Penelope & Prince Charming (6 page)

When he said it like that, she started to believe. She must be out of her mind. “What did Michael want to talk about?”

“Michael?”

“Mr. Tavistock. He sent Meagan and me out of the room so he could talk to you. It seems to have been a brief conversation.”

He kissed the side of her mouth, his breath scalding her
cheek. “Mr. Tavistock and Sasha are having a merry argument. They will be finished by the time we return.”

“Should you not have stayed and finished it yourself?”

He shrugged. “I have already told Sasha what to prepare. I was not fool enough to think you’d believe who I was when I sprang myself upon you. I have made many plans.”

She swallowed. “Do you always do exactly what you want?”

“No.” He brushed back the hair at her forehead. “I do what is best. Not what I want.”

“And you think it best I marry you?”

“Penelope.” He spoke like he savored her name. “The moment I realized you were the one I was to marry, I rejoiced. Not because I did not think your mother was worthy, but because I knew in my heart it was right.” He cupped her cheek. “Rejoice with me, Penelope.”

He kissed her. His broad fingers caressed her cheek, the silver ring cold against it, and his tongue flicked into her mouth, bringing sudden, hot spice.

She never thought she’d want a man to kiss her again. Not after Magnus. But he was Damien, and definitely not Magnus.

She dipped her own tongue inside his mouth. A strange sensation.

He smiled in response. She explored the taste of his lips, lightly licking them. She had no idea what she was doing, but she had the sudden urge to do so.

They played then, lips and tongues tangling. She held her hands balled in her lap, and he did not remove his from her cheek. Only their mouths met, seeking and exploring.

It grew hot. Or at least Penelope did. Fire pooled in her belly, her secret places damp and welcoming.

Damien made a noise in his throat. His fingers tightened.

If he laid her down, she’d let him. A light breeze touched her ankles, and she suddenly wanted to feel it the length of her legs. She wanted his warm hand behind her knee, spreading her thighs.

“I’ve never,” she gasped, “wanted such things before.”

He stroked his thumb over her cheekbone. “I am pleased that you want them.”

“I do not know why I said that. You cannot know what I am thinking.”

“I can know. I am thinking the same thing.”

She rested her hand against his cheek, mirroring how he touched her. “I must stop before I do something foolish.”

“Fall in love with me?” He kissed her swollen lips. “That is not foolish.”

“Please.”

She did not know whether she meant
please, stop
or
please, never stop.

He brought her fingers to his lips. “I’ll not push you, Penelope. I never will.” He licked the tip of her middle finger. “But I’ll kiss you while I’m waiting for you to make up your mind.”

Why did she want to smile when he smiled? Touch him when he touched her?

She remembered when she’d been eighteen, three years ago, and had fallen in love with Reuben. She’d not been able to eat for three days or sleep for seven. She’d lain awake with her heart beating fast and her stomach aflutter and a smile on her face.

Infatuation,
she’d realized later. Not love.

Now when Damien kissed her, she felt that longforgotten flutter leap up and remind her what a fool she could be.

She should dismiss him and his silly offers of marriage and go about her business. Lock herself in her room and finish the new collection of tales she had begun translating this spring. Never see him again.

Instead, she sat here letting him kiss her. She wanted to kiss him.

It was happening all over again. Only this time, it would be much worse.

His mouth was a smooth line, pale red-brown. Her gaze fixed to it, to the way the right corner moved upward first when he smiled. His chin was blue with unshaven whiskers. For some reason, she wanted to lick his skin, to feel if it would be like sandpaper to her tongue.

“I know Nvengarian fairy tales,” he was saying. “I will tell them to you.”

Her interest stirred, in spite of herself. “Will you?”

“Yes.” He gave her a wicked look. “While I lie next to you in our bed.”

The heady vision of him lounging languidly on her pillows, his eyes heavy with passion while he related stories in his velvet voice, made her dizzy.

“Now you are trying to woo me with fairy tales.”

“Why should I not?” He touched the tip of his tongue to her forefinger. “It is inevitable that we marry, Penelope. I say we do not fight it.”

“You would marry me because an old prophecy says you must?”

“I always do what I am told.”

She drew a shaking breath. “You do not. You do precisely as you please. You let everyone believe they are doing as they wish, but you direct everything without saying a word.”

“Perhaps.” He winked at her. “Do not tell on me.”

When he did that, she could not help smiling in response. Drat him.

He let her look into his eyes for a few seconds. Then his smile faded, and he fixed his gaze on her hand. “You see through me well, Penelope. But do not try to see too much. You will not like what you find.”

The glance he flashed at her was dark. It puzzled her.

She opened her mouth to ask more questions, but in that moment, Meagan appeared on the walk and called out to them.

