Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(83)
Damien waited for his terror to come, for the vivid recollection of the dungeon below his father’s castle to steal this peace. In his prison cell, he’d lain in a stupor for an interminable time, barely able to breathe. Heavy irons had weighed his wrists, his throat raw from screaming for someone to let him out. He’d fallen into silent fear when no one had answered.
As a healthy boy, Damien had soon become hungry, but he’d received no food until after he’d been in the hole six days. By then, he’d been ravenous enough to simply grab the bread they’d tossed inside and stuff it into his mouth, gulping it down like a starving dog.
He’d vowed to himself that the next time he’d be too proud to accept the food. He’d wait until they came in to try to force it on him, then he’d spring up, batter the guards, and make his escape.
But Damien’s father knew all about torture. That bread was the last Damien received for another six days, and by that time, he was too weak to do more than cram the stale crusts into his mouth again.
Damien had been a child, too frightened at this change in his life to let reason command him. He’d simply existed in that dungeon, careful not to soil the part of the cell where he lay to sleep, learning to make himself eat slowly so his hunger would not return too soon.
He’d begged the guards to take him to see his father, convinced it had all been a mistake, that his father’s enemies had shoved him down here. Eventually one of the guards had told Damien the truth, that his father had caught and executed the men who’d wanted to raise Damien to the throne. He would hold Damien in the dungeon until the world forgot all about him.
Now Damien lay next to Penelope, memories of that terrible time drifting over him but no longer shredding him.
He brushed the soft skin of her belly, wondering if their passion tonight had made Penelope conceive. He hoped so. He’d use this little prince—or princess—to restore himself, to have a family bound by love, not wrenched apart with hatred.
The night soothed him, and the soft breeze told him his thoughts were right. Damien kissed Penelope’s hair, letting himself enjoy this newfound contentment, and gradually drifted to sleep.
* * *
Michael Tavistock settled into a chair in his bedchamber, drew a breath, and opened the book Penelope had handed him the night before. He’d put it aside, knowing it was something with which Penelope intended to persuade him to stay. He hadn’t wanted to look, hadn’t wanted anything to tempt him. Michael had decided that infatuation and the need to be with a woman had clouded his senses, and Damien’s arrival had cleared them, in a rather painful manner.
But he was fond enough of Penelope to let her try. Truth to tell, he’d miss the young woman profoundly.
He glanced at the book’s first page and froze when he beheld the careless scrawl of Lady Trask, her handwriting as carefree as herself, with elongated vertical loops and fat round O’s. Simone’s journal.
Michael quickly closed the cover before his eye could make sense of the words. He had no business reading Simone’s private thoughts, even if she, like many journal writers, wrote deliberately for posterity. Even so, she’d not given permission for Michael to peruse it, and he was certain that Penelope had not asked for that permission.
Read the passages I have marked, Penelope had said. Please, before you decide to go.
Three bookmarks made of jade satin ribbon marked three separate instances in the journal. Michael sighed, put his blunt finger on the first of the bookmarks, and opened to the page.
Chapter 23
The most marvelous thing happened at Lady Marchmain’s garden party today, Simone had written. Mr. Tavistock, the father of Penelope’s charming friend Meagan, showed great kindness to me. He escorted me about, fetched me lemonade, and kept the horrible Lord Sweton away from me. That man is odious and fancies that I fancy him—ugh. In any case, Mr. Tavistock was a delight to speak to, because he would explain what he meant when I did not understand his allusions, and when I said something stupid as usual, he would gloss over it and make me feel better. What splendid manners the man has!
To be honest, it was not simply his manner that caught my notice. I have always thought Mr. Tavistock handsome, and being able to observe him closely at the garden party only firmed my opinion. His body is quite well formed, and I took any excuse to lay my hand on his arm. My heavens, the man is strong.
What I would like to observe is whether he is well-formed all over, as I suspect him to be. He is forty-five, but where other men have let themselves grow portly, his torso is as firm and tight as any I have ever seen.
Alas that I am a widow with a grown daughter. I can never hope to entice such a gentleman to remove his clothing for me so that I might study his musculature. Perhaps I could offer to do a watercolor of him next time I see him, for Meagan of course. This will enable me to study him quite closely, even with his clothes on.
The entry ended. His face heating, Michael opened to the next marked page.
Is it possible for a woman of my age to fall in love? My darling Michael—Mr. Tavistock—came for a visit, bringing Meagan to see Penelope. I am fond of Meagan, who cheers Penelope up no end. It lightens my heart to hear them laugh.
Mr. Tavistock and I walked in the garden after supper, while the girls giggled over something at the piano, and in the shadows of the house, Michael kissed me. I believe that I have never felt so alive until that moment; my entire body positively hummed. He did not say outright that he wanted to go to bed with me, but a woman knows by the way a man touches her—so possessive—and the gentle, but intimate way he kisses.