Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(46)

“How awful,” Penelope said, anguished.

Damien met her gaze, his blue one warming again. “Do not feel sorry for me, love. My childhood is behind me. My life is much better now.”

Penelope gave him a look of disbelief. “Even as men are trying to kill you right and left?”

Damien shrugged. “A few dodged knives is nothing compared to the barbs of my father. Believe me.”

Penelope traced the sinews on the back of Damien’s hand. The scars that crisscrossed his skin spoke more clearly than words of the harshness he’d experienced.

“It is better now,” Damien said, his voice low, “because I have found you.”

Flattery again. His eyes had gone dark, and his head dipped toward Penelope’s as though he was ready to kiss her.

“You are asking me to leave everything I have ever known,” Penelope said desperately. “You wish me to ride off into the wilderness with you on the strength of a silver ring and Sasha’s prophecy.”

“I know.” Damien smoothed her cheek. “And you are brave enough and strong enough to do it. You have the heart of a lion.”

At the moment, Penelope felt weak as a kitten. “I assure you, I have not.”

Damien nuzzled her, his breath warm. “You could face down the entire Council of Dukes and Alexander himself. You could have even faced down my father.”

“The man who put you into a dungeon?” Penelope’s voice became crisp. “I am very angry at him for that, you know.”

“You see? You have fight in you, Penelope. You will make a fine princess. Nvengarians love a woman with fight.”

“I have never fought anyone in my life,” she said, surprised.

“Hmm, I wonder what it must have taken to jilt your Mr. Reuben White in the face of all the world. The English are not kind to a woman who decides to send a man away. They believe she should swallow what the gentleman does so that she may have a husband and his name, am I correct?” Damien looked displeased. “In Nvengaria, we admire a woman who takes a knife to a cheating betrothed.”

Penelope stared at him. “Goodness, I would never do that.”

“No, you are civilized, and very English.” Damien’s amusement returned. “It took much courage for you to defy Mr. White, your mother and father, and the entire English ton, did it not?”

Penelope had to admit he was right. Memories she’d tried to bury resurfaced—the pleading arguments from her mother, the cool anger of her father, the outrage of Rueben White, who’d threatened to sue for breach of contract. She’d suffered stares and whispers when she went out in public after that, heard the label of jilt.

Even now, however, Penelope could not regret what she’d done. She could not have sold herself to a life of misery. Penelope had dried her tears and gone on, hiding her pain. Shortly afterward, her father had died, and the grief of that had nearly undone her. When she and her mother realized they no longer could afford to live in London, they’d returned to Marsden Manor, Lady Trask mournfully, Penelope with relief.

“It was indeed difficult,” Penelope said in a quiet voice.

Damien gave her a wise look. “You understate what you went through, I believe. Yet, you did it. You defied them all. A lesser woman would have given in, accepted her lot, and married the man, no matter what. You defied them twice, in fact.”

Penelope firmed her lips. “You wish me to accept my lot with you.”

Damien’s amusement returned. “Penelope, you are a fine one at debate. As I said, you will defy the Council of Dukes.”

As he spoke, he slid off his coat and laid it carefully on the bank. Next he untied his cravat, unwound it from his neck, and folded it neatly. Damien then unbuttoned his waistcoat, fingers deft and sure on the fastenings.

“Whatever are you doing?” she asked him nervously.

“It’s warm,” Damien said without ceasing. “I can think of nothing more pleasant than a dip in your so-English river.”

Penelope’s mouth went dry as he shrugged off his waistcoat and laid it aside with his coat and cravat. His linen shirt clung to the honed torso of a warrior. No wonder the Prince Regent regarded him with angry envy.

Damien stripped off his shirt. His chest, brown from the sun, was tight and strong, muscles moving under his skin with animal grace. Black curls dusted his chest, spreading across his pectorals and thinning where his flat nipples lay brown-red against his skin. His arms were solid with muscle, biceps tapering to hollows on the insides of his elbows. Black hair lay stark on his broad forearms, his skin there even more tanned, the part of his body that saw the most sunshine.

Penelope had never seen a man completely bare-chested before. She could not drag her eyes away—she wanted to look at him, to explore him with her gaze.

She wanted to touch as well. Penelope imagined her fingers on the brown flesh, tracing his collarbone and the hollow of his throat, the damp skin over his Adam’s apple. She’d skim her touch down to feather the indentation between his pectorals, liking how the dark curls of hair twisted around her fingertips. Then to his brown nipples, drawing them lightly between her fingers, discovering what they felt like.

Penelope flicked her gaze to his face, hoping her scrutiny would not betray her hunger. She kept her eyes on the sharp line of his jaw, the black hair that trailed to his bare, strong neck. He smelled of sweat and salt, and Penelope wondered if he’d taste of salt if she trailed her tongue across his throat.