Penelope & Prince Charming (23 page)

He could not resist. He flipped her over, earning another squeal, and slapped her backside gently once, twice, three times.

She shrieked and put her hands over her pink buttocks. “Why did you do that?”

“For disobedience, my naughty wife.” He was so hard he knew he’d burst if he didn’t make love to her immediately. He lowered himself to her and whispered into her ear, “Would you like me to do it again?”

She gulped, peering up at him from a very red face. “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

He chuckled at the same time he wanted to groan. He was dying for her.

He got back to his knees and spanked her lightly five times more, until she was squirming and squealing, then he rolled her over, opened her legs, and took her again.

When Damien awoke, the room was pitch dark. Summer night air wafted through the open window, but it did little to cool the room still warm from the steaming bath. He and Penelope lay in a nest of towels to which they’d returned for more lovemaking after at last getting themselves through the ritual.

His hand tightened where it lay across Penelope’s abdomen, but she did not wake. He recalled how she’d reached to rub the dripping sponge over his shoulders, stretching her arms overhead, her soft breasts brushing his chest as she murmured the words, “With this water, I cleanse you of past deeds, so that you may come clean to our marriage.”

The English translation did not have the same weight as the Nvengarian words, but Sasha had made the words palatable for an English miss to say. He’d repeated the line in his native language as he’d slowly drawn the sponge across her shoulders and down her back. “With this washing, I clean you of any foulness of your past, making you spotless and shameless for my touch.” Definitely not the same thing, but he hadn’t wanted to shock Penelope.

Not that she’d been very shocked when he’d had his way with her after their bath the first time. She’d become loose and pliable, even begging for him. Her blushes when she’d snuggled into his arms and asked why she’d liked the spanking made him laugh.

They’d shared the thick, overly sweet wine, pouring each other’s glass, then switching glasses several more times in a bizarre twist of the ritual that had them laughing.

“It is because the husband and wife might try to poison one another,” Damien had explained. “What better way to assassinate but to send a beautiful daughter to wed a man, complete with vial of poison to pour into the wine during the betrothal rituals?”

Penelope blanched. “How awful.”

“Times have not much changed, unfortunately.”

“But you will put that all right.”

“You have great faith in me,” he remarked.

“You will.” She gave him a look of confidence that dissolved into a smile. “I promise I have not put anything into your wine.”

He gave her a wink. “Perhaps I have put an aphrodisiac in yours.”

“I do not believe we need one,” she said.

Her shy look, coupled with the brazen smile hovering about her mouth, had snapped his control a second time. He’d scooped her up, sending one of the goblets to fountain bloodred wine into the bath, carried her back to the towels and commenced another furious bout of lovemaking.

They’d taken each other to screaming climax, then drifted back down into soft, welcoming sleep, the towels draped across still-wet limbs. The candles around the bath had guttered and died, sending darkness over the room.

It took a few moments after Damien awoke again for him to realize he lay in complete darkness. The scent of Penelope filled his senses, and her firm back and buttocks nestled against his chest, his knee between her slender legs. The top of her head snuggled against his chin, her hair tickling his nose.

So this is contentment,
he thought. He took a moment to
explore the unfamiliar feeling. His limbs were relaxed and limp, his mind at rest. He was not tired, yet not alert and watchful as he usually was when awake. He usually existed in two states: numbing sleep, which he only allowed himself while being guarded; and sharply awake, focused on the world around him.

He’d never lain in this quietness, happy to be exactly where he was and not wanting to be anywhere else.

It was dark, even oppressively so, because clouds obscured the moon and stars. And he did not care.

He smiled in the darkness, for the first time in his life welcoming it as a friend. It did not press him like a smothering blanket, as it had always done; it lay on him lightly, soft and kind.

He waited for the terror, for the vivid recollection of the dungeon below his father’s castle, where he lay in a stupor, barely able to breathe, heavy irons weighing his wrists. He’d screamed for someone to let him out for God’s sake, then lay in silent fear when no one came.

