Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(75)

Penelope could have walked off in a huff, reminding the prince he had never bothered consulting her about this marriage ceremony, and perhaps making him look a bit of a fool. Polite Penelope Trask would never do such a thing, of course, but it was tempting to think of it.

Damien destroyed even that thought by lifting Penelope’s hand and pressing a hot kiss to it, then tucking her hand through his arm and strolling with her back to the house. The look Damien slanted down at her assured her of wickedness once they were fully married, and held confidence that she would enjoy wickedness with him very, very much.



* * *



Later that evening, while Lady Trask played hostess in the card room, Penelope entered her mother’s bedchamber, found what she wanted, tucked it under her arm, and made her way to Michael Tavistock’s chambers.

The house was quiet, most of the guests playing cards or billiards or strolling the gardens under the light of paper lanterns. Wulf had gone to sleep in his small bedroom in the attic with as much enthusiasm as he played in the dirt or took baths. The boy seemed to attack the basics of life with a gusto that made Penelope slightly ashamed at how much she took them for granted.

Because it was quiet, she was able to hear Damien and Michael speaking in Michael’s chamber as she approached the door.

“By tomorrow night it will all be over,” Damien rumbled. “We will be married, and the betrothal rituals finished. A relief, I will confess.”





Chapter 21





Penelope froze, her hand on the door handle.

“For Penelope too, I imagine,” Michael’s dry voice answered. “You have put her through much.”

“Indeed, she has borne it well.” There was a pause, then when Damien spoke again, his voice sounded tired and more distant. “We will have the wedding tomorrow and leave the following morning.”

“You are rushing her a bit, are you not? Let the poor girl adjust to being your wife for a day or two.”

“But I do not have a day or two,” Damien said impatiently. “Time is marching. I must present Penelope in the Imperial Prince’s castle on Midsummer’s Day, or all is lost. I have had to waste much time convincing you and everyone in the household that I am serious in this venture. I have reasons for my hurry.”

“And I understand those reasons,” Michael answered. “This Alexander does not sound the sort of man who will give you a second chance to win over your people. But can you not let Penelope have time to ready herself, to say her good-byes?”

Damien said something in reply, but Penelope missed it because she was startled by a step behind her, either that of a guest or a servant. She could hardly be found listening at a door, so she knocked and entered without waiting to be invited.

The chamber Michael used when he visited was a small suite they’d made cozy for him with a desk and comfortable chairs in the outer room, a large bed in the inner. The door to the inner chamber was closed, putting the two men in the small, paneled sitting room, its tall window giving out to the moonlit gardens.

Michael came alert as Penelope scurried in then relaxed when he saw that it was she.

Damien turned from the window. His blue eyes met Penelope’s in a strong and steady gaze—he looked in no way ashamed that he’d been caught speaking about her.

Penelope closed the door. “I hope you will at least let me pack a valise,” she said in a light voice to Damien. “I will need a change of clothing.”

Damien remained where he was, answering as though she had not spoken in irritation. “We will take as much as we can carry easily. We will ride ahead with Petri—Sasha and the remainder of the entourage will follow with a baggage train. Wulf will accompany you in your carriage, I imagine, as he will not let you out of his sight.”

“You have planned this well,” Penelope said, a little out of breath. “And so far in advance.”

Damien’s gaze was still, but she sensed the deep anger he carefully suppressed. “Believe that I would prefer to linger and enjoy the hospitality here for days to come, but I have no choice.”

Penelope did not want to soften. She tried to stand resolute, but a spark flickered in his eyes, making her recall the desire of the previous afternoon when she lay with him skin to skin, their bodies damp in the heat.

The dratted man could always dazzle her. “I understand that you are not marrying for pleasure,” she said. “But to save your throne.”

A slow smile spread across Damien’s face. “I would not say there is no pleasure in it.”

Penelope’s face heated until she was certain she was red as a poppy. How could he say these things in front of Michael?

“I will pack,” she said hastily. Face scalding, she approached Michael and held out the book she’d retrieved from her mother’s chamber. “Read the passages I have marked,” she told him. “Please, before you decide to go.”

Michael accepted the book without a word, brows raised in curiosity. Penelope spun away from him, shot Damien a glance, then when he gave her another lazy smile, turned and scuttled out of the room.



* * *



At seven the next evening, Damien found himself in front of the lily-bedecked altar in the chapel at Little Marching, repeating marriage vows of the Church of England while he pushed a gold ring onto Penelope’s finger.