Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(42)
Sasha stood not far from them, waiting stiffly in a uniform-like suit that was even more military looking than his previous clothes. Medals dangled from his breast, and his sash of office shone as though he’d polished it.
The other servants had cleaned and brushed every piece of their livery as well. Those with more braid and medals on their uniforms strutted a bit cockier than those with less. Rufus and Miles stood with heads high, their chests covered with the most medals of all, their shoulders weighted with yards of looped braid.
In contrast, Damien wore a suit of almost drab plainness. It was obviously cut by a highly skilled Bond Street tailor, but the cloth was severe black, the suit having none of the flash and color of the Nvengarian uniforms.
When the coach stopped and a dozen servants in the Regent’s livery swarmed about it like bees on a hive, Penelope understood Damien’s choice in clothing. Damien could have easily outshone the Prince Regent had he worn an elegant suit or Nvengarian finery. He had, for whatever reason, deliberately decided not to.
The footmen hauled the rather rotund Regent from the coach and settled him in his Bath chair, one of his legs swollen from gout, poor man.
Damien waited until the Regent was settled then he walked to him and bowed low. Nvengarians, Penelope had come to know, could put an abundance of pageantry and deference into a simple bow, which the Regent seemed to appreciate.
Damien straightened up, gave the prince a smile, and shook the Regent’s hand like a friend. The Regent cast a jealous eye over Damien’s athletic body, regarding his plain suit with a certain smugness.
Penelope imagined the thoughts in the Regent’s head—Damien might be handsome and well-formed, but the Regent’s clothes, a blue superfine frock coat and ivory silk waistcoat, were far more sumptuous. The prince of Nvengaria obviously had no idea how to dress.
Penelope saw Damien’s look as the Regent was wheeled away to be greeted by an ecstatic Lady Trask. His expression held calm assurance that everything was going his way. He caught Penelope’s eye, and gave her a wink.
Penelope tried to frown at him. The man knew exactly how to turn everyone up sweet—Meagan, her mother, the villagers, and now the Prince Regent. Even Michael had thawed considerably toward him. Everyone did exactly what Prince Damien wanted them to do—fell all over themselves to do it.
Including Penelope.
Damien had convinced her mother, Michael, and Meagan to allow him to take Penelope far away to a strange country, leaving her friends and family behind. He’d never consulted Penelope about whether or not her family could accompany her, had not even mentioned it to her. Damien had decided and then charmed others into going along with his decisions.
Penelope scowled at him now. Unperturbed, Damien sent her a dazzling smile. It did not help that every time Damien smiled, Penelope wanted to do every single thing he told her to.
She forced herself to frown again, as difficult as it was, then she followed the Regent and his party into the house.
* * *
The fête was the talk of the village for years to come. Prince Damien had done it in grand style, with banquet tents for the posh ladies and gents and tables outside for the villagers. Nvengarian and British flags flew over everything, and each time Damien or the Regent was spotted, a cheer went up. The Regent nodded and waved, reveling in his popularity.
There were races for children, archery competitions, a Romany fortuneteller, games of chance, exhibitions of Nvengarian style wrestling—which had become quite popular with the villagers—fencing matches, country dances, a puppet theatre, and pantomimes.
Carriage after carriage arrived from London, guests filling the Trask home, neighboring houses, and inns for miles. Dignitaries and guests who’d been visiting the Regent had been invited, along with the prince’s London set.
Russian, French, and Piedmontese noblemen met Penelope and declared her an unsullied beauty, and wasn’t Damien lucky to find himself a fresh English rose? The Londoners peered at Penelope in curiosity and puzzlement, as though wondering why Damien would pursue such a fresh English rose.
No sophistication, Penelope could almost hear them say. One stooped, white-haired gentleman bent to Damien, saying, “Innocence is lovely, Your Highness, but a short time at court will tarnish her. Ladies’ heads are so easily turned by fashion and frippery.” The man meant to say this in confidence, but he must have been hard of hearing, for his loud voice bellowed this proclamation over the crowd.
Damien, smooth as ever, only replied that Penelope was quite wise for her years, and showed remarkable good sense. The white-haired man snorted in disbelief, and moved off. Damien shot Penelope a sly smile, as though it had been a good joke. Handling everything.
No matter what the guests thought of Penelope, and Damien’s decision to court her, the fête insured that Damien’s betrothal to Penelope would be seen, witnessed, and remembered by people with connections all over Europe. The new Nvengarian ruler was taking a bride of both English and Nvengarian lineage to cement his position within and outside of Nvengaria.
Damien was busy turning the entire world up sweet.
Penelope curtsied and shook hands and smiled until her face ached. Damien remained near her as much as possible, one hand on her arm or the small of her back as he introduced her to his friends and acquaintances. He made certain that each person saw the twin silver rings on their fingers, the symbol that Penelope and Damien belonged together.