence before he left for home.

“You were lovers?” Penelope asked. Then she looked horrified and pressed her hand to her mouth.

Damien wanted to smile. The small spurt of possessiveness pleased him. It meant she wanted him and was not simply marrying him to save his life.

“Damien, I am sorry,” she breathed. “I do not know why I asked that. It is none of my business.”

He held out his hand, inviting her to step into the circle of his arm. “Come here, Penelope.”

Looking embarrassed, she glided across the room until she came to rest beside him. He slid his arm around her waist, cupping the curve between breasts and hips.

“It is your business, and I wish you to know,” he said. “I was her lover, but very briefly, years ago. When Anastasia’s husband was killed, she came to me. I was in France—Nvengaria was not officially at war with France, and I was in exile. I enjoyed staying at Napoleon’s court and watching what the bumptious little man and his hoipolloi family got up to. The English enjoyed my secret reports as well.” He smiled, remembering the vast pleasure he’d gotten by playing spy. Frivolous Prince Damien had never been suspected of sending secrets to King George’s generals.