Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(73)

Penelope had sat in stunned silence, wondering what on earth had just happened. But she’d had no opportunity to speak to Damien or argue with him or even look at him, because he’d disappeared after supper, and she had not seen him since.

“I wish I had time to get a proper frock made, but there it is,” Meagan was saying. “You are so lucky, Penelope. A handsome prince riding out of nowhere, sweeping you off your feet, and marrying you. It is too romantic. Please remind him, when you reach Nvengaria, that he has promised to find me a gentleman who is ten times better than a duke.” Meagan cocked her head. “I wonder what he means by that?”

Penelope shook her head, having no idea. It was another fine day, and the sun shone hot. Penelope’s parasol cast a blue shade over her pale frock, while Meagan’s sent a yellowish glow over hers.

“I’ve been so hoping to speak to you alone,” Meagan said, pink creeping into her cheeks. “Yesterday, when we were all running after Wulf and then falling asleep, did you …” She wiggled her brows. “You know.”

In a rush, Penelope recalled the heavy weight of Damien’s body on hers, the feeling of being stretched and opened, and the strange fullness of him inside her, the hot beauty of his kisses.

So vivid was the memory, she felt as though her body transported itself back to the hot room with him, then deposited her again in the garden with a crash. Penelope drew a sharp breath. “Yes,” she said.

Meagan squeezed the handle of her parasol. “Oh, my dear friend, how wonderful for you. Was it … I mean, did it hurt?”

“Not really. Not as much as I’d feared.” Penelope was blushing too, and she looked over at Wulf to distract herself. He was getting dirtier by the minute.

“Goodness, I am relieved to hear that,” Meagan said. “Deirdre Braithwaite said she screamed aloud when she was first … well. She also said her husband did nothing but grunt, rather like a pig. I hope Damien said sweet nothings instead.”

Penelope remembered him whispering under the shadow of the canopy while he kissed her with hot thoroughness. “He said things in Nvengarian.”

“Ah. When you learn more Nvengarian, you will understand what he is saying. That would certainly make me study harder.”

Penelope studied Meagan’s teasing face and dissolved into laughter. “You always make me feel better.”

“Why should you feel anything but glorious? I am pleased Damien is such a wonderful husband already. I will bless your good fortune and hope to be wed myself to a gentleman with tight trousers who does not grunt in bed. That is as much as a spinster like myself can wish for.” Meagan sounded mournful, but her eyes danced.

“Do not let your father hear you speak so,” Penelope warned.

Meagan lost her smile. “Poor father. When we woke yesterday, he was holding your mama, and I so hoped that things were settled between them. But I am afraid not. Papa is being uncommonly stubborn.”

Penelope had not had the chance to speak to Michael during the whirlwind or preparations and rituals that Sasha insisted upon. Her mother now seemed resigned that Michael would leave her. When Lady Trask no longer had the heart to have hysterics, Penelope knew that she was truly suffering.

“Damien has overturned all of our lives,” Penelope said.

“That is true,” Meagan agreed. “I vow, I never dreamed I’d be chased by fairy-tale monsters, chatting with the Prince Regent, and being bridesmaid for my dearest friend who is marrying a prince.”

Penelope warmed. “You like the world upside-down, do you?”

“You must admit, Pen, that life was becoming deadly dull. Damien arrived just in time to save us from a summer of hideous ennui.” Meagan sighed. “I did hope that I would be engaged myself to one of these Mayfair gentlemen before you departed, but it is not to be.”

Penelope raised her brows. “I have seen you dancing with Mr. MacDonald more than once these last weeks. He is handsome enough. I am beginning to believe the Scottish mode of a kilt is even more attractive than well-fitting trousers. Have you not tried to gain his admiration?”

Meagan looked wise. “Do not tease me, my darling friend. The Mad Highlander is handsome and gallant, but he loves another.”

Penelope looked at her in surprise. “Who?” she asked with interest.

“I have no idea. But I see it in his eyes. That faraway look, you know, as though he is wishing he could be with his beloved, and knows he never can be. It is terribly romantic.”

Meagan was not smitten with Egan MacDonald then, if she could look upon the roguish, handsome Highlander and weave a tragic tale about him.

“You are inventing things,” Penelope said. “How do you know he is pining for love?”

“It is there if you look for it. I know about people.”

Penelope had to concede that Meagan did. She acted the part of silly young miss, but wisdom lurked behind her shrewd eyes. If she claimed Egan was the victim of unrequited love, he likely was. Penelope’s mother too was pining for love, though she did not hide it as well as Mr. MacDonald.

“You have given me an idea.” Penelope’s spirits rose. “About how to resolve things between your mother and my father, I mean.”

“Truly?” Meagan asked eagerly.

“I believe I can,” Penelope said. “Depending upon how stubborn the pair of them remain. The problem is that your father does not believe my mother loves him.”