Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(74)

“That is so.” Meagan nodded. “What Papa fears is that he is not good enough for Lady Trask, and that she will throw him over the moment she comes upon a more handsome or more wealthy gentleman.”

Penelope began to answer, then stared at her friend in surprise. “You agree with him.”

Meagan shrugged, her face reddening. “She did get very excited when she saw Damien’s rubies.”

“That is simply her way, Meagan. She learned to be featherheaded and frivolous because it kept her from being hurt by my father. People expect her to be featherheaded. But she loves your father very much, and I will prove it.”

“I hope that you can,” Meagan said, her eyes serious. “Father is near to brokenhearted.”

“I will prove it right away.” Penelope folded her parasol with a determined jerk. “Will you watch Wulf for a moment?”

“No,” Meagan answered at once. She held her hands palm out. “I love you, Pen, but no.”

Penelope glanced at the boy. “He is awfully dirty. He will have to bathe again or Mathers will scold something awful. Mathers hates dirt on the carpets.”

Fortunately, Wulf had proved to enjoy baths as much as he liked dirt. He liked to splash water everywhere and dive below the surface, coming up spluttering. For all Penelope could see, he was enjoying being a little boy.

“Wulf,” she said.

The effect of the word was instantaneous. Wulf dropped the piece of wood he was using to dig, leapt to his feet, and ran to Penelope’s side.

They’d given him clothes from one of the groom’s sons, serviceable breeches, shirt, and shoes. In them Wulf looked like a normal ten-year-old. His blue eyes were a bit large in his small face, but other than that, he looked in no way out of place.

Wulf stood before Penelope, peering avidly at her, as though he hung on her every word. He might look like a child, but he behaved almost like a feral dog, one who loved one master and one master only. He understood Nvengarian, but he spoke little, save for a few words at a time. Since Penelope only knew a little of the language herself, their conversations were brief and halting.

“We must wash you,” she told him in Nvengarian.

Wulf’s face brightened. “Bath,” he said, and grinned.

He grabbed Penelope’s hand and started rapidly for the house, as though fearing she’d change her mind if they lingered.

“Pen,” Meagan said, panting behind them. “How can you be so certain he will not hurt you?”

“I just know,” Penelope said over her shoulder. She could not explain the conviction, and she did not want to examine it too closely herself.

“What about the rest of us?”

“Nor you,” Penelope said. “I know, Meagan.”

Meagan made a skeptical sound. “Well, I suppose it’s no more bizarre than a prince and a prophecy. And I used to say that nothing remotely interesting ever happened in Little Marching.”

As they emerged from the gardens, two horses and riders, followed at a distance by liveried Nvengarians, came up the long drive to the house. One was dressed in a Nvengarian-style uniform; the other wore a kilt—Egan and Damien returning from their quest for the special license.

Both men dismounted as Penelope and Wulf entered the drive, tossing reins to the waiting grooms. The horses hurriedly followed the grooms, snorting, eyes wide. They knew good and well that Wulf was a demon, no matter what his physical appearance.

Watching Damien and Egan approach, Penelope remembered her first encounter with Damien, when he’d looked down at her from atop the midnight-black horse. His lazy smile, which promised a lady so much, had made her bones melt.

Nothing had changed. Damien walked to her, Egan following, Damien’s sinful, promising smile in place.

The two men were handsome in different ways. Damien’s polished sophistication overlaid strong control, a veneer of manners coating the tumultuous emotions he’d inherited from his people. Egan had little polish—his kilt, coat, and boots were made for riding and fighting, not sitting in drawing rooms. He had raw strength, a man who would be equally at home sleeping in the heather and fishing for his dinner as dining in a palace.

Both gentlemen were tall, broad-shouldered, handsome specimens. It was no wonder that the gazes of the ladies present followed them wherever they went.

Damien brushed Penelope’s cheek and bent to kiss her. He had not spoken to her or been alone with her since they’d found Wulf. His announcement that they’d marry in the village had caught her unawares, and she wanted to be angry at him for not consulting her in this matter.

But as their lips met, she momentarily forgot her anger. Without realizing she did it, she hungrily welcomed him, her mouth seeking his. Smiling into the kiss, Damien slid his hand behind her head and drew her closer.

Egan laughed from two feet away. “Make an honest woman out of her first, lad.”

Face heating, Penelope broke the kiss. Egan was grinning, Meagan smiling. Wulf stared at them, unblinking.

Damien teased the curls at the nape of Penelope’s neck. “I will as soon as I find the vicar. Thanks to Egan, who commanded a bishop’s son on the Peninsula, I have the license, and tomorrow, you and I will become man and wife.” Damien’s eyes glittered. “Under English law, that is. Now, everyone will be happy.”

He gave Penelope another smile, this one of satisfaction. Once again, Prince Charming had arranged everything to his liking.