Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(25)

He’d been handsome enough in his formal suit and cravat, but half-dressed, his shirt loose, he looked fierce, untamed. Damien might be a prince, but there was nothing civilized about him.

Penelope sensed what she had when she’d seen him on horseback—a man in tune with wildness. From what she’d read, Nvengarian government was much closer to England’s medieval times than the modern day monarchs who were more interested in fashion and collecting art than in ruling.

Political debates in Nvengaria ended in duels to the death with swords, right in the council chambers. Men dueled in England, of course, but with rules and a gloss of respectability over it. Nvengarians went about armed and fought each other with vigor on any pretext.

Watching Damien move with animal-like grace, Penelope could well imagine him drawing a sword and plunging it into the chest of an enemy in the middle of the council hall.

Damien halted behind her, tall in the mirror, the warmth of his body brushing her. He smelled of the brandy he’d drunk and the crisp, clean scent of his lawn shirt.

Slowly, while Penelope sat in mute contemplation, Damien gathered her hair in his hands, lifted it, and let it spill out again through his fingers. The loose curls falling to Penelope’s neck were cool and made her shiver, deep inside herself.

Damien took the brush from her unresisting hand and pulled it through her hair, watching as the bristles furrowed the length of it. Penelope closed her eyes as the brush moved across her scalp in gentle but firm strokes.

Damien lifted her hair again, this time resting his hand on the nape of her neck. Strange sensations slid through her, dampening her private places, and Damien had only touched her neck, for heaven’s sake.

“I regret,” he said in a low voice, “that I have caused you and your family pain. But my coming here was necessary.”

“To find your princess,” Penelope said, opening her eyes.

“To find you.”

Damien pulled the brush through her hair again then let his fingertips drift over her skin, a gentle touch from a powerful man.

“You should not be in my bedchamber,” Penelope said softly. She didn’t necessarily want him to leave, but a proper young lady would point this out.

Damien plied another stroke of the brush to her hair then leaned down and rested his cheek against hers, his unshaven bristles rough on her skin. “Tell me to leave, then.”

Penelope opened her mouth to send him away, then she closed it. All the resolve and resistance she’d felt in the folly had gone.

“You cannot ask me, can you?” Damien was serious, not mocking.

Penelope shook her head. “I can’t seem to, no.”

Damien set down the brush and slid his arms around Penelope from behind, resting his palms just above her breasts. “It is the prophecy. It wants us to fall in love.”

Penelope frowned. “A prophecy is a prediction. It cannot want anything.”

Can it not? Damien’s hands were hot through her dressing gown. Penelope had the sudden urge to move his palms down to cup her breasts, and she balled her fists, fighting herself.

“This prophecy is old magic,” Damien said. “Created hundreds of years ago when the line of Prince Augustus was lost. Perhaps all that time changed it from mere words to something powerful. Perhaps the prophecy believes in itself so much that it forces us to believe in it.”

Penelope’s gaze met his dark blue one in the mirror. “I would say that was ridiculous, if I did not feel …”

“I know what you feel.” Damien glided his hands inside her dressing gown, caressing through her thin nightrail. “I sense the same thing. We need to be together. I don’t believe the prophecy will let us turn aside.”

Penelope loved his hands on her; wanted them on her. No, she needed them to be there, needed it in a sort of mindless frenzy.

Damien smiled as she leaned into his touch. This was dangerous, Damien thought, but he knew how to hold back. He could give her a taste of what was to come without taking her too soon and breaking Sasha’s rules. He was adept—he could show her many things without being inside her.

Damien’s touch unnerved her, he saw, but Penelope would not pull away in anger or pretend modesty. Penelope did have modesty, but not coyness. She’d kissed Damien well and good in the folly by the river, her mouth seeking his, her desire strong.

Damien sank to one knee as he drew his fingers along the nightgown, down the curve of her breast, feeling Penelope’s nipples tighten against the fabric. His blood stirred, the ferocity of his forefathers boiling to the surface. He wanted to fall with her to the carpet and take her all night. A ribbon trailing across her dressing table beckoned to him—a few games would not go amiss either.

“I was betrothed twice,” Penelope broke his thoughts by saying.

Damien pressed a kiss behind her ear. “So Miss Tavistock told me.” A protective fire kindled inside him. “If you allow me, I will duel with these gentlemen and punish them for hurting you.”

Penelope’s eyes widened in alarm. Damien’s anger, inherited from a long line of violent men, encouraged him to find the two gentlemen and make them very, very sorry they’d made Penelope cry.

As though she sensed his stirring rage, Penelope said quickly, “I cried off. I told them to go. Neither abandoned me.”

“If they had been good to you, there would have been no need to tell them to go.”