Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(43)

Not until late afternoon was Penelope able to snatch a moment to herself. When Damien had been drawn off by the Regent, Penelope slipped away from the crowds. She made for the folly, sinking to rest in its cool shade and listen to the music of the river.

She could not entirely shut out the noise of the fête, because the tents and stalls had encroached into the woods. But the backs of the tents and the woods shielded Penelope from view, and she drew a relieved breath.

Penelope leaned against a cool stone pillar, removed her bonnet, and ran her hands through her loosened hair. So much had happened since the day she’d sat here with Damien, listening to him tell her about Nvengaria and the prophecy. Damien had awakened her desires with kisses, convinced her she was a long-lost princess, enchanted the villagers, told her stories, given her healing powers, and brought the Prince Regent to visit.

It was all too much. Damien was rushing Penelope along, she knew, so that she’d grow bewildered and exasperated and simply give in to what he wished her to do. Damien was a charmer, but a strong-arm charmer. He was coercing her, slowly, gently, but inexorably. From what Penelope had observed, Damien always had his way in the end, even if he gained it with a warm smile and a sparkle in his blue eyes.

Like a doe trusting an approaching hunter, Penelope dazedly watched herself be pursued. Damien had trapped her the moment he’d kissed her in Holden’s Meadow, and he knew it.

“He certainly has not lost his charm,” came the voice of one of the ladies from London, as though she agreed with Penelope’s thoughts.

Penelope froze. The most difficult thing about the fête so far had been meeting and speaking to the ladies of the ton. They were polite, but eyed her coldly, not hiding that they considered Penelope an interloper. How dare she, a mere daughter of a baronet, try to rise above herself and marry a prince? Especially that prince? The consensus was, Penelope heard from ill-disguised whispers, that Damien, the most eligible bachelor in Europe, had been snared by the trickery of this plain miss.

Penelope remained still, hoping the three ladies strolling toward the folly would not see her. She’d been able to force herself to smile and make polite conversation with them while Damien stood next to her, but she had no wish to face them alone.

“Yes, a charmer, zat one,” said a woman in a full-throated Russian accent. Penelope had met the lady, a Russian countess who’d fluttered her lashes at Damien and clung too long to his arm. “Damien is zo handsome, zo—ah I have no words to describe zis incredible man.”

The other two ladies dissolved into laughter. “Oh, goodness,” the Englishwoman said. “Do you think that poor mousy thing knows?”

“Incredible is a good word,” a woman with a French accent said. “Stamina, this is another good word.”

More laughter. “Incalculable length, is what I say,” the Englishwoman said.

The three ladies tittered, this time as though they knew they were being naughty. “Eleven inches, would zis be not too farfetched?” the Russian asked.

“No, it would not,” the French lady said, and they laughed again.

Penelope’s face scalded. Oh lud, if they saw her now! She remained rigid, her hands balling in her skirt, praying they would not notice her in the shadows of the folly.

“Do you know,” the Russian countess went on. “I was wiz him when his man came knocking on ze door to tell him he was Imperial Prince. Ah, he was in zuch a state. Zo angry, and yet zo cold. Dangerous he was, in zat mood. I was afraid of him, and at ze same time—ah, glorious.”

The other ladies agreed, sounding a bit envious, that Damien unpredictable was quite exciting indeed.

“But what shall we do now?” the Frenchwoman asked. “He is marrying. We shall never see him again. Or his inches.”

“Nonsense,” the English lady said briskly. “He will deposit the chit in his castle, get a son on her, and forget about her. He will need to make state visits to England, France, and Russia. I imagine all that traveling will make him lonely …”

The other two ladies were silent a moment, then they burst out laughing, even more merrily than before. “I look forward to zis,” the Russian countess said.

“The poor child will not know what to make of him, in any case,” the Frenchwoman said. “She will hardly know the bed games of Nvengarians.”

“Indeed.” The Englishwoman put heavy emphasis on the word. “They are quite depraved, my dear, really quite depraved. She will be shocked out of her senses over what she is expected to do. One can almost feel sorry for her.”

Did they know Penelope sat not five feet from them, listening to every word? Perhaps they did, and spoke so for her benefit. She remained still, smarting in rage and humiliation.

“Not quite sorry,” the Frenchwoman put in.

“Perhaps we ought to give her a book on positions,” the Englishwoman suggested. “Really, sending an untried miss into Nvengaria is a bit cruel.”

“And ze bed toys,” the countess said eagerly. “Do not forget ze little bed toys.”

Again they fell silent, and again they burst into merry laughter. “Depend upon it,” the Englishwoman said. “We will have our prince back.”

“La, it is hot,” the Frenchwoman complained when their laughter trailed off. “I must return to the house, although that simpering Trask woman hangs on one so. But even that rundown house is more comfortable than the outdoors.”