Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(92)
Egan said the words in a hard voice, as though the incident was something he’d resolved to put aside. Penelope knew better. This Zarabeth’s marriage had been a blow, and Penelope’s heart ached for him. “I’m so sorry, Egan.”
Egan pointed a thick finger at her. “Don’t you dare tell a soul. I don’t want to read stories in the newspaper about the Mad Highlander and his broken heart.”
Penelope blinked. “I’d never betray a confidence.”
The finger wavered. “Sorry, Princess, I didn’t mean to doubt you. I’m just …” He put his hand to his head. “That will teach me to drink champagne. Damn bubbly froth with no body. Nvengarian whiskey, now that stuff will give you balls of brass.”
Penelope laughed. Egan flushed as though he’d forgotten to whom he was speaking. “Ignore my manners. I’m only the Mad Highlander.”
Penelope opened her mouth to tell him she liked him the way he was but she caught sight of Damien walking swiftly through the open and deserted hall below. Lady Anastasia was by his side, her arm locked through his, the train of her skirt a silken ripple on the marble.
Penelope rose to her feet, ready to go down to them. At that moment, Damien turned and pressed Anastasia against the wall, putting his body over hers.
Chapter 26
Penelope could hear nothing over the rushing in her ears. She could see only her husband leaning close to Lady Anastasia, resting his weight on his arm above her head, her white hands pressing back into the marble wall.
Two lackeys in the Regent’s livery clattered past the couple below, thankfully not glancing up to observe Penelope, rigid and open-mouthed on the stairs. The lackeys skirted Damien and Anastasia, pretending not to notice them, and hurried through another door on whatever errand they pursued.
Damien took a step back from Anastasia, but she remained against the wall, gazing up at him with deeply blue eyes in her sculpted face.
Penelope became aware of Egan’s fingers gripping her elbow, his voice in her ear devoid of its Scots accent and champagne-drenched slur. “It’s not what it appears, lass.”
Penelope’s cold hands closed on her skirts. Her throat felt tight, her legs weak. “What is it then?” she whispered stiffly.
“Damien will have to tell you that. An open stairwell is no place for it.”
Egan’s strong grip forced her to turn away, and he steered her up the stairs ahead of him. As Penelope woodenly climbed the steps, she glanced down at Damien, who’d leaned to Anastasia again.
The enraged part of her wanted to race down the stairs, yank Damien away, and tell the fair Anastasia to stay away from her husband.
Like a fishwife, she thought. Perhaps I’d strike her, maybe rake my claws across her face.
Then Penelope would die of mortification. A lady never twitted her husband about his affairs. She looked the other way and pretended his mistresses did not exist—that was the only way husband and wife could live in harmony.
Gentlemen took lovers. It was the way of things. Penelope’s father never had because he’d had no use for women at all, including his own wife. But Penelope knew good and well that most gentlemen of the ton brought their wives home to one house and tucked their ladybirds into another.
Penelope turned away, hoping Egan was right about the tableau not being what it seemed, and then hoped she was not being too dreadfully na?ve.
* * *
Damien shed his tight coat like an unwanted burden, and Petri caught it in his waiting hands. “Thank God that pantomime is over,” Damien said.
He’d become used to being an object of fascination in royal courts, but tonight he’d been fawned over and followed, teased and bantered with like never before. The elusive, charming bachelor Prince Damien had caught himself a beautiful bride.
“You ought to have seen her, Petri,” Damien continued as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. “My wife makes an astonishing princess. She knows how to speak to people, how to be charming and pretty, and yet not so pretty and charming that people grow envious and resentful. They like her.”
Petri gave him a grin as he folded away Damien’s sash of office. “I’m sure she was a paragon, sir.”
“This role was thrust upon her before she had time to prepare, and she rose to the occasion. I’d assumed we’d go straight to Nvengaria, where she’d have training and polishing before we ventured to entertain crowned heads. She is amazing.”
“A true princess, sir.”
“Cease your laughter, Petri,” Damien growled as he pulled open his silk waistcoat. “A man can be proud of his wife and still be a man.”
“Perhaps you should tell her this yourself, sir.”
Damien shot Petri a glance as he took the waistcoat. “I intend to, Petri. And so much more than that.”
Petri chuckled. “I like you being in love, sir. It makes you … exuberant.”
“It maddens me.” Damien loosened the knot of his cravat. “I want to snatch her away and spend a week in bed with her, but instead I’m forced to woo the Regent and fight Alexander. All I want is to have her with me between the sheets, with you occasionally pushing food under the door when we get hungry.”
“Happy to oblige, sir.”
Damien unwound his neckcloth, relieved to rid himself of the strangling folds. At the same time, someone tapped on the door, and Petri moved to answer it.