As a healthy boy, he’d soon become hungry, but he’d received no food until he’d been in the hole six days. By then, he’d been ravenous enough to simply grab the bread they tossed inside and stuff it into his mouth in gulps, like a starving dog.

Next time, he’d vowed to himself, he’d be too proud to accept it. He’d wait until they came in to try to force it on him, then he’d spring up, batter the guards, and make his escape. But his father knew all about torture. That bread was the last he got for another six days, and by that time, he was too weak to do more but cram it into his mouth again.

He’d been a child, too frightened at this change in his life to reason it out. He had simply existed down in that dungeon, careful not to soil the part of the cell where he lay to sleep, and eventually learning to make himself eat slowly so that his hunger would not return too soon.

He’d begged to be allowed to see his father, convinced that it had all been a mistake and that his father’s enemies had shoved him down here. Eventually one of the guards had told him the truth, that his father had executed the men who’d wanted to raise Damien to the throne, and he would hold Damien in the dungeon until the world forgot all about him.

Damien lay next to Penelope now, memories drifting over him, but no longer shredding him.

He stroked the soft skin of her belly, wondering if their passion tonight had made her conceive. He hoped so. He’d like a little prince—or princess—to make him whole, to have a family bound by love, not wrenched apart with hatred.

The darkness soothed him, the soft breeze told him his thoughts were right. He kissed Penelope’s hair again, letting himself enjoy this newfound contentment, until eventually he drifted to sleep.

Michael Tavistock settled into a chair in his bedchamber and idly opened the book Penelope had handed him the day before.

He froze when he saw, on the first page, the careless scrawl of Lady Trask, her handwriting as carefree as herself, with elongated vertical loops and fat, round o’s. Simone’s journal.

He quickly shut it before his eye could make sense of the words. He had no business reading her private thoughts, even if she, like many journal writers, wrote deliberately for posterity. She’d not given permission for him to read it, and he was certain that Penelope had not asked.

Read the passages I have marked,
Penelope had said.
Read them before you decide to go.

Three bookmarks made of jade satin ribbon marked
three separate instances in the book. Deciding to humor Penelope, he put his blunt finger on the first of the bookmarks and opened to the page.

The most marvelous thing happened at Lady Marchmain’s garden party today. Mr. Tavistock, the father of Penelope’s charming little friend Meagan, showed great kindness to me. He escorted me about and brought me lemonade, and kept that horrible Lord Sweton away from me. The man is odious and fancies that I fancy him, ugh. In any case, Mr. Tavistock was a delight to talk to, because he would explain what he meant when I did not understand, and when I said something stupid as usual, he would gloss over it and make me feel better. What
splendid
manners the man has!

To be honest, it was not simply his
manner
that caught my notice. I have always thought Mr. Tavistock handsome, and being able to observe him closely at the garden party only firmed my opinion. His body is
quite
muscled, and I took any excuse to lay my hand on his arm; my heavens, the man is strong.

What I would like to observe is whether he is well-muscled all over, as I suspect him to be. He is fortyfive, but where other men have let themselves grow portly, his stomach is flat as can be and his buttocks, firm and tight as I have ever seen.

Alas that I am a widow with a grown daughter. I can never hope to entice such a gentleman to remove his clothing for me so that I might study his musculature. Perhaps I could offer to do a watercolor of him next time I see him, for Meagan of course. This will enable me to study him quite closely, even with his clothes still on him.

The entry ended. His skin heating a little, Michael flipped to the next marked page.

Is it possible for a woman of my age to fall in love? My darling Michael—Mr. Tavistock—came for a visit, bringing Meagan to see Penelope. I am fond of Meagan, who cheers Penelope up to no end. It lightens my heart to hear them laugh.

Mr. Tavistock and I walked in the garden after supper, while the girls giggled over something at the piano, and in the shadows of the house, Michael kissed me. I believe that I have never felt so alive until that moment; my entire body positively
hummed.
He did not say outright that he wanted to go to bed with me, but a woman
knows
by the way a man touches—so
possessive
—and the gentle but intimate way he kisses.

