Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(45)

“What I mean is, you never would have journeyed here and proposed to me if not for your prophecy,” she said, a little breathlessly.

“Very likely not.” Damien nodded once. “Although I like to believe that fate has been driving us together.”

“That would indeed be a fairy story,” Penelope said. “The story you told me, the one about the princess in the tower—she ended her tale not by running off with the handsome stranger from far away, but by staying with the true and trusted friend she’d known all her life. That is the moral of the tale, is it not?”

Damien looked at her with a touch of bewilderment. “It is only a story, Penelope. It has no meaning.”

“All fairy tales have meaning. Usually be good and patient, and you shall be rewarded.”

Damien’s brows drew down. “In my experience, that never happens.”

“But it should be true,” Penelope said. “That is why people tell the stories.”

Damien slid his hand under her hair, teasing the curls at the back of her neck. “When people tell our story, they will describe how I traveled many miles and through great peril to find you waiting for me at the end of the journey.” His smile flashed. “You made the peril worth every moment.”

Penelope gave him a sideways look. “You have a honeyed tongue.”

The smiled turned wicked. “No, but you give me a good idea.”

Penelope went hot. “We are speaking of our marriage of convenience,” she said quickly.

“You like this word, convenience.” Damien released her and tugged off one boot.

“I will be plainer then,” Penelope said. “Mr. White wished me to marry him and have his children so that he could ignore me and do as he pleased. I would not do it for him, and I will not do it for you. I refuse to be a wife who is convenient.”

Damien pulled off his second boot and tossed it aside, then stripped off his stockings and dangled his feet in the pool.

His bare, tanned calves hung close to her slender ones, wiry black hair curling down his shins to his strong feet. They sat side-by-side, hips and shoulders touching.

The position felt shockingly intimate, even more so than when he’d kissed her and touched her in her bedchamber. This was casual, an implication that Damien had every right to be casual with her.

“Penelope,” Damien began, his voice holding a hard note. “For me to travel three thousand miles in search of a bride is not convenient. It is not convenient for me to leave my kingdom vulnerable to the scheming Grand Duke Alexander, nor is it convenient to scrape and bow to your joke of a Regent so that I may maintain England’s support.” Damien rested his hand on her thigh. “And it is not convenient to find you here like this, knowing that if I take you the way I wish to, my very superstitious Nvengarians will declare the prophecy void, and I will have done all for nothing. No, I do not find this at all convenient.”

Penelope let out a breath. “I did not mean …”

“I will marry you, Penelope.” Damien’s expression made her trail to a halt. “I will do anything to fulfill the prophecy and save my kingdom. I prefer to woo you with soft words, but if I have to throw you over my saddle and gallop away with you, I will.”

His merciless expression told her he did not much exaggerate. Whenever Damien dropped his fa?ade, his true self shone through, the man who’d survived hunger and pain, darkness and hatred, and yet lived to bend life to his own terms. Penelope had no doubt that if Damien wished, he’d sweep her up and ride off with her, like a nomad from a desert tribe.

“Lying across your saddle would be a bit uncomfortable for a three-thousand-mile journey,” Penelope said in a small voice.

“Not for me, love. I could rest my hand on your very fine backside all the way.”

Penelope went hot. “And you really should not say things like that.”

“You must grow used to me complimenting your body. Your backside is fine, as is the rest of you.” He glanced into the water. “And your toes are adorable.”

“Now you have become Prince Charming again.”

Damien’s brows rose. “Is that how you think of me?”

Penelope huffed out her breath. “No, I think of you as exasperating. I do not know what to make of you.”

Damien twined his bare foot around hers, his skin warm even in the cool water. “Fall in love with me, Penelope.”

Penelope slanted him a glance. “Like every other woman across the breadth of Europe?”

His look turned questioning, and Penelope wanted to clap her hand over her mouth. She did not want to tell him she’d heard the shameful conversation of his paramours. A well-bred lady never discussed such matters.

“You think every woman in Europe is in love with me?” Damien asked, skeptical. “I assure you, it is not true. I believe my mother loved me, but she died when I was very small.”

“Oh,” Penelope said, deflating. “I am sorry. About your mother, I mean.”

“It was a tragedy. Also very dramatic, in Nvengarian fashion. She climbed upon the gate tower of my father’s castle and shot herself in the head.”

Penelope’s lips parted in horror. “Oh, Damien, no.”

Damien gazed out over the river, his tone emotionless. “It was her finest moment. My father was evil, but she got her revenge. Instead of quietly poisoning herself and letting the incident be swept under the carpets, she stood up on a moonlit night in full view of the city and announced to the world exactly what my father had done to her. She showed the truth of what he was, a madman to fear and hate.” Damien stirred the water with his foot. “At the time, I was very angry at my mother for leaving me alone, but I understand now that she had to do what she did. Her death was her only weapon against him, and she used it well.” Damien went silent a moment. “I do not know why I tell you these things. I never speak of them to anyone.”