Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(87)
No, she was panicking. Damien would help her; he’d said so. As would Egan—he’d ridden lazily from Oxfordshire in a worn coat and old kilt. Nothing hoity-toity about him.
“They like the antics of the Mad Highlander at Carleton House,” he’d said, winking at Penelope as he slowed his mount alongside her carriage. “They’ll likely ask me to toss the caber in the ballroom or play the pipes, or maybe dance a Scots reel. What they don’t know is I think tossing logs about is boring, the pipes give me a headache, and I can’t dance worth a damn.”
He’d made her laugh—no doubt his intention.
As they rolled through the gates that separated Carleton House from the rest of London, Penelope’s maid Hilliard had given a groan of despair as she’d taken in the huge residence. “I should have stayed at home, madam, like me dad told me to. ‘No good comes of getting above yourself, girl,’ he said, and he’s right, most like.”
“Most like,” Penelope echoed faintly. She’d gazed at the spreading house and knew she’d gotten above herself with a vengeance.
* * *
The tale of Penelope’s marriage to Damien had drawn the attention of the world. Every newspaper Penelope had seen after her arrival at Carleton House had borne an account of how Damien had found an unspoiled English rose buried in the country in Oxfordshire, fallen on his knees, and begged her to marry him.
The writers, often proclaiming they had witnessed the events, described, in luxury of detail—entirely made up—the elaborate betrothal ceremony in Lady Trask’s ballroom and the wedding in the “rustic country chapel” of Little Marching. They went on for pages about Damien, Imperial Prince of Nvengaria, bringing out anecdotes of whatever endearing or outrageous things he’d done in his past.
Newspapers carried stories about Nvengaria itself, with drawings of its soaring mountains, deep river valleys, and castle-dotted slopes. Picturesque the journalists called it. Charming little fairy-tale kingdom, one wrote.
Penelope read every article she could find about Nvengaria, acknowledging that many details must be invented—so few Englishmen had actually traveled to Nvengaria— but she was curious. Sasha’s lessons tended to be political rather than about the people and the landscape, while the newspapers lavished attention on the country’s fashions, castles, city squares, palaces, forests, and craggy mountains.
A few did dwell on the political situation, speculating that Damien would find difficult opposition from Grand Duke Alexander and the Council of Dukes.
One article focused on Alexander himself, explaining at length how the Grand Duke’s father had been executed by the old Imperial Prince, and that Alexander’s wife, the Grand Duchess, had recently died of a wasting disease. Now Alexander was a grieving widower with a small son. A drawing of him, a fierce-looking man of Damien’s age with a handsome Nvengarian face and sharp eyes, peered out at Penelope from the newspaper’s pages.
Penelope studied the drawing, realizing that here was a man who would not simply bow down and let Damien walk over him. What would Alexander make of Penelope, the young Englishwoman who claimed to be the Imperial Princess of Nvengaria? She saw no sympathy in that gaze, only anger and determination.
Penelope had no chance to discuss these stories with Damien, because neither of them had a moment to spend alone together since their arrival in London. Damien had been pulled off almost immediately behind tall gilded doors to mysterious meetings, and Penelope had been poked and prodded by dressmakers and given hasty lessons about Nvengaria and its language by Sasha.
Not to mention she’d had to look after Wulf. The boy wanted to explore every cranny of the overly gaudy palace and saw no reason not to change into his demon form to climb to the lofty ceilings and examine the paintings on them.
“If we take him to Westminster Abbey,” Egan MacDonald suggested on one occasion when Penelope had to coax Wulf down, while the terrified staff looked on, “Mebbe he could be a gargoyle.”
Penelope thanked heaven for Egan’s presence every day. While Damien wooed ministers and ambassadors, Egan remained at Penelope’s side, escorting her through the palace and relieving tension when she was scrutinized by the Prince Regent’s many guests—which included the beautiful countess and baroness she’d overheard talking about Damien at the fête. Penelope was not certain she could have survived the first days without Egan.
Egan, on this night as Penelope hastened down the stairs in her rust-colored gown, met her on the wide landing, resplendent in crisp plaids, lawn shirt, and brushed black coat. He was to lead her to the ballroom and the first of the Regent’s planned extravaganzas.
“Dinnae look so disappointed to see me, lass,” Egan said, grinning. “You’ll hurt a man’s feelings.”
Penelope smiled, contrite. “I hoped Damien would be able to escort me tonight.” She rubbed her cold fingers together, absently turning the new diamond-studded ring that rested next to her silver Nvengarian one.
Damien had given her the diamond ring the day they’d reached London, having sent for it from a Bond Street jeweler. “The first of many such things I will give you,” Damien had said when he’d slid it onto Penelope’s finger. He’d kissed her with promise, his blue eyes dark, then disappeared to more meetings.
“He’s being pulled this way and that, poor lad,” Egan said as Penelope slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “Everyone wants a chat with the Imperial Prince, and he’s trying to work his way through them quickly so you can leave for Nvengaria in time for the Midsummer festival. The Regent, now, he doesn’t understand the rush.” Egan winked. “Why hurry away when you can linger over fine wine, lavish entertainment, and beautiful women?”