Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(89)

“What sort of flowers did you have when you married the prince?” one lady asked. “What did your dress look like? I saw a drawing in the newspaper, but it did not resemble you in the least.”

Penelope thanked heaven she’d listened for years to her mother make small talk about nothing. She was able to form replies that did not sound too insipid, and even had her own opinions about things such as enclosures and steam, thanks to Michael Tavistock, who’d discussed such things at the supper table.

By the time she and Egan made it through the crowd, Penelope was already exhausted and longing for the soft pillows on her bed.

Damien, when they reached him, was speaking to a tall woman in a simple but elegant ensemble of deep blue that offset her glossy brown hair. She was older than Penelope, possibly Damien’s own age of thirty, with a lovely face and chocolate brown eyes framed with lush black lashes. Her only adornment was a circlet of pearls on her perfect white throat. She made Penelope at once feel overdressed and over-glittering.

“Ah,” Egan said in a loud voice as the pair turned to him and Penelope. “The lovely Anastasia.” He made a deep bow with a flourish, his MacDonald kilt swaying.

“Do I behold Egan MacDonald?” the beautiful creature asked, her voice dusky and low with a hint of sultriness. “I last saw you chatting up ladies in Paris, drunk as a lord.”

“Or drunk as a laird,” Egan said cheerfully. “You are as beautiful as ever, my darling lass.”

“And you are as flattering as ever.” Anastasia’s gaze moved to Penelope, but the lady was silent—etiquette dictated she did not speak directly to Penelope until introduced.

Damien, whose dark blue gaze had landed and lingered on Penelope’s bare shoulders, said, “Penelope, may I present Lady Anastasia Dimitri, Countess of Nvengaria. Anastasia, my wife, Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Penelope.”

Anastasia curtsied, but the look she cast over Penelope was more thorough and careful than those of the other women in this room. Anastasia laid her hand familiarly on Damien’s arm.

“Oh, Damien,” she said in approval. “Yes, she’ll do.”





Chapter 25





Penelope’s heart thumped, taxing her already overtired nerves. “You are Nvengarian?” she made herself ask the elegant woman politely.

“Austrian,” Damien broke in. “Anastasia married a Nvengarian count.”

Lady Anastasia’s dark eyes flickered. “And I became more Nvengarian than the Nvengarians.” Her smile was strained. “If I may be so bold to say so, my dear, you will make a splendid princess.”

She did not remove her hand from Damien’s arm, and Damien did not appear to notice. Egan did, but said nothing. Anastasia continued to study Penelope, something behind her neutral expression Penelope could not read.

Penelope’s throat felt tight, and she struggled to keep the inane smile on her face. “Thank you, countess. You are too kind.”

“Anastasia is on our side,” Damien said to Penelope, keeping his voice quiet.

Anastasia sent him a sharp look. “That is not to say I do not believe Alexander’s reforms to be unnecessary. Some of them are not before time.”

“And I do not deny he is an intelligent man with excellent ideas,” Damien answered smoothly. “But his methods are to gut everything completely and start again, which is foolish.”

“If he could be put to use heading reforms, he would be a formidable ally,” Anastasia said.

“That is if he can take the time from attempting to murder me,” Damien responded in a light tone.

“True, but—”

It sounded as though the two of them had argued the point countless times. Many arguments, many conversations, when Damien had never before mentioned Anastasia to Penelope.

There is no reason I should be jealous, Penelope scolded herself.

And why ever not? asked the part of her that saw the world very clearly. Damien and Anastasia had obviously been friends, perhaps more than that. Had they been lovers? Were they still?

“Are ye to speak of wretched politics all night?” Egan said with his Mad Highlander exuberance. “The pair of ye would bore a tortoise. This is a ball. I say we join in.”

The musicians were warming up in the gallery, the large ballroom clearing so that dancing could commence.

Anastasia squeezed Damien’s arm. “They will love to see you lead your bride out for the minuet.”

“I intend to.” Damien’s eyes warmed, and he held out his gloved hand to Penelope. “My love?”

Penelope laid her hand on his strong one, trying to suppress the shiver at his touch. She’d not slept with him since their wedding night, and she yearned for him.

The other two must have noticed their attention on each other, because Egan chuckled and Anastasia’s smile grew wide.

Damien bent them a severe look. “Mind your own business. Egan, take the countess out.”

“The minuet is a bloody silly dance,” Egan said. “All that hopping and bobbing in place.”

Anastasia snaked her elegant hand around Egan’s arm. “Lead me out, Mr. MacDonald. You can do a Highland sword dance for all I care, but I need people seeing me enjoying myself in a frivolous fashion.”

Egan looked aggrieved. “Aye, it’s work, work, work for poor old Egan. Use him and discard him, he doesn’t care.” His grin fixed in place, he tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and strode smoothly to the forming squares.