Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(111)
The hall that led to the throne room was more elaborate still, with huge black and white squares running diagonally and niches in the walls holding life-sized, carved marble chess pieces. Bored princes of old had ordered sweating lackeys to push the pieces about on the squares of the floor to entertain foreign ambassadors. Damien’s father, wanting to rid himself of a troublesome duke in the Council, made the duke play the game for his life and was pleased when the duke lost.
Tall gilded double doors opened into the throne room, which was a patchwork of red and blue glass windows, gleaming marble on the floor and walls, and marble columns twined with ropes of gilding. Huge cloth-of-gold banners of the Princes of Nvengaria hung from every arch, behind which were tapestries, paintings, and gilded chairs for the lucky few who made it this far. At the very end, on a marble dais, rested the Imperial throne of Nvengaria.
The throne itself, gold-leafed and strewn with blue cushions, was uncomfortable as hell, but looked impressive. It sat alone under a cloth-of-gold awning, and behind it hung the snarling wolf banner of the Princes of Nvengaria.
Alexander, Damien saw as they entered, had not deigned to use the throne. A simple, mahogany desk with an old, square chair reposed near the steps of the dais. Efficiency, the setup said, rather than ornate foolery.
Sunshine sent rose-and-blue patterns through the stained glass to the white floor, but none seemed to touch the desk.
Alexander rose from behind this desk as they approached, looking very much at his ease. He even bowed respectfully. “Damien.”
“Alexander.” If Alexander wouldn’t be using titles, neither would Damien.
Damien turned to Penelope and lifted her hand, which was still entwined in his. “Allow me to present my wife, Princess Penelope of Nvengaria.”
Alexander’s edged blue gaze flicked over Penelope, taking her in from head to foot. “Madam,” he said politely, giving her a bow. He studied Damien with the same chilling scrutiny. “Against all odds, you have arrived.” He kept to English so Penelope would understand. “But unfortunately too late.”
“I have to say, you’ve been a worthy opponent.” Damien stood calmly, but he had to fight to suppress his growing rage. He wanted nothing more than to throw Alexander through the nearest stained-glass window and let the mob below deal with his body.
The windows, however, were thick and strong, made to withstand winter storms. Likely Alexander would simply bounce off a window and fall to the floor, which, on second thought, wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
Damien restrained himself and asked in a conversational tone, “What is your next move in this game?”
“To arrest you and your followers.” Alexander swept his glance over the others but returned it immediately to Damien, as though he had difficulty keeping his eyes off him. “Captain MacDonald may return to his native Scotland—he has no part in this. Miss Trask may go home as well. I have no quarrel with her and will arrange for her safe and comfortable passage to England.”
“Damien and I married,” Penelope interrupted, her voice tight. “In an English church under English law. Therefore, I am no longer Miss Trask.” She lifted her chin. “I do not know what the protocol is regarding my official title or surname, but I do know that I am Princess of Nvengaria.”
Alexander finally tore his gaze from Damien and rested it on her, his eyes sharp. “No,” he said, his voice uninflected. “You are not.”
Chapter 32
Penelope blinked. Alexander was smiling a smile she did not like, and the light in his eyes held secrets.
Alexander was quite a handsome man, she noted. Of an age with Damien, he had the black hair and deep blue eyes common to Nvengarians. His Nvengarian blue coat with its many medals stretched tightly over a hard torso, and the blue and gold sash of the Grand Duke crossed his chest from broad shoulder to firm waist.
He wore trousers tight enough for Meagan’s approval and high black leather boots. His strong hands, ungloved, sported only one ring, the ruby in it matching the glittering red stone in his earlobe.
“I am the princess,” Penelope said, trying to keep her voice strong. “I did not believe it at first, but then I felt the prophecy and inherited the ring. I believe it now.”
She looked at Damien, who stood with his shoulders relaxed, his stance that of a man who has the upper hand. She knew however, that though the mob might hem in the gates below the castle, Alexander ruled inside. He could easily have Damien shot and his body unceremoniously flushed out with the sewage.
“I thought you might,” Alexander said. He spoke in a deep baritone, his voice velvet smooth. Penelope imagined the women of Nvengaria—those who didn’t mind that he was a merciless autocrat—swooning at his feet.
Alexander beckoned her to the desk and slid out the chair. “Come and sit, Miss Trask. I have something to show you.”
Damien remained where he was. When Penelope glanced to him for guidance, he gave her a barely perceptible nod and released her hand.
Penelope walked quickly to the desk, her muddy boots clicking on the echoing floor. She knew she looked a mess in the old peasant dress with her hair coming down and bits of earth falling from her skirt, but she held her head up and met Alexander’s gaze without flinching.
She seated herself as though he’d invited her to supper in a Grosvenor Square mansion, and allowed him to push in the chair. Alexander then opened a drawer of the desk and removed a long scroll of thick paper and several small silver disks.