Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(90)
“Is she Egan’s long-lost love?” Penelope asked as Damien led her out. She remembered Meagan pondering that Egan had a secret sorrow, a love unrequited. Anastasia was certainly beautiful enough for any number of men to fall in love with.
Damien shot her an amazed look. “What makes you think that?”
“Never mind. I thought perhaps the two of them—”
“Egan and Anastasia?” Damien seemed so astonished that Penelope realized she’d guessed wrong. He shook his head. “No, Anastasia Dimitri had one love in her life, and that was her husband.”
“Was?” Penelope asked, her curiosity rising. “What happened to him?”
Damien leaned close to her, his warm breath tickling her ear. “The count was killed in the Peninsular War at Vitoria. He fought in an Austrian regiment, whose commander more or less abandoned his soldiers on an outcropping far from the town. They were pinned down by the French, and not one of them survived.”
Penelope looked up at him in shock. “Good heavens.”
“It was a terrible thing. I can say no more at present.”
Penelope wondered what more there could be to such an awful a story, but they were now surrounded by glittering couples heading to begin the dance, all of whom eagerly watched the prince and princess. Nothing private could be said here.
The brief conversation was the last Penelope had with Damien alone for the rest of the night. He led her to the lead square of the minuet, the place of honor. Every guest in the ballroom’s crush applauded when they appeared. Damien kissed Penelope’s hand before he released her to take his position, which engendered more applause.
The minuet began; the music tripping, lively strains from Mozart. The four in the square—Penelope, Damien, and a high-placed diplomat from Berlin and his wife—bowed and curtsied to one another before beginning. The dance involved precise steps, the gentlemen moving to each lady in turn, stepping around each other back to back, all four catching hands and gliding in a circle, and other moves Penelope had rehearsed until her feet ached.
Penelope had only seen Damien dance at the betrothal ceremony, and then they’d merely moved in a circle. Damien went through the fluttering steps of the minuet with exquisite grace and precision, his body moving in fluid time with the music. No hopping and bobbing, as Egan called it. Though the dance had been created for people in very heavy, restricting clothing, Damien had a lightness that made the dance look both masculine and great fun. Penelope glimpsed other ladies in the room turn heads to watch him, eyes sliding to Penelope in envy.
She caught sight of Egan in another square. He bounced up and down, exaggerating the steps, letting his kilt flap like a wild flag. But she saw that he too moved with smooth agility, as much as he pretended not to.
“Egan plays the clown,” Damien said to her as they drew close.
Penelope wanted to lean to Damien, needing him with a strength that alarmed her. His medals clinked softly as he bowed and straightened. His gaze caught hers, the spark in his eyes telling her he sensed and shared her longing.
“He distracts people,” Penelope said softly in return.
Damien gave her a nod. “He makes others forget what they wish to pay attention to.”
The dance drew Damien from her before he could elaborate on the cryptic statement. Penelope smiled at the second gentleman, the staid diplomat, chosen because no scandal touched him and his wife, as the dance took her to him.
When she and Damien at last drew together again, her need swamped her. Penelope gazed hungrily into Damien’s heart-stopping blue eyes.
“Damien,” she whispered.
Damien’s hand tightened on hers. “I know.”
The pressure of his fingers told her. He desired her, had for all the tedious time they’d spent in the Prince Regent’s overly elaborate palace.
Penelope had a sudden vision of him closing his fingers hard over her wrist and dragging her through the crowd, out the ballroom doors, and up the staircase to his high-ceilinged chamber and his huge curtained bed. She wanted it so much it put a sharp taste in her mouth.
His fingers slipped from hers, and he shook his head once, ever so slightly.
Disappointment cut her, but of course they could do nothing so shocking. They’d be talked of for years, Damien’s behavior perhaps jeopardizing the agreements he was making with the British government. Penelope curtsied and stepped back to her place, keeping her expression neutral.
This is what it is to be a princess, she realized. Not spun-sugar castles and happily ever after, but endless ceremony and parading before others while the heart longed only to be with the beloved.
Penelope squared her shoulders. She could do this—she was made of stern stuff. She’d gone into this marriage knowing she did it to save Damien, to fulfill his quest so his people would rally to him. She loved him enough to want to save his life.
No matter that inside, she was a drooling pool of lust. Penelope hadn’t shared a bed with Damien or even kissed him in near a week.
Would this be their life from now on? Coming together once a fortnight for hastened greetings before being whisked off to other duties?
Penelope determined there and then to not let that happen. Saving Nvengaria was important, but once his rule was secure, Penelope would insist on having a true marriage. Certainly they could be prince and princess during the day, but at night, when the servants were gone and the candles doused, they would be man and wife, in all ways.