Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(72)
Damien growled again, but he knew that from Tavistock’s point of view, Damien’s actions appeared exactly as described. Tavistock might have come around to believing in Damien, but not everyone in England would, including, it seemed, the be-damned Regent.
Damien kept his voice cool. “What would you have me do?”
“Marry her immediately,” Tavistock said. “Have an English wedding here in the village.”
“I do not have time. The days are marching and the road home is long.”
Tavistock’s dark eyes were steady. “There are plenty of powerful and influential men staying here. I am certain any of them can help you procure a special license. You need delay one or two days at most.”
Damien balled his fists, but he made himself remain polite. He needed these people to believe in him, because he needed them to let him have Penelope, and not only because of the prophecy.
“I will speak to Egan MacDonald,” Damien said. “He will be able to obtain a special license from whomever gives them in your country. Everyone admires Egan.”
“Good.” The brown eyes, flinty hard, did not soften.
Damien understood. “You are waiting for me to tell you I will keep myself away from Penelope until then. That she will sleep alone.”
“I believe it would be best.”
Damien let out a breath. “That is a cruel, cruel thing to ask a man, Tavistock, whether he be Nvengarian or English.”
Tavistock shrugged. “I care very much for the Trask family. I do not want to see them compromised or slandered in any way.”
“Neither do I. Very well, you have won. I will marry Penelope in your English chapel with your English license. By the time the poor girl is finished, she will have married me three times over.”
“It will still the wagging tongues,” Tavistock said.
Damien thought of the ritual that was to have been tonight, and closed his eyes in painful longing. The bathing ritual, in which the bride and groom were cleansed and then brought together to wash each other, was both ceremonial and sensual.
Sasha had supervised the building of a special bath in a ground-floor chamber. Traditionally, the bathing was attended by a crowd of the bride’s and groom’s families and friends, who drank wine and cheered them on. Damien had convinced Sasha to pare the number down to Penelope’s mother and Meagan, to spare Penelope embarrassment.
Damien had been looking forward to standing behind Penelope in the deep water, drawing a thick sponge over her neck and shoulders. Her hair would curl in the damp, strands clinging to bare skin flushed from the heat of the bath.
He’d rinse her with a trickle of water, then follow the trickle with his tongue. His hand would come up to cup her breast, and she’d lean back against him in longing.
Damien willed his imagination to still and opened his eyes. Tavistock was watching him narrowly.
Damien made a conceding gesture, as though it made no difference to him, but it was quite difficult to move his hand. “Very well,” he said with difficulty. “I will inform Sasha that the ritual is to be postponed.”
* * *
“Oh, Penelope, just fancy, I’ll be your bridesmaid after all.”
In the garden at the Trask home the next morning, Meagan threw her arms excitedly around Penelope. Penelope hugged her friend in return, then released her without a word. Not far from them, Wulf sat in an unused flower bed, digging to his heart’s content.
He loved to dig, much like any boy his age, making little trenches and strange forts out of the rich earth. His wounds had healed with alarming speed, an event that both Sasha and Wulf attributed to the healing powers of the true princess.
No one in the house was particularly happy to hear that the logosh, albeit turned to a small boy, was staying.
“Penny, dear,” her mother had said the night before as she entered the servants’ room where Wulf had healed. The boy had lain under a pile of blankets, his pale face bruised and scratched, his hand firmly around Penelope’s. “What if he turns into a demon again and tries to eat us all?”
“He will not,” Penelope assured her. She did not know how she knew this, but she believed it with all her heart. “He will not turn into his other form unless I ask him to.”
Lady Trask had studied Wulf a few moments longer then nervously retreated. “Well, please be certain not to ask him to, there’s a good girl.”
Penelope had discovered this morning that Wulf liked sugar very much—he’d eaten an entire bowlful in the kitchen. He’d showed no ill effects, and Penelope had soothed the cook’s temper and dragged the boy away. He also liked carrots it seemed, and happily munched through the bunch that Penelope gave him.
Now, Penelope watched Wulf dig and burrow, getting himself filthy, like any other human boy, humming a happy tune in his throat.
She herself was beyond frustration. Last evening, Damien had appeared at supper and made the abrupt announcement that he would be marrying Penelope by special license in the village chapel as soon as he could arrange it.
Everyone had stared in surprise, except Michael Tavistock, who looked satisfied and Sasha, who looked unhappy. Penelope understood his unhappiness when Damien went on to say that the remainder of the Nvengarian rituals would be postponed until he and Penelope were properly married.
The supper guests had clapped happily and said their congratulations. Damien had warmed them with his benevolent smile and raised his glass to Penelope.