Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(44)

“Yes, what were they thinking having a fête here of all places?” The Englishwoman said as she and the other two ladies began strolling away. “Damien could have asked me to host it in Hertfordshire. We have a proper estate.”

Her two friends heartily agreed, and they disappeared down the path.

Tears of fury fell from Penelope’s eyes before she dashed them away. How dare they sneer at her mother and the Trask home? Her father and his family had as much wealth and respectability as their husbands’ did.

They’d certainly flaunted that Damien had charmed every woman in Europe into his bed. Penelope’s heart burned at the thought. Of course he must have had mistresses before he came here—how could a woman have resisted his blue eyes, his quick warmth, the way he held her gaze as though she were the most beautiful woman in the world?

Penelope climbed to her feet and glared at the silver ring on her finger. She wanted more than anything to pull it off and fling it into the woods. Her hand went to it.

She touched the cool band and stopped. The ring had belonged to her mother, and her grandmother before her. The innocent piece of silver was a family heirloom and had nothing to do with Damien. Reluctantly, Penelope breathed a sigh and let her hand drop.

Folding her arms tightly over her chest, Penelope left the folly and hurried along the path to the river. It was cool here, out of the sun, the overhanging willows shading the shallows. Not far away the river gurgled into a pool where Penelope and Meagan had swum as children.

Penelope sat down on a log that formed a bench on the bank, stripped off her shoes and stockings, and dabbled her feet in the soothing water. If Damien whisked her away from Little Marching, Penelope would never again seek peace in this place of her childhood. Damien was determined to take her away from her mother and Meagan, these woods and her fairy tales.

Penelope clenched her fists. Damien and Sasha had bounded here with stories of prophecies and princesses and turned Ashborn Manor into a summer palace for their pleasure, but that did not mean Penelope had to obey Damien’s commands.

Yes, he’d charmed her. Yes, Penelope had nearly fallen in love with him, but she refused to let Damien take everything away from her.

“Penelope.” Damien’s voice drifted to her, rich and deep, his Nvengarian accent warming her name.

Penelope heard him move through bracken to the place she sat. She did not look up, keeping her eyes on the calm current of the river.

She saw his booted foot land on the log beside her, a supple, now-muddy boot that hugged the firm muscle of his calf. His leg bent to show her a thigh in black breeches, his arm in a well-fitted brown coat resting on his knee.

“’Tis not safe to wander here by yourself,” Damien said, close enough that his voice vibrated her body. “Alexander is not the kind of man to send only one assassin.”





Chapter 13





Penelope fixed her eyes on the water, not trusting herself to look at him. “If I do not marry you,” she said slowly, “then will I and my family be safe from the assassins?”

When Damien did not answer, Penelope risked a glance at him. He was not looking at her, thank heavens, but staring across the river as though he studied something she could not see. The faint pale patches at the corners of his eyes were white against his skin.

“Refusing my proposal will not keep you safe,” Damien said after a time. “As long as any person believes you are precious to me, you are not safe.”

Precious to me.

Penelope’s voice shook. “I told you before that I do not want a marriage of convenience.”

He turned to her, his blue eyes dark in the shadows. “Yes, I remember.”

“That is what you are rushing me into.”

Damien slid his hand to the nape of her neck, his strong fingers gentling for her. “I hope it will become more than that to you.”

“Is it more than that to you?” Penelope asked him.

Damien leaned down and kissed her hair. “I believe I have more than demonstrated what this marriage will mean to me.”

When Damien spoke to Penelope like this, when he caressed her, it was so easy to believe he was in love with her. If only she hadn’t heard those women—his lovers—speaking of him as though they’d ensnared him, as though he’d run back to them as soon as they crooked a finger.

What had Damien whispered to them in the night? Not words of love, or they’d have boasted of it. But he’d touched them with skilled hands and kissed their hair, as he was kissing Penelope’s now …

She shook her head and he eased away. “Damien, if not for the prophecy, you never would have come to Little Marching. You never would have looked at me twice.”

“You are half right.” Damien did not reach for her again but twined his strong fingers over his knee. “I would never have known that Little Marching existed if not for Sasha. But had I encountered you in London or elsewhere, I certainly would have looked at you for a long, long time.”

Eagerness stirred in her, and Penelope suppressed it with difficulty. “I am not fishing for flattery.”

“I know.” Damien glanced at her bare calves and feet in the water, his look appreciative. “I envy the fish come to nibble your toes.”

Penelope resisted pulling her legs up and covering them with her dress. He grinned, the side of his mouth pulling.