Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(78)
“Excellent, Meagan,” Lady Trask said merrily. “I have always hated that wallpaper. Penelope’s father picked it out.”
Penelope climbed the two stairs of the platform that ran around the tub and lowered herself into the steaming bath, water sloshing.
Just in time. As the clock finished striking, the door swung open and Damien, clad from neck to ankles in a velvet dressing gown, crossed the threshold. Sasha stood behind him, carefully averting his eyes.
Damien’s dark blue gaze took in the two dripping, smiling women, then moved to Penelope waiting in the bath, sitting modestly up to her neck in hot water.
He slowly approached the bath and stepped up to the platform. Penelope fastened her attention on the brocade slippers covering his feet. His strong ankles showed below the hem of the dressing gown, touched with dark, wiry hair.
“Lady Trask, Miss Tavistock,” he said in his deep voice. “Thank you. Your task is done.”
Meagan and Simone watched in delight. “Au revoir, Penelope,” Meagan said, then the two of them hastened from the room, their laughter echoing through the hall.
Damien fixed his gaze on Penelope, amusement in his eyes. “I can do this alone, Sasha,” he said in Nvengarian.
Sasha glanced swiftly at Damien, saw that Penelope’s body was out of his sight, and relaxed. “But the ritual must be followed precisely, Your Highness. I must ensure—”
“Penelope understands the ritual,” Damien rumbled. “She will make certain I do it correctly.”
Sasha considered this, then nodded in relief. “That is so—she has been very good at learning the rituals. Yes, the princess will know what to do. Good night, Your Highness.”
He bowed then turned and marched smartly out of the room, confidence in Penelope exuding from him. The door banged behind him and after a moment came the sound of a key in the lock.
“You see,” Damien said, “already they have decided who is the stronger in this marriage. The fair Penelope, not the Imperial Prince.”
“I am certain he did not mean that,” Penelope said, her voice shaking.
“I am certain he did.”
Damien let his gaze rove her, from her pinned-up hair to her bare throat to her body under the steaming water. A bench ran around the inside of the tub, letting Penelope sit in comfort. “Penelope, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever beheld in my life.”
Penelope did not answer. She could not quite believe the truth of this, as no one had ever said such things of her any time in her life. She couldn’t, however, deny the shiver of joy that went through her at his words.
Damien’s voice darkened. “I have been going mad with wanting you.”
Penelope pointed a dripping finger to the side of the tub where a huge bath sponge like a jagged rock sat on a tray next to a dark bottle of Nvengarian wine. “We must do the ritual. With the sponge and the wine and everything.”
“Have no fear.” The glint in Damien’s eyes turned wicked. “I will follow it precisely. I imagine it will be much more pleasant without anyone watching.”
Penelope shivered again, which sent little ripples through the water. “Does the betrothed couple truly bathe in front of their families and friends?” she asked. “Sasha seemed amazed you did not want to follow the tradition.”
Damien loosened the first fastening from his dressing gown, baring his throat. “The bathing ritual is ancient,” he said. “Not always done these days. But ours is a royal wedding, and so we must go through the most arcane, bizarre rites historians like Sasha can find. We are special, you and I, and we must suffer for it.”
Penelope let her gaze linger on the hollow of Damien’s throat, which glistened with perspiration and the steam of the bath. Her heart beat faster. “Some of the Nvengarian ways must seem strange to you, as well. You grew up in the courts of Europe, not Nvengaria.”
Damien unhooked the next fastening, baring the line of his collarbone. “The courts of Europe have odd rituals all their own, which I am happy to abandon.”
“Of what sort?” Penelope asked, more to distract herself from her nervousness than because of interest. Watching Damien slowly bare himself was far more intriguing than explanations about odd customs.
Damien pulled open the next fastening to reveal his taut abdomen and the line of hair that pointed downward from it. He wore nothing under the dressing gown, it seemed. She saw no waistband of breeches or glimpse of linen underbreeches, nothing but sun-darkened skin that paled a little below his navel.
“None very important,” he answered.
Damien unfastened two more silken ties, and the dressing gown fell all the way open. His legs were strong and straight, and his shaft, dark with wanting, stood out from a circle of curled black hair.
Strange that simply seeing Damien erect for her brought Penelope such a flush of heat. She wanted to grasp him in her hand, to feel him warm against her palm.
Penelope dragged her gaze away as Damien slid the dressing gown from his shoulders, letting it fall down the steps in a velvet wave.
“I do not mind that you like to look,” he said softly. He stepped out of his slippers, his bare feet strong. “Stand up, love.”
Penelope lowered her arms from her breasts and rose on shaking legs, water cascading in hot rivulets down her body. When she stood upright, the water came to her hips. She felt horribly exposed and yet her skin prickled with excitement.