I did not answer his silent question, but when Penelope and Meagan retired to bed, still giggling—I wonder
what
girls find so amusing these days—I opened my bedchamber door and simply waited to see if he’d come. He did so, quietly, slipping down the hall and into my room. Before I could feel shy or awkward, he closed the door and kissed me, and then—

Well, my pen hesitates to describe every detail, but needless to say, I did discover that he is indeed quite well-muscled all over his body, and his buttocks are lovely and firm and well formed. Other bits of him are also well formed if one can write such things without blush.

In the morning, I thought he would pretend it had never happened—men enjoy casual encounters, leaving poor women to break their hearts—but to my joy he smiled at me and let me know by word and deed that he thought tenderly of me and enjoyed our little secret. I cannot write the joy I feel, it buoys my entire
body until I think I am seventeen again. Good gracious, how I love him!

He walked with me into the breakfast room, where our daughters waited,
still
giggling, the silly girls. Then Michael began to blush, and I realized they were giggling over
us.
I thought to scold or be haughty, but alas, I thought of how Michael had rather
groaned
for me the night before, and I fell into a fit of giggles, too. Michael laughed, never minding, bless the man.

Michael smiled at the memory of leading Simone in to breakfast the morning after they’d become lovers, believing they’d been so clever and discreet. And there his daughter had sat, laughing at the absurdity of her elders, her eyes moist. Penelope had tried to shush her, not very successfully hiding her own mirth.

Michael turned to the last entry Penelope had marked for him, which was dated two days before Damien and his Nvengarians arrived.

I love him, I love him
desperately.
I never thought I’d come to such a pass, losing my heart so! But Michael is kind, bless him, never minding my featherheadedness, always knowing what to say or do when I blunder. He’s said he loved me, and oh, what exquisite bliss to be loved by such a man!

He has spoken of marriage, but hesitates because he does not want to ruin Penelope’s chances. A baronet’s widow, you see, is a bit higher than a plain Mrs. Tavistock, even though my wretched husband left me next to nothing on which to exist. But Michael feels his status might impede things; sweet man, he is so humble.

I do believe my daughter longs to be a spinster,
which I try to explain is foolish, because no matter how miserable the marriage, the world takes much kinder to a married lady than it ever will to an unmarried miss.

But what would marriage be to Michael? Not a misery but unending joy, I think, every day a wonder. We are lovers now, but how exquisite to be with him as a wife! I could mend his shirts, even though I’m not much good at it, and kiss him when I came in for breakfast. I could wake up every morning by his side, and stretch out beside him every night, and not be miserable at all. Oh, for such a state!

It is already a joy to be his friend and lover, and I blush to think how shamelessly I touch his body. His—what shall I call it? Perhaps
rod
will do—in any case, it is the longest thing I’ve ever seen, and to have it hover near me sends me into transports of joy before he even touches me.

And when he does touch me…

Michael stopped reading. He shut the book and remained seated, pressing his thumbs into his forehead as he lost himself in thought.

Not long after, Lady Trask opened her bedroom door, a bit waspishly, assuming her very trying butler, Mathers, had come to complain again about the Nvengarians.

Her mouth popped open when she beheld Michael, coatless, his shirt unlaced, his hair hanging across his forehead in the fetching way it did. She stilled, her heart pounding.

“Michael,” she said.

He held up a worn book that looked like her journal. Panic filled her when she realized that, oh dear, it
was
her journal.

She snatched it. “Good lord, whatever are you doing with that?”

“Penelope lent it to me.”

“Penelope?” she gasped, not quite understanding. “Wretched girl, what on earth did she do that for?”

“Simone.” His voice held warmth and a hint of amusement. He gently guided her into the room and followed her there. Hope bloomed in her heart.

“Michael?”

He smiled, his sweet brown eyes dancing with mirth. “Simone, you wrote about my
rod?”