“Are you finished kissing yet? I vow, I was hiding behind that tree for the longest time.”

Penelope’s face went hot. “Meagan, you ought to have announced yourself.”

“I did announce myself,” Meagan said as she stepped into the folly. “Just now. Did you say yes, Pen? You must have; you were certainly kissing him enough.”

Damien grinned, the bleak look vanishing. “I am trying to convince her.”

“You will,” Meagan said with confidence. She flopped to the floor of the folly, her skirt rucking up her slender legs. “My best friend in the whole world is marrying a prince. I shall swoon. Someone fan me.”

Damien obligingly waved his hand in front of Meagan’s face. She giggled.

“Get up, you ninny,” Penelope said, exasperated.

“A prince. Just fancy. Do they have many dukes in Nvengaria, Prince Damien? Could you make one marry me?”

“The dukes in Nvengaria are evil men,” Damien said. “I will find you someone ten times better.”

Meagan raised up on her elbows. “Ten times better than a duke? Oh, I’d like that.”

Damien spoke in a teasing voice, but Penelope sensed he was not joking. Again she caught a flash of darkness in his eyes before he hid it.

“You must marry him, Penny,” Meagan insisted, “so that I might have a man better than a duke. You would not deprive your soon-to-be stepsister, would you?”

Damien laced his fingers through Penelope’s. The gesture was intimate and started the fluttering again.

“You see?” he said. “Your friend is on my side.”

Penelope tried to look severe. “Her head is easily turned by handsome gentlemen.”

“In tight trousers,” Meagan finished.

“Ah,” Damien said to Meagan, “Penelope believes I am handsome. That is a step.”

“She likes kissing you, too,” Meagan pointed out. “Two things in your favor.”

Penelope jerked her hand from Damien’s. “Honestly, the pair of you.”

“Poor Penelope has been burned by love,” Meagan said. “Twice. You must show her that true love is worth waiting for, Prince Damien.”

“Excellently said,” Damien agreed.

Penelope scrambled to her feet. Damien and Meagan looked up at her, not very alarmed. “I have not said I would marry him. And I will thank you, Meagan, to not takes sides against me. You are my friend.”

Meagan remained, irritatingly, on the floor. “I know that. Friends do what’s best for each other. And marrying Damien is best for you.”

Penelope put her hands to her head, dazed. “He has cast a spell on you, too.”

Damien rose. While Meagan sat up and watched with interest, Damien slid his hands around Penelope’s waist. “I know this is troubling to you. I know I have frightened you. I, too, was hesitant—until I saw you. Then I knew that it was right.”

His hands were strong on her back, resting lightly, but supporting her. “You will have time to get used to the idea. There are many preparations to make, many rituals to perform. I would rather simply get on with it, but they must be done. Sasha will insist on it.”

Her mouth felt parched, and she barely heard his words. She heard only his voice, low and smooth. She saw only the blue of his eyes, felt only the warmth of his breath.

Meagan, untroubled by such things, chattered. “What sort of rituals?”

“All sorts,” Damien answered. “We must pass the ring to Penelope officially, and then there will be festivals and entertainments and balls. We will have rituals for the betrothal, and then we will have a ritual for our first mating.”

Penelope’s eyes widened. Meagan grinned hugely. “Mating?” she chirped. “Did you just say
mating?
”

Damien wanted to laugh at Meagan’s delight, but the way Penelope watched him kept him sober. Meagan leapt to her feet, gathered her skirts, and danced about in a small circle.

If only Penelope would join her in rejoicing. They should link hands, dance all three together. They would not have much more time for joy. They should partake of it now.

Penelope had gone rigid under his hands. She’d softened to him while he kissed her, he’d felt that. But that progress had come to a painful and sudden halt.

He decided to play the fool. Prince Damien was good at playing the fool.

“This is the right word, is it not?” He tried a confused smile. “Mating? I know you English must have mating. There are so many of you.”

“Oh, we know all about mating,” Meagan said happily.

“Meagan,” Penelope tried.

“You sound just like my papa. And you know that he and your mama know all about—”

“
Meagan.”

Meagan snorted. “Do not become such a prude, Penelope. You will be betrothed, and my father will marry your mother, and it will all be in the family. Families are wonderful things. Do you not think so, Damien?”

Damien, who had never had a real family, could not say. He’d had a father, of course—the previous Imperial Prince, a tyrant who’d imprisoned Damien and tried to kill him on several occasions. Damien could not within any stretch of imagination call that family.

“Yes,” he answered. “I would like to be in your family.”

He suddenly wanted it with all his might. Selfish, perhaps, but so be it. If he must do this he would drag as much pleasure as he could from it.

