Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(88)

“There are many beautiful women about, aren’t there?” Penelope asked glumly.

Egan lifted his brows. “Now, then, Miss Princess, none of that. Damien has eyes only for you. I’ve never seen him look at a woman the way he looks at you. Like he wants to eat you up.”

Penelope felt herself blush. “But this is their world. The ladies here know all the rules. I will blunder and never realize it. I am the country girl who caught the prince’s eye, and they wait eagerly for him to tire of me and turn his attention elsewhere.”

“Which he’ll never do.” Egan pressed her hand. “I know Damien. He’s loyal and true when he believes in someone, and he believes in you.”

“And that plunges me into abject terror,” Penelope said. “What if I disappoint him? What if I cannot be the princess he needs me to be?”

“Me dear, you need some Egan MacDonald wisdom.” He gave her a serious look, but his eyes held a glint of humor. “You say they know all the rules and you don’t. Well then—you make up your own rules. If they want a charming country lass, be a charming country lass to your utmost—don’t try to be one of them. When they look at me, they see the Mad Highlander, so the Mad Highlander I become. I can do and say what I like, and no one says the worse of me, because I’m the Mad Highlander. Do you see?”

“It’s a bit easier for you,” Penelope pointed out, though he did make her feel a bit better. “You are a war hero.”

“And you are the Imperial Princess of Nvengaria,” Egan replied. “They’ve never met a Nvengarian Imperial Princess, so you can be an Imperial Princess any way you like. They believe everyone from Nvengaria is half mad anyway, which is true.”

Penelope lifted her brows. “You are saying I should be eccentric?”

“With you, lass, you be just as you are, and you’ll wrap these posh ladies and gents around your little finger, just like you’ve done me and all the Nvengarians.”

Penelope squeezed his arm and gave him a grateful smile. “You are very flattering, Mr. MacDonald.”

“I am only truthful. Come on then, let’s join the queue. Think of it this way—the Regent spent a fortune on this knees-up so the food and drink should be palatable.”

Penelope laughed, knowing Egan was trying to make her feel better, and appreciative of it. She let him lead her through wide halls to the crowd gathered at the ballroom doors.

When it was their turn to enter, the majordomo straightened to his full height and bellowed: “Captain Egan MacDonald and her Imperial Highness, Princess Penelope of Nvengaria!”

All faces turned toward them as Egan led Penelope in. She felt every gaze in the ballroom rivet to her—all curious, some hostile, most excited.

But Penelope’s eyes were only for Damien. Her husband turned away from the knot of men he’d been speaking to and fixed his blue-eyed stare on Penelope.

Damien looked every inch a Nvengarian this night, in a severe military-style suit with rows of medals dangling from his chest, his gold sash of office a bright slash from shoulder to waist.

Gone was the casual man who’d ridden across Holden’s Meadow with her weeks ago and kissed her in the tall grass. Gone was the man who’d tossed off his clothes and slid into the river to suckle her toes. In his place was the Imperial Prince, his stance straight, his face severe. Only his blue eyes glittered as he took her in, his bride, his princess.

Penelope lifted her chin, knowing that diamonds sparkled in her hair and that her gown was a masterwork. The lines about Damien’s mouth softened, the corners tilting upward.

The guests began to crush forward, each wanting the privilege of being the first to greet the new princess.

“Ah, MacDonald,” said a gentleman lucky enough to be at the forefront. “Introduce me, there’s a good chap.”

He held out a pudgy, be-ringed hand to Penelope, bowing over her fingers and taking in every inch of her with a critical eye. He was an earl, the men directly behind him, a baron and a general. Their wives nearly shoved themselves across the ballroom to take advantage of their husbands’ “in,” and Penelope faced their smiling, eager faces with a demure smile of her own.

When Egan at last led her away, Penelope’s knees were shaking and her face felt stretched and sore. Egan murmured, “Nicely done.”

“Thank you. May I retire to the privy, now?”

Egan chuckled. “No, lass, you’re doing fine.”

He led her in Damien’s general direction, but so many people thrust themselves in front of them, all demanding introduction that it took the better part of an hour to get through them all. Not only did Penelope have to greet them, she also had to spend a few moments conversing on all sorts of subjects—the haut ton wanted her opinion on everything from the latest fashion in riding boots to the King of France’s restoration.

Penelope, who had never been asked her opinion on anything before, answered the best she could and hoped she did not sound like a fool.

“You come from Oxfordshire,” one gentleman who smelled of port remarked. “What effect do you think enclosure has had there?”

“What think you of the idea of steam engines, Your Highness?” another asked. “Is it the fantasy of a madman, or the future of England?”

“Do they have plays in Nvengaria? Like our Sheridan and Shakespeare?”