Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(91)
Penelope sent Damien a determined glance. He caught it and gave her a faint lift of brows in return.
The dance ended. Penelope curtsied to the gentleman from Berlin and his lady and expressed her thanks in German, what little she knew of it. The husband and wife, both white-haired and looking vastly experienced with the diplomatic life, smiled and pronounced her charming.
Damien locked his hand about Penelope’s elbow as he led her away, his fingers strong and warm inside his gloves. She was very aware of his powerful body close to hers, his heat against her side. He leaned down, his breath warming her. “Not long, love.”
Penelope looked quickly at him, hoping to catch the desire in his eyes, but some other diplomat was already sidling to them. Damien pasted a neutral smile on his lips and turned away to greet him.
* * *
Penelope did not dance with Damien the rest of the night. She became separated from him quickly, though she was never alone.
The Regent himself claimed her attention and introduced her to ambassadors and diplomats, dukes and generals, and other fine people at his ball. He showed her off like a proud papa and started putting out the story that he’d been instrumental in Penelope and Prince Charming coming together. Penelope gave up trying to explain and simply nodded and smiled.
She danced with dukes and foreign counts, ambassadors and emissaries. Each of her partners passed her to the next in a smooth exchange, and she was led into the supper room by a man called the Duke of St. Clair, who was young, handsome, and charming in his own way. He did something high-placed in the Admiralty, she gathered.
She caught sight of Damien escorting a middle-aged duchess to a place somewhere down the long table, turning to charm her.
Penelope could always tell when Damien slid into the role of Prince Charming. His smile became mysterious, his movements more un-English, as though he struggled with the customs of this country and was making the best of it. His accent would become more pronounced as well, and he’d shrug apologetically for his blunders while the woman he enthralled melted under his serene blue gaze.
Penelope sent him an ironic glance when he caught her eyes on him. He used her attention to point her out to the duchess, smiling an almost bashful smile that caused the duchess to tap him with her fan and give him a knowing look.
Penelope restrained herself from rolling her eyes and Damien sent her a surreptitious wink.
After supper, the dancing began again and became interminable. Penelope lost track of the people she’d met and their names and faces, and of course, they all expected her to remember them. Egan, thank heavens, saved her more than once, rudely claiming a dance with her, rushing her to the floor like a jealous suitor.
When she tried to thank him for the reprieve, Egan merely bowed and said, “At your service, my princess.”
It was Egan who led Penelope out of the ballroom at the last, when the crowd began to grow restless. Egan explained that the other guests would stay until the last trump unless she left first.
Penelope then had to move around the entire ballroom and say her good-nights. She did not spy Damien and wondered where he was, but no one else seemed to miss him.
Her feet aching, her face numb from smiling, Penelope let Egan take her out the doors, up the stairs, and into the private halls and stairways of the palace.
When they reached a deserted staircase, a silent sweep of marble that led to the bedchambers above, Penelope collapsed to a step with a heartfelt sigh. “Is it over?”
Egan laughed as he plopped to the step next to her and leaned back on his elbows. He stretched out his legs, his kilt spilling over hard thighs, thick plaid socks on his calves. “Must have drunk a vat of champagne tonight. M’ head’s spinning round and round. What are those women doing up there?”
Penelope craned her head to look at the ample goddesses parading across the ceiling far above them. Most were of exaggerated plumpness, quite naked, and looked a bit silly.
She turned to make a quip about them to Egan and was startled to see his cheeks wet. Penelope sat up. “I say, are you all right?”
“Aye,” Egan said, not moving. “I was remembering looking at paintings like these with a lass once, and what she said about them. She has a sharp wit but not a mean one. I fell in love with her that day, I think.”
His eyes held vast sadness. Penelope touched his shoulder. “And you lost her?” she asked.
Egan stared at her blankly then blinked as though he’d not meant to say the words out loud. He made a dismissing gesture. “Don’t listen to me, Princess. I’m bloody droonk.”
“Do not play the Scots savage with me, Egan MacDonald,” Penelope said severely. “Tell me about this lady.”
Egan’s face screwed up. “‘Tis nothing, I promise. She married another. I’m man enough to get over it.”
Penelope gave him a skeptical look. He was so mournful she knew good and well he’d never simply forget this lady. She pinned him with a stern gaze until Egan scrubbed his face with a callused hand and let out a long sigh.
“All right, she was a wee lass called Zarabeth,” Egan said. “She saved my life, and I fell in love with her. And if I weren’t so bloody stupid, I’d have snatched her up instead of wandering the world drowning myself in malt whiskey. She made me promise to give it up. I didn’t. We quarreled. I left. That was years ago, and now she’s married to a duke. End of story.”