“You see?” Meagan spread her hands, looked guilelessly at Penelope.

Penelope’s bosom lifted against her gown. She was even more mussed now from his kissing, and even with Meagan nearby, that fact was making him rock hard. He wanted her alone, out here, where he could lay her down on one of these benches and muss her still more. He’d lay her back, unfasten her bodice one hook at a time, press it open, maybe with his tongue.

She firmly removed his hands from her waist. “We are not family.”

She looked like she wanted to say more, but her words faded. They stood so close, despite her retreat, that her breath touched his skin.

She had lovely eyes, deep green, flecked with gold. Her eyes went with her golden hair, like sunshine captured.

One of the rituals involved bathing in a deep bath. He could already feel her slick skin under his hands as he washed her, purifying her for their first coupling. He’d
slide fingers over her curves, finding the secret recesses of her.

That was one ritual Sasha was not going to supervise.

Yes, he would certainly drag every benefit out of this that he could.

He lowered his head, wanting to kiss her lips again, despite Meagan’s interested gaze. Penelope tasted like a warm spring breeze. He wanted to taste her again. And again.

Stay with me, love.

Penelope broke away from him in a swirl of skirts. She glared at Meagan, then at Damien, then turned and ran from the folly. The wind lifted her dress, revealing a pair of plump calves and pretty ankles before the cloth swirled down again.

Her swaying backside held his gaze, too.

Damien let her go. She was too flustered, too frightened. He’d give her a chance to cool down, to regain her senses. And then he’d try again.

A part of him was glad she resisted. This woman would not meekly go where she was told. He liked a challenge, and he needed a woman who was up to it.

He needed a woman who would put her hands on her hips and face him down. A woman who could also face down his enemies. His heart beat faster. What a princess she’d make.

Meagan patted his shoulder in sympathy. “I said too much, didn’t I?”

“I am afraid we both did.”

Meagan kept her hand on Damien’s shoulder. “She really was hurt before. Twice. Deeply. She is afraid to trust again.”

Something darkened inside him. “Who would hurt her?”

“Stupid gentlemen with no sense of honor. Mr. White
was the worst. He made her believe he truly loved her, when, of course, he did not. Magnus Grady was just nasty.” Her fingers dug a little through his coat. “I vow, Prince Damien, you are quite muscular. Does your prophecy say that you can marry the soon-to-be stepsister of the bride if she refuses?”

He looked into her impudent smile and grinned in response. “Alas, no.”

“Well, that’s all right.” She let go of his arm. “I see the way you look at Penelope. You are far gone on her, are you not? I am pleased. She needs someone who will fall head over heels in love with her.”

Damien
had
fallen head over heels in love with her, just like the damned prophecy had said he would.

He hadn’t believed it. He’d never believed in magic before, thinking the Council of Mages a pack of charlatans who tailored their predictions to whatever the Imperial Prince or Duke Alexander wanted to hear.

But maybe, just maybe, they’d been right about this.

Damien also needed Penelope, and needed her for more than the reasons a man usually needed a woman. He wondered if that needing would in the end outweigh the love.

Penelope had disappeared through the trees, but her presence lingered. If he’d met her a year ago, he’d have lain her down and made sweet love to her right away.

No, probably not. He knew the difference between an untouched miss and the hungry married women who pursued him. He’d have looked at Penelope, had an erection-throbbing fantasy about her, but left her alone.

Now he wanted her, and he could have her. And he would have her. He’d change her
no
to a
yes
, and then they’d be betrothed, and, according to Nvengarian custom, they’d become lovers.

A betrothal was as legally binding as a marriage in
Nvengaria. Nvengarians did not consider a child conceived or even born before the wedding to be illegitimate, as long as the couple was legally betrothed.

He’d never given much thought to that custom before, but it pleased him now.

She’d say yes, and then he’d spend the rest of his time in bed with her, while Sasha carried on with the betrothal festivities.

What a lover Damien could teach her to be. Would teach her to be. His breeches tightened to the point of pain.

“I could imprison the gentlemen who broke Penelope’s heart, if you like,” he said. “I can tell Sasha to throw them into the deepest dungeons. Have them tortured even.”

“Oooh, that sounds nice,” Meagan said happily.

What Meagan did not understand was that Damien really could.

What Damien’s father hadn’t understood was that you were stronger if you did not.

Meagan suddenly cocked her head and put her hands on her hips. “My father is right about one thing. How do we know you are a real prince?”

Damien looked into surprisingly shrewd eyes in her pointed face. “I thought you were on my side.”

“I am. But Penelope is my best friend. And soon to be stepsister. I want her to marry a prince, not a hoaxer.”

