Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(14)

“Explain to me why the devil should a prince of Nvengaria come to Little Marching,” Michael said in return. “Looking for a long-lost princess, no less? How foolish do you believe we are?”

Damien met his gaze, his expression as steady as Michael’s. He knows who he must convince, Penelope thought. Not me, not my mother.

Of course Damien was not worried about Penelope. Penelope had succumbed to him, had melted into his arms and let him do as he pleased. Damien must believe he’d already won her over.

She studied Damien’s upright figure, his powerful body, his still, steady gaze, and her heart squeezed with something like pain. He might not be wrong about already winning her over.

“But Papa,” Meagan began, sizing up Damien. “He looks like a prince.”

“Meagan, please retire to your bedchamber until we have this sorted out.”

Meagan knew better than to argue when her father took that tone. She said meekly, “Yes, Papa.” She clutched Penelope’s arm as she hurried out. “Come with me, Pen.”

Michael nodded to Penelope, his brown eyes serious. Numbly Penelope allowed Meagan to tow her away. Michael followed them to the door to close it firmly behind them.

The entrance hall was in chaos. At least a dozen men in military-looking livery bolted up the stairs, while Mathers shouted at them all and they blithely ignored him. Two tall footmen pointed and barked orders in Nvengarian.

The prince had brought at least forty trunks with him. They stood in a line by the stairs, waiting to be hauled up one by one.

“No, no!” Mathers cried. “You cannot take them all up—there is no room. You, there, put that down!”

Mathers dashed after a lackey who had lifted one of Lady Trask’s favorite statuettes and replaced it with a bust of the prince.

Meagan looked about in amazement. “Oh, lud, Papa will have to believe him now. I’m going to write Daphne Braithwaite and tell her all about it. To think, she puts on airs because her sister married a baron. And you will marry a prince.”

“I am not marrying anyone,” Penelope said desperately.

No one paid attention. Meagan dashed up the stairs. Mathers shouted, and the lackeys shoved their trunks about with enthusiasm. Another bust of the prince came out.

Penelope fled the house.

She hurried down a path across the grounds to the folly nestled deep in the woods, a circular building lined with Greek-style columns. One side was open to the air, the interior paved in marble. Niches held statues of Greek philosophers in various poses of oration, and sayings of Socrates, written in Greek, decorated the upper walls.

Your grandfather’s folly, her father always said with contempt. A great eyesore, that’s what it is.

Penelope liked the folly because no one else came here. At the folly, she could find deep solitude away from the whirl of life and what she was expected to be. The open side of the building afforded a view of the river rolling quietly at the bottom of the meadow. It was a peaceful place. Her place.

What had happened to the world today? She’d begun a walk to the village with Meagan, and then Damien had appeared, and everything had turned upside down.

Penelope and her mother, long-lost princesses. How ridiculous! And yet, Damien seemed to believe it. The man with him, Sasha, very definitely believed it.

Penelope had realized as soon as Sasha began speaking about the rings and tracing destinies that if Lady Trask were in the line of this ancient princess, Penelope was as well.

Then Damien had turned his fiery blue gaze on Penelope and declared that she would do for him.

Penelope sank to the steps, dropping her head back to let the wind catch her hair.

Whether prince or trickster, Damien had come here for one purpose—to get himself a bride. His reasons for fixing upon Penelope were slightly more bizarre than the average gentleman’s, but it made no difference.

A part of her very much wanted to believe him when he’d touched her face and said, I have fallen in love with you.

The sensations came to her of him standing with her in the meadow, his lips on her face and throat. She recalled the haze in her mind, how it hadn’t felt wrong to let Damien cup her waist, to bend to her, nuzzle her, kiss her. She’d smelled the dust in his hair, tasted the sharp spice of his mouth when he’d pressed his lips to hers.

No one had ever kissed her with such tenderness. Reuben had given Penelope one chaste peck when she’d accepted his proposal. Magnus had tried to thrust his unpleasant tongue into her mouth on more than one occasion, and Penelope had twisted away in disgust.

It had never occurred to her to flee Damien. Penelope hadn’t wanted to flee him. She wanted his mouth on hers while she’d felt his hard body beneath his coat.

Yet she did not believe herself a wanton. What she’d done in the meadow had been … right.

When Damien had flicked his gaze to Penelope in the drawing room, knowing she was the inheritor of the ring, that too had felt right.

None of it made any sense.

Penelope tried to still her troubled thoughts, something she was generally good at, but they continued to jumble up on themselves.

You are clearheaded, Penelope, her father would say. Not like your mother, who is a flibbertigibbet. That is why I love you.

He’d pat her shoulder fondly, eyes shining with pride.

In her childhood, Penelope had warmed to her father’s praise. As she’d grown older, she’d noticed that his praise had a double edge—his words both commended Penelope and derided her mother.