Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(86)
Damien accepted the glass of brandy that the very interested footman handed him, and regarded the prince coolly. “Who has told you this?”
“Common knowledge. Common knowledge.” The prince drank his brandy, evading the question. “Your father tore Nvengaria apart and you will need more than a little princess to put it back together.” The Regent tried to look wise, but his face had always been rather round and foolish, and the expression failed.
“What precisely are you offering me?” Damien asked, trying to keep his temper in check.
“Not here.” The Regent looked about hastily, as though fearing all would be repeated—and likely it would. “At Carleton House. Where we may talk freely with all my advisors.” He beamed. “I will host several grand balls to celebrate your marriage. People will talk of the occasion for years to come.”
Damien believed he understood what this conversation was all about. The prince’s advisors had told the Regent to get Damien to London at all cost so the British government could make plenty of binding treaties with Nvengaria before he disappeared.
The Regent was correct about one thing: Nvengaria was weak and divided, with Russia nibbling on one end and Austria nibbling on the other—the Ottoman Empire waiting like a vulture to pounce on the carcass when they were finished.
An alliance with England might keep the other powers at bay, but Damien had observed that the British often “helped,” by walking into a country and taking over, even if they claimed the annexation was only temporarily. Damien wanted to be no pawn of the Prince Regent and his cabinet.
He would have to walk a delicate balance in these negotiations, he knew, and be every inch Prince Charming, or he might defeat Alexander only to lose his country to the vacuous Prince Regent.
Inwardly, Damien rolled his eyes. Outwardly, he smiled and said, in the thickest accent he could muster, “But of course. My bride will have pleasure at your gatherings. We look forward to this very much.”
Chapter 24
Five days later, Penelope descended a wide flight of sweeping marble stairs on her way to the public rooms of Carleton House in the heart of London, dressed in the finest ball gown she’d ever worn.
Her transformation from plain Penelope Trask to Princess of Nvengaria had happened with astonishing rapidity. The dressmakers summoned to Little Marching in the short time before they’d departed had already given her a fine wardrobe for traveling with Damien, but the three modistes and their flurry of assistants that had flocked to Carleton House upon Penelope’s arrival alarmed her.
They’d sewed round the clock. The modistes, at first painfully polite to each other, fell to screaming obscenities like fishwives by day two, while their assistants bowed their heads and sewed like mad.
The results of this temperamental trio had been incredible. Penelope’s gown for this occasion was one of shimmering rust-colored satin decorated with darker rust braid, with bronze-colored lace at the hem. The décolletage skimmed her shoulders and bared more of her bosom than she cared to, but Madame Gautier, who had created the gown, had assured her, “Zis is ze best for you—you’re shoulders zo lovely, your breasts zo creamy white. You will draw attention of every gentleman in the room.”
Penelope knew that Madame was not truly French—when screeching at her rival modistes she’d lapsed into an almost unintelligible dialect of Manchester.
Penelope was not certain she wanted the attention of every gentleman, or lady, in the room, but she knew it would be inevitable, no matter what she wore. She had arrived in London in an opulent coach, traveling the distance from Little Marching with her maid, Hilliard, an Oxfordshire woman who’d never been to Town before, and Wulf, who’d promptly curled up on the seat and fallen asleep.
Damien had ridden his beautiful black horse ahead of the carriage, Egan MacDonald on horseback next to him. A smaller coach with Damien’s and Penelope’s bags, Petri, and several guards, followed.
Both the Regent and Sasha had wished for Penelope and Damien to enter London in a landau, the top pulled back so that they could wave at admiring crowds the Regent assured them would gather. Damien and Petri had negated this at once—too much risk. The matter was settled by the rain that had begun to pelt in earnest at Maidenhead and showed no signs of slacking as they rolled into the metropolis.
Meagan and Lady Trask had wept copiously at Penelope’s departure. Michael had hugged her and said, “Be well, my dear, and thank you.” Before the coach had pulled away, Penelope saw Michael slide his arm around Lady Trask’s waist and hold her close. That, at least, had gone well.
When the carriage at last turned from Pall Mall to the courtyard that led to Carleton House, the opulent residence of the Prince Regent, her heart had sunk. This was Penelope’s first foray into Damien’s world of princes and kings, palaces and royal estates. Her mouth was dry and her fingers frozen.
It was one thing to promise to be Damien’s bride and his princess while safe in her father’s house in Little Marching. Now she truly had to be a princess, and she hadn’t the remotest idea how to go about it.
I will be fine, she tried to reassure herself. Sasha will help me. He must have memorized every protocol in the world.
But Sasha too, was used to the royal way of life. To Damien, Sasha, and Petri, Penelope’s corner of Little Marching had been the odd place— Carleton House and St. James’s Palace common and everyday. The inhabitants would know Penelope for a country girl, and she’d embarrass herself and Damien.