Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(71)

Petri’s eyes were haunted. “No, sir. I woke only when the princess cried out. He might have throttled you before I could reach you.”

“Cease flagellating yourself. If you want to make recompense, find the mage who worked the spell. It had a Nvengarian feel to it, so it was cast by one of us.”

Petri’s eyes flashed, anger replacing remorse. “I will flush him out, sir, trust me. I’ll skin him alive.”

“Now you sound like Titus. Before you skin the culprit, bring him to me so that I can ask him a question or two. Get Sasha to help you—he’ll be able to spot a mage.”

“Yes, sir. This time I will not fail you.”

“Good.” Damien could bear no more of the man’s guilt and stalked out of the chamber.

Michael Tavistock stood at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for Damien to descend. “A moment of your time, please,” the Englishman said stiffly.

Damien did not have the patience for a confrontation, but he nodded as he came down the stairs and gestured that they should speak in the sitting room.

That room, however, proved to be full of giggling ladies who looked up eagerly when Damien entered. “Good evening, Your Highness,” they said collectively.

Damien halted, controlling his temper. He put his hand on his chest and made a deep bow. “I do beg your pardon,” he said. The giggling escalated, accompanied by fluttering fans.

Damien escaped, and Tavistock suggested they walk outside. As they stepped out a side door into the waning light, several Nvengarian footmen detached themselves from duties and followed, watchful and alert.

“When do you leave?” Tavistock asked Damien abruptly.

It was early evening, the long English summer day at last drawing to a close. The clouds Damien had observed earlier had thinned, and only a few golden-streaked wisps adorned the horizon. Gentle swells of green hills flowed away from the garden and disappeared into haze where the sky met the ground.

A flat land, Damien thought. Nvengaria is razor-edged. Damn, but I miss it.

Damien cleared his throat. “Immediately. Tomorrow. The final ritual is tonight, then Penelope and I plus a small part of my entourage will depart in the morning. The rest will follow when they can make ready. I realize they’ve become somewhat entrenched here.”

He said it apologetically, trying his winsome smile—not that it ever worked with the hardheaded Tavistock. Meagan claimed that her father was a cheerful and happy man, but Damien had never caught him at it.

“You and Penelope will marry in Nvengaria?” Tavistock asked.

“Yes. It will be the wedding of the year. She will be married in fine style, never fear.”

“Will this be a Christian wedding? Performed in a chapel? Or another Nvengarian ritual?”

Damien kept his best Prince Charming look in place. “In a cathedral, with a bishop.”

Tavistock stopped walking. They stood a short distance from the house, halfway down the drive, at the top of a gentle green slope that dropped toward the village.

“Penelope is an Englishwoman,” Tavistock said. “Never mind your tale of rings and lineage. I would rather see her married in an English chapel in a ceremony she understands.”

Damien held on to his composure. “The ritual we performed this morning binds her to me as thoroughly as if she were my wife. The wedding in Nvengaria will only seal it. I assure you, this is no elaborate trick on my part to gain a new mistress.”

A spark of anger lit Tavistock’s mild eyes. “So you say. I admit I can imagine no man going to all this trouble to lure a young lady into his bed, but the point is, she has gone there. You and she are not married. If you find a princess more to your taste on your way home and abandon Penelope, she is unprotected and ruined.”

“She is not ruined under the laws of my people,” Damien said, trying to rein in his pique at the assumption that he’d ever abandon Penelope. “I assure you of this.”

“But she is not of your people, Prince Damien.” Tavistock fixed him with a shrewd look. “Nvengaria is a land far away, and most people in Oxfordshire and even London have never heard of it. The English guests you invited are already inventing jokes about maidens who cannot resist a prince. They wonder who you will charm into your bed next.”

Damien felt the rage he inherited from his father rise. “Who dares say these things?” He was surprised how icy his voice had become.

“The Prince Regent for one. He wonders if Penelope is partial to all princes. Shall you challenge him to a duel?” Tavistock’s voice was calm, but he looked angry enough to do the deed himself, or perhaps to challenge Damien instead.

“Damn the Regent,” Damien said feelingly. He snarled a few more choice phrases in Nvengarian. His bodyguards glanced his way, alert, but he shook his head at them.

Tavistock went on. “I do not hold myself before you as an example of excellent behavior. You know Penelope’s mother and I have been lovers. My only excuse is that we are older, Lady Trask is a widow, and I hope we were discreet. Penelope is a maiden, with much to lose.”

“Do you believe I would shame her?” Damien’s accent became thick as his temper mounted. “She will be Princess of Nvengaria, not the lover of a backstreet scoundrel.”

“What I believe is that you came from nowhere and have successfully enticed an innocent young woman into your bed.”