Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(56)
The girl, Zarabeth, turned out to be one of Damien’s distant cousins.
Egan and Damien had become friends over the tale and the brandy. Damien had appreciated meeting a man who was neither fascinated with nor awed by the fact that Damien was royalty. Egan, son of a Scottish laird, had an easy way about him and cared nothing for a man’s rank, only his worth. This philosophy did not make him particularly popular with snobbish English aristocrats, but Damien enjoyed Egan’s egalitarian ways and found his good humor infectious.
Where Damien had acquired a reputation as a charming seducer, Egan had acquired one for being wild and reckless. He made love to women with the same enthusiasm with which he lost thousands on a roll of dice, or proposed duels to defend a lady’s honor. Egan won at cards with the same recklessness that he lost—he’d be flush with money one day, destitute the next. He cared nothing for either state, living through it all with high good humor and an indifference that Damien admired.
Egan had commanded his troops on the Peninsula with careful efficiency. “Fine for me to walk the edge of the cliff,” he’d say, “but not for me to drag a dozen men with me.” He’d taken care of his lads so well that soldiers far and wide near worshipped him. They lauded his bravery and his wisdom as well as his ability to use gutter language like the lowest of them.
Even the French soldiers had known of Egan MacDonald, the Mad Highlander, and vied to introduce themselves to him when he captured them. In London, former soldiers inevitably came up to him in the street to shake his hand. “Now that’s a real officer,” they’d say to their companions.
Egan took his celebrity like he took anything else, with a shrug and good-natured indifference.
Even with Egan’s easy friendliness, however, Damien sensed he’d never gotten to know the true man. Egan kept something buried within him that he showed no one. It swam to the surface at times when Damien and Egan spoke about Nvengaria, but just when Damien thought he’d at last break through the Mad Highlander fa?ade, Egan would change the subject.
Damien saw a glimpse of the real Egan now as Egan asked, “And how is your wee cousin Zarabeth? Remember me to her, and tell her I am bad at writing letters.”
“My ‘wee’ cousin is a grown woman and married to a duke,” Damien answered. “One of the damned Council.”
Egan froze, his mouth dropping open. He looked almost comical in his surprise. “Married?”
Damien gave him a nod. “Three years now. An arrangement between her parents and his family. I do not like the man, but I was not there to prevent it, unfortunately.”
“But good Lord, she’s just a bit of a thing. She can’t be married yet.”
“She is, I believe, twenty-two,” Damien said without heat.
Egan’s brows furrowed as though trying to reconcile the loss of time. “You say you don’t like him?”
“I don’t, but no need to bring out your claymore. The man has given her a huge estate of her own and plenty of money and jewels. Zarabeth is the toast of the town, much admired by one and all.”
Egan’s harsh face took on a faraway expression. “Little Zarabeth. Who would have thought? She was always so quiet and kind.”
Damien’s brows shot upward. “Quiet? Zarabeth? She was a wild hellion. But I admit, tenderhearted.”
“She was kind to me.” Egan pulled his face back into its usual carefree lines. “Does she ever mention me?”
Damien shook his head. “I would not know. I’ve not had opportunity to speak with her much of late.”
“Damn,” Egan said softly. He stood a moment, lost in thought, then seemed to remember their present situation. He rested a strong hand on Damien’s shoulder. “Come on, old man. Time for you to lose your freedom.”
They moved together toward the ballroom. “I take it you have never thought of marrying?” Damien asked although he knew the answer already. Egan had very strong ideas about marriage—the English expression was Over my dead body.
“Not me,” Egan replied vehemently. “A carefree bachelor to the end of my days.”
“You might change your mind when you see my lady,” Damien said, then scowled. “But if you do, remember she is already taken, and that I am a dead shot.”
“No fear,” Egan said easily. Then they entered the ballroom, and Egan’s words died on his lips.
Damien halted in stunned admiration as well. Penelope wore a gown of cream silk that gathered under her breasts and fell in a smooth line to the floor. Lace cupped her upper arms, and seed pearls decorated the bodice, the décolletage baring a modest amount of bosom. Her honey-colored hair had been gathered into ropy curls that glistened with pearls. A single curl artfully escaped the coiffure and dangled to her shoulder.
At least a hundred people stood in the room between Penelope and Damien, and yet, her gaze went immediately to Damien and stayed there. Her lips, red and lush, parted as he approached.
The guests moved aside for Damien, growing silent as he crossed the room, like a breeze rippling through wheat. Damien never noticed them. He saw only Penelope and her green eyes and her sweet body in its glorious gown that he wanted to see crumpled on the floor of his bedchamber.
Sasha stood next to Penelope, waiting like a proud father about to give away the bride. He sent Damien a look of profound happiness as Damien halted, facing Penelope.