Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(85)
In the early hours of the morning, Damien woke Penelope and whispered to her that they should adjourn upstairs to her chamber. If he knew his men, at morning light the Nvengarian entourage would gather outside the bath chamber door and lead rousing cheers when Damien and Penelope emerged. He could spare her that embarrassment.
Damien helped Penelope into her dressing gown, kissing her deeply when he buttoned it up the front for her. He was in danger of tearing it off and devouring her again—by the manner in which Penelope kissed him back, she was ready as well.
Damien made himself turn away, take Penelope’s hand, and lead her to the door. It was still dark, and they had to fumble their way across the room, Penelope smothering laughter.
They found light in the hall, sconces kept lit all night in case members of the household were restless.
The house was quiet, which suited Damien. Most of his rambunctious footmen were asleep, probably with whatever maid they’d enticed to their beds this night. He and Penelope had not been unguarded, however. Two Nvengarians were stationed at the end of the short hall, blocking any route to the bath chamber.
The guards straightened and saluted when Damien led Penelope past them, although one sent Damien a pleased smile. All in Damien’s entourage were very happy that he had sealed his bargain with the princess.
As Damien and Penelope reached the first landing, a lugubrious lackey who’d been half asleep on a cushioned bench sprang to his feet and put himself in front of Damien, giving him a bow. “The Regent requests a moment of your time, sir.”
Damien recognized the man as one who hovered about the Regent to carry messages for him. “He requests a moment … at this moment?” Damien asked impatiently. “He must know it is my wedding night.”
“He does, Your Imperial Highness. He knows you leave in the morning and wishes to speak to you before then.” The man’s round face was mournful, knowing he was the bearer of an unwelcome summons, but he stood solidly in Damien’s path, not about to return to the Prince Regent without him.
Damien chafed, ready to push the Regent and his Bath chair into the nearest pond. Penelope, ever practical, murmured, “Perhaps you had better see what he wants.”
“Damnation.” The restful contentment Damien had found sleeping with Penelope rapidly fell away. He knew he needed to maintain the Regent’s support and keep the rest of England on his side, but hell, did Damien have to placate the man in the middle of the night while Penelope, tousled and sleepy-eyed, headed for their bedchamber?
Penelope rose on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “I’ll wait for you,” she whispered then scurried up the stairs to the passage that would take her to their chamber.
Damien cast her a regretful glance, knowing this would be the first of many times he had to put politics before pleasure, then he gestured for the lackey to lead him to the Regent.
The Prince of Wales sat in his Bath chair in a ground floor room that had been refurbished for him. Once a lavish salon, it had been transformed into a bedchamber and sitting room, complete with a bed, chairs, and sofas that had been brought from London for his comfort.
“Ah, Damien.” The prince climbed out of the wheeled chair as Damien entered, the better for Damien to see his sumptuous brocade and velvet dressing gown.
Damien made a polite bow. “Wales,” he said. If the prince could not be bothered with formalities, neither would he.
The Regent preened, as though pleased to be on intimate terms with the most fascinating royal of the Continent. They were not exactly private here—six footmen and a valet moved about the chamber in various duties, none of them trying very hard not to eavesdrop.
“My felicitations on your nuptials,” the prince went on, as he held out a pudgy hand.
Damien shook it. “Thank you.”
He hoped the Regent would get on with telling him what he wished to discuss, but the prince signaled to his lackeys and called for brandy. One of the footmen broke away to fetch a cut crystal decanter and glasses.
“I did not intend to linger,” Damien said with a glance at the chamber’s door.
The Regent sent him a knowing look. “She’s a comely lass, eh? Of course you want to get back to it.” He winked and chuckled, his chins wobbling.
Damien pasted a smile on his face, remaining polite.
“The truth is, Damien, old chap, we have much to discuss.” The Regent waved a hand loaded with rings at a nearby chair and sank into his wheeled conveyance with a grunt. “I’d rather discuss it, don’t you know, at Carleton House. You’ll travel up with me in a few days, eh?”
Chill dismay touched Damien’s heart. “Actually, I am leaving tomorrow with the princess for Nvengaria.”
The Regent looked uninterested. “All you do is dash about, Damien. Hither and yon, up and down. ’Twill make you unpopular.”
“I have an appointment,” Damien said tightly. “On Midsummer’s Day.”
The Regent waved that away. “Oodles of time, my boy. You are quite famous and you’ve just gotten married, and I want you at Carleton House first, before you go off wooing the crowned heads with your beautiful bride. You’re mine, Damien.” Steel entered the watery blue eyes that turned toward him.
“Nvengaria is always grateful for the friendship of the English monarch,” Damien said, keeping his voice neutral.
“I am the English monarch,” the Regent snapped, then softened his tone. “Or will be very, very soon, and not before time. You need me, you know, or your pocket-sized kingdom will crumble into dust. Already you are beset by internal strife, are you not?”