Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(55)
“You are every inch the Imperial Prince, sir.”
Damien glanced at himself in the mirror. His hair curled from his forehead to his collar, and his blue eyes were dark with anticipation. He looked well enough, but the uniform also made him resemble his father.
“Let us get on with it,” he said, turning from his reflection with a slight shudder.
“Right, sir. Sasha is in ecstasy downstairs. He’s been dying for this day forever.”
“Well, he deserves ecstasy. He’s worked hard.”
“He so much needs a woman,” Petri muttered. “Possibly two.”
“You could always spare him one of yours,” Damien pointed out.
Petri shook his head. “Charity is not my strong point, sir. But I’ll find him a lass. I imagine after today, ladies around here will go for anything Nvengarian.”
As long as Penelope did, Damien did not care.
He had already endured several days of Sasha’s rituals, which had only heightened his impatience. He’d spent a long dull night in a chapel, which was to cleanse him of sin, then he and Penelope had attended no less than three feasts, where they served each other traditional Nvengarian fare—venison, hare, fish, and wine. Especially the wine. Sasha had brought crates of the stuff, thick and red, from the vineyards of Nvengaria’s finest winemakers. Each ritual needed a different wine, and the guests partook, discovering that Nvengarian wine was twice as heady as what they were used to imbibing.
The rituals were highly enjoyed by all but Damien. He’d not been able to touch Penelope, because the first round of rituals called for the couple to be celibate. No slaking needs on each other, no slaking them on anyone else.
But tonight was the bonding ritual, in which the couple would, in front of witnesses, agree to be bound to each other, by blood, forever. At the end of the ritual they’d be officially betrothed, and after that they could relieve all those needs that had built in the interim.
Damien growled in anticipation. What to do first? Strip her right away, or ask Penelope to remove her clothes, one by one? He could position her in front of a mirror while he stood behind her and taught her about her body. He let this enjoyable vision thread his mind.
Or should he take her fully, on the bed, all at once, and when he was sated, teach her the myriad ways of pleasure? Or should he slowly build, starting at her fingertips, until their lovemaking was explosive for both of them?
Petri, as if knowing his thoughts, clapped him on the shoulder. “Time to go, sir.”
“Thank God. Let us get me betrothed.”
Petri grinned again, and the two of them left the room and headed downstairs.
At the bottom of the staircase a man dressed in a red and black kilt with a white lawn shirt, white silk waistcoat, and a stiff black coat paced back and forth. The Scotsman had dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck, with one lock that had escaped its bond cascading over his cheek. He had a military bearing, and he walked restlessly, his hands behind him, holding himself apart from the murmuring guests in the ballroom.
He looked up and saw Damien coming down the stairs. The Highlander had a square, hard face, one of a man who’d seen too much, survived too much.
The grim face suddenly creased in an infectious grin, and the man’s restlessness vanished.
“Damien, you wild dog! Why didn’t you tell me you were getting married?”
Chapter 16
Damien, in sudden delight, came off the last step and clasped the Scotsman’s hand in a firm grip.
“What are you doing here, Egan?” he demanded. “I thought you’d gone to chase bears in Russia.”
Egan MacDonald laughed out loud and drew Damien into a huge hug, pounding him on the back. “Too many Russian husbands after my Scottish blood. Thought it best to beat a retreat. Then I stroll through London and read that my old friend Damien of Nvengaria is sticking his head in the noose. How’d she catch you?”
“You have not met her yet, it is apparent,” Damien said calmly, pretending his heart wasn’t beating hard at the mere thought of her.
Egan raised his brows. “Oh-ho, you are well and truly snared. I see it in your eyes.” He turned to Petri who hovered behind Damien, and said in perfect Nvengarian, “You let him fall into the trap? I’m surprised at you, Petri. You’re supposed to protect him.”
Egan MacDonald was one of the few true friends Damien had made during his long years in exile. Damien had met Egan in Rome, a few months after Waterloo. Egan, a captain in a Highland regiment, had traveled to Vienna after the British victory, then had gone on to Rome, wishing to explore the city.
He’d nearly collided with Damien late one night in a passage in a Roman hotel. Comparing notes, they’d discovered they’d both been enticed to meet the same woman. When Egan understood that Damien was Nvengarian, he’d suggested, in that language, that they leave the duplicitous lady behind and share a bottle of brandy instead.
Surprised at Egan’s command of Nvengarian, Damien had agreed, and they’d adjourned to a tavern.
Egan had then told Damien an extraordinary story. While wandering the wilds of Europe some years before, Egan had been waylaid by robbers, beaten, and left for dead by the side of the road—he admitted he’d been drunk and had little wherewithal to fight. He would have died, but for the kindness of a Nvengarian girl named Zarabeth, who had seen him from her carriage window him and convinced her mother and father to bring him home with them. The family had nursed Egan back to health—sobered me up, Egan had said with a rueful grin—and he’d stayed with them until he healed.