Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(21)

Simone looked up into his stern face, and her breath caught. “Michael …”

“I can never give you rubies. I know that,” he said quietly. “I cannot make pretty speeches and promise you a kingdom. You know what I have to offer, and it is not much. Not even as much as your husband gave you.”

“I know, but I hated him.” Simone seized upon this argument in her confusion. “I’d rather have the little bit you give me and be with you.”

There, that should settle his pride. Gentlemen set such a store on how much they could bestow upon the ladies in their lives.

Michael still did not open his arms. Simone stepped back and put her hands on her hips. The movement opened her dressing gown slightly—she hoped a glimpse of flesh would make him come to her.

He didn’t move. Drat the man.

“Well, if you are going to be jealous,” she said, pretending petulance, “you can go.”

His brows lowered further. “This man is prepared to marry your daughter and carry her off who knows where. Are you not the least concerned about Penelope?”

Simone looked at him in shock. “Of course I am concerned. How can you say such a thing? She is my daughter.”

“All the man has done is wave around a box of rubies and go on about an old ring,” Michael said. “Penelope at least has the sense to be skeptical. You seem to be willing to hand her over on the strength of very slender evidence.”

Hurt welled up inside her. She remembered the day Sir Hilton Trask had stood at the top of the stairs in their London house and shouted, “Simone, you are the stupidest woman alive!”

Simone knew she wasn’t clever like Penelope, and she didn’t give a fig for what was in books. But she was clever in other ways. Her husband—and her daughter—simply never gave her a chance.

“Well, you are here, pet, to think of things like that and make certain everything is all right.” Flattering a gentleman for his wisdom never hurt either.

Michael’s voice was quiet. “I cannot help remembering how enthralled you were when you saw the jewels. I cannot help remembering that you forgot I was in the room until Meagan reminded you.”

Was he addled-pated? Simone could never forget Michael was in the room. His presence caught at her, making her heart speed as though she were a giddy girl. She’d simply wanted to see how far Prince Damien would string along his persuasion.

She forced a laugh. “Oh, you are jealous, that is all. Do go away if you wish to sulk.”

Simone turned to the dressing table, loosening the gown as she went to let it slide down and bare her shoulders.

Michael would come after her. He’d fold his arms around her waist, bury his lips in the curve of her neck and tell her how beautiful she was. Then he’d pull off the dressing gown and catch her breasts in his hands, and he’d take her to bed. The man made love with feral grace.

On the other side of the room, Michael said, “Yes, I think it would be best if I go. I will stay until this business with Penelope is settled, and then I’ll take Meagan and return home.”

Simone spun around. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Michael watched her for another silent moment. “It is for the best. People are talking.” He turned away. “Good night, Simone.”

Before Simone’s stunned eyes, Michael opened the door and walked out of the room.

“Michael!” she cried.

The door clicked closed. “Michael, I didn’t mean …”

His footsteps faded down the hall.

Raw pain washed through her, stealing her breath and weakening her body. She couldn’t lose him. She could not.

Simone had never learned how to handle emotion with dignity—she’d never had to. She’d been spoiled as a girl, then her husband had ignored her. Her daughter treated her gently, but deep down inside, Simone knew Penelope did not really respect her.

She burst into wild tears. She swung to the dressing table and swept bottles, jars, and boxes to the floor. Then she sank down amid the broken glass and stench of perfume and beat her fists on the carpet until her hands were cut and bloody.



* * *



Damien, sitting before the fire in his bedchamber, his coat and cravat off, his lawn shirt open, heard the sudden commotion and Lady Trask’s copious weeping.

Petri stepped to the door and looked out as hurried footsteps converged on Lady Trask’s chamber. He watched a moment, then closed the door and returned to finish pouring a glass of brandy for Damien. “Lady Trask, Highness,” he said. “Upset at the loss of the rubies, no doubt.”

“Mmm, I do not think so.” Damien took the brandy from the tray Petri carried to him and cradled the goblet in his hand. He’d heard the quiet opening and closing of the door beforehand and imagined that her lover, Tavistock, had gone to have a word with her. “I believe there is one thing more important to Lady Trask than jewels.”

Petri looked unconvinced.

Petri, Damien’s valet, was only a few years older than he was. The two men had been raised together, Damien to rule, Petri to serve. Petri had followed him into exile, finding the boy Damien shivering and half naked in the woods where Damien’s father’s men had unceremoniously dumped him when he’d been dragged from the dungeon and forced out of Nvengaria.

Somehow Petri had gotten them over the mountain pass and down into the Danube valley before the wolves had found them. Damien knew he would be dead many times over had it not been for Petri.