Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(20)

What a lover Damien could teach Penelope to be—would teach her to be. His body tightened to the point of pain.

“I can imprison the gentlemen who broke Penelope’s heart, if you like,” Damien said to Meagan. “I will tell Sasha to throw them into the deepest dungeons. Have them tortured perhaps.”

“Ooh, that sounds nice,” Meagan said.

What Meagan did not understand was that Damien really could do such a thing. What Damien’s father hadn’t understood was that you were stronger if you did not.

Meagan put her hands on her hips. “My father is right about one thing. How do we know you are a real prince?”

Damien looked into shrewd brown eyes in Meagan’s pointed face. “I thought you were on my side.”

“I am. But Penelope is my best friend. I wish her to marry a prince, not a hoaxer.”

“I quite understand.” Damien descended the steps of the folly and politely extended his hand to help Meagan down after him. “But I will prove it.”

Meagan didn’t look convinced. “How?”

“I will hold a festival, in one week’s time, for your family and friends. For your entire village, in fact. Sasha has already begun the arrangements. I have invited many acquaintances from London, including a man you will believe when he tells you I am Prince Damien of Nvengaria.”

Meagan’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, yes? And who is this man?”

“The Prince Regent.”

“Oh.” Meagan looked thoughtful, then took Damien’s arm as they started back to the house. “That will do, I suppose. Providing, of course, we believe he is truly the Prince Regent.”



* * *



Nearing midnight, Michael Tavistock entered Lady Trask’s bedchamber and closed the door.

Simone heard him but she did not look up from brushing her hair. Her maid had undressed her, helped her into a dressing gown, then discreetly departed the room, leaving Simone to wait for Michael.

Any moment now, Michael would cross to her, put his hands on her shoulders, lean down and kiss her. Simone waited, her blood warming in anticipation. Michael could kiss like fire.

To her disappointment, he remained by the door, his arms folded, watching Simone through the mirror.

The afternoon had been exhausting. Penelope had been most trying, completely ignoring Simone’s attempts to point out that if she refused Damien’s offer, she’d be on the shelf forever. Penelope had already broken two betrothals, and now no eligible gentleman would trust her. Damien’s proposal was heavensent.

Michael, the exasperating man, had agreed with Penelope. He could not possibly understand what it was like to have a daughter who’d jilted two perfectly good gentlemen with decent livings and connections. Granted, neither Mr. White nor that somewhat awful Mr. Grady had been as handsome and charming as Prince Damien, but really … To refuse a prince. It was too much.

Meagan, at least, had some sense. If Penelope were not careful, Meagan would snatch Damien from under Penelope’s nose, never mind this prophecy business.

Prince Damien had not said much the rest of the afternoon and during the evening meal, but he’d watched Penelope. He was determined, that was a point. He’d not be put off by maidenly resistance.

As they’d dined, the man called Sasha had kept up a running commentary on the history of Nvengaria and the wonder that was Prince Damien until Simone had wanted to scream. Michael’s silence had unnerved her even more, as had the look in his dark eyes.

It unnerved Simone now.

She laid down her brush and caught Michael’s gaze in the mirror, but Michael remained rigidly on the other side of the room.

“Well, it has been an eventful day, has it not?” she began.

“Simone,” Michael said in a warning tone. “Don’t.”

Simone rose from the dressing table in alarm. “Don’t what?”

As usual, she was struck with how desperately she loved Michael Tavistock. He was tall, strong, robust. He didn’t mind that Simone was fifty and past her first looks—Simone slathered her face in buttermilk and lemon every night, hoping to keep her skin as fresh as her daughter’s. Michael seemed to like her skin, liked touching it all over, often with his lips. No man had ever excited her as Michael did. He could have had his pick of any chit in London with skinny arms and a childlike face, but he’d chosen her.

Simone crossed to him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Darling.”

Michael remained motionless, his muscles hard beneath her touch.

Simone’s worry grew. “Darling, what is the matter?”

“You have been pretending that today is simply an amusing aberration,” Michael said, with a severity she hadn’t seen in him before. “It is not. This is serious business.”

“I know.” Simone widened her eyes. “Imagine, a prince traveling all this way to marry me. It was too droll.”

“Droll is not the word I thought of. You were prepared to accept, weren’t you?”

Michael’s look began to frighten her. “Of course not,” she said quickly. “You heard me turn him down. Michael, pet, you cannot think a box of rubies and a prince could sway me from your side.” She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest. She heard his heart beating swiftly beneath her ear.

“But you were swayed,” Michael said.