Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(118)
Alexander’s brows lifted. “You wish me to intimidate them, in other words.”
“Exactly. I can cajole, but the Regent still thinks of me as a dilettante prince—his only thoughts for me are whether he has better horses or prettier mistresses. On the other hand, he will not know quite what to do with you. You will terrify him.” Damien smiled at the prospect. “I will think on that with enjoyment.”
“You do have a streak of cruelty, Damien,” Alexander said. He was silent a moment, then gave Damien an unreadable look. “Very well, I will help you.”
Damien regarded him in slight surprise. “You agree?” He’d thought Alexander would fight him much harder. Alexander never liked to leave Nvengaria—didn’t want it out of his control for a single moment.
“As you say, I wish for a strong Nvengaria,” Alexander said. “I do not trust you, but I will strive for Nvengaria’s safety any way I can. This is what I envisioned at first, you know—you a figurehead for the people to love and worship while I worked for an efficient state. I want Nvengaria, not adoration.”
Damien knew that, and he’d known he’d be a fool to throw away such an asset—Alexander was definitely a man Damien wanted on his side. He imagined the Prince Regent’s trepidation when Alexander began to negotiate—Alexander would have the Regent begging for mercy. Damien was almost sorry he’d miss it.
He likewise knew that Alexander would always be watching, waiting for Damien to show signs of becoming like the old Imperial Prince. Alexander, for all his hardness, truly did love Nvengaria. The man would fight to the death to keep it free.
Damien let none of these thoughts show on his face. “Excellent,” he answered. He rose, moved to a nearby table, and took up a flask of Nvengarian brandy. “Let us drink to it. Then I must see to preparations for my wedding.”
He brought the flask and glasses back to the small table between himself and Alexander. They each poured their own drink then examined the glass and fluid inside it closely before they took the first sip, at exactly the same time.
They could never be too careful.
* * *
The royal wedding took place on a fine and fair day in the chapel high in the castle of the Imperial Princes of Nvengaria. A bishop brought together the couple in matrimony for the second time—third, Penelope reminded herself, if she believed the Nvengarian betrothal counted as a wedding.
Penelope wore a gown of white silk covered with a filmy net of rose-colored tulle, Damien distractingly handsome in his Nvengarian blue uniform, his gold sash of office glistening in the sunshine. Damien’s lips were curved into a warm smile. Prince Charming had won.
Sasha stood in for the father of the bride, beaming with pride as he gave her away. Egan hovered at Damien’s side as best man, looking a bit shaky from the male revelry the night before. Damien seemed none the worse for wear, but Egan, Petri, Titus, and Rufus and Miles—who’d arrived in time for the wedding—had red eyes and wan faces.
Penelope reflected that her very low-church father would have had apoplexy if he’d seen his daughter be married in this papist ceremony, with a bishop in his miter chanting among clouds of incense, leading Penelope and Damien to kneel under a statue of the Virgin. Necessary trappings, Damien had said. A thin layer of Catholicism over the roiling paganism of Nvengaria.
All the logosh had vanished after Alexander’s surrender, as quickly as they’d come. The leader, who called himself Myn, had gazed at Penelope with his strange blue eyes and vowed that if she ever had need, he and his band would be at her side in an instant.
Penelope was touched but slightly unnerved by this devotion, and also by Myn’s claim that he could produce a thousand logosh whenever she called. They would respond only to the princess, Myn had said, not the prince.
Then the logosh had flowed away, and were gone, Wulf with them. Wulf hadn’t wanted to leave Penelope, but Penelope knew he would be better off with his people. She promised to visit him in the mountains, and at last he went, tearful but looking forward to her visit.
Alexander attended the wedding. He stood in the front row, his status as Grand Duke of the Council of Dukes unchanged. His son, a dark-haired, fine-looking lad who smiled more readily than his father, stood beside him, rising on tiptoe to see everything.
Alexander would be leaving for England within the week, Damien had told Penelope. Alexander, like Lady Anastasia, would work for the good of Nvengaria, if not for Damien himself.
“He’ll enjoy playing spy,” Damien had explained, looking gleeful. “I imagine he’ll be very, very good at it. If he ever believes my father has returned through me, though, he will be back.”
Penelope knew, in spite of this warning, that Damien had somehow turned Alexander to his side. She’d begun to believe Damien’s ability to handle people was nearly magical.
On the subject of magic—she glanced back at Sasha. The night before, while at a banquet dinner with both Council of Dukes and Council of Mages, Damien had commented under his breath that he’d like his councils to disappear so he could spend the time alone with Penelope. Sasha had said brightly, “I could send everyone to sleep if you like, sir. Except—ah—it might send you and Her Highness to sleep as well.”
Damien had turned to him, eyes narrowing. “Sasha, are you admitting that you set that enchanted sleep back in Little Marching?”