“I quite understand.” He descended the steps of the folly and politely held out his hand to help Meagan down. “But I will prove it.”

“How?”

He gestured expansively. “I will hold a festival, in a week’s time, for your family and friends. For your entire village. Sasha has already begun the arrangements. I invited many acquaintances from London, including a man whom you will believe when he tells you I am Prince Damien of Nvengaria.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, yes? And who is this man?”

“The Prince Regent.”

“Oh.” She looked thoughtful, then took Damien’s arm as they began walking slowly back to the house. “That will work, I suppose. Providing, of course, that we believe he’s really the Prince Regent.”

Near midnight, Michael Tavistock entered Lady Trask’s bedchamber and closed the door.

Lady Trask heard him, but she did not look ’round from brushing her hair. Her maid had undressed her, helped her into a dressing gown, then discreetly left the room.

Any minute now, Michael would cross to her, put his hands on her shoulders, tilt her head back and kiss her. Lady Trask waited in excited anticipation. Michael could kiss like fire.

He did no such thing. He remained by the door, his arms folded, watching her in the mirror.

Disappointment darted through her. The afternoon had been exhausting. Penelope had been most trying, completely ignoring Lady Trask’s attempts to point out that she’d never get a better offer than from a
prince,
and what was the matter with her?

Michael, the exasperating man, took Penelope’s side. He could not possibly know what it was like to have a daughter who’d jilted two perfectly good London gentlemen with money and connections. Granted, neither Mr. White nor that somewhat awful Magnus Grady had been as handsome and charming as Prince Damien, but really. To refuse a
prince,
it was too much.

Lady Trask had told her so. Michael had watched in silence.

Meagan, at least, had some sense. If Penelope was not careful, Meagan would snatch Damien out from under her friend’s nose, never mind this prophecy business.

Prince Damien had not said much the rest of the after
noon and during dinner, but he’d watched Penelope. He was determined; that was a point. He’d not be put off by maidenly resistance.

Sasha had kept up a running commentary all afternoon and evening on the history of Nvengaria and the glory of Prince Damien until she’d wanted to scream. Michael’s silence had unnerved her, as had the look in his dark eyes.

It unnerved her now.

She at last laid down her brush and gazed at him in the mirror. He remained rigidly on the other side of the room.

“Well, it has been an eventful day, has it not?” she began brightly.

“Simone,” Michael said in a warning tone. “Don’t.”

His voice could always make her shiver.

“Don’t what?” She rose from the dressing table and turned to him.

As usual, she was struck with how desperately she loved him. He was so handsome. So tall and strong and virile. And he didn’t mind that she was fifty and past her first looks. Lady Trask slathered her face in buttermilk and lemon every night, and declared her skin as fresh as her daughter’s. Michael seemed to like her skin. Liked touching it all over. Often with his tongue.

No man had ever excited her like he did.

And he was all hers. He was not poor, he could have his pick of any chit in London with skinny arms and a lisp, but he’d chosen
her.

She crossed to him, put her hands on his shoulders. “Darling.”

He did not move. His muscles were hard and still beneath her touch.

She grew worried. “Darling, what is the matter?”

He frowned at her. “You have been pretending that today is simply an amusing aberration. It is not. This is serious business.”

“I know.” Her eyes widened. “Imagine, a prince coming all this way to marry
me.
It was too droll.”

Michael’s eyes were cold. “Droll is not the word I thought of. You would have done it, wouldn’t you?”

His look began to frighten her. “Of course I would not have. You know that. You heard me turn him down.” She forced a laugh. “Michael, pet, you cannot think a box of rubies and a prince could sway me from your side.” She leaned into his chest, rubbed her palms up and down his arms.

His heart beat slow and hard beneath her ear.

“But you were swayed,” he said.

She looked up, her breath catching. “Michael…”

“I can never give you rubies, you know that. I cannot make pretty speeches and promise you a kingdom. You know what I have to offer, and it is not much. Not even as much as your husband gave you.”

“I know, but I hated
him.”
She seized upon this argument in her confusion. “I’d rather have the little bit you give me and be with you.”

There, that should settle his pride. Men set such a store on how much they had or didn’t have.

He still did not open his arms. She stepped back, put her hands on her hips. The movement opened her dressing gown a little. She hoped a glimpse of round flesh would make him come to her.

He did not move. Drat the man.

“Well, if you are going to be jealous,” she tried, “you can just go.”

His look grew more stern. “This man is prepared to marry your daughter and carry her off God knows where. And you stand here bleating about jealousy. Are you not the least bit concerned about Penelope?”

She grew offended. “Of course I am concerned! How can you say that? She is my daughter.”

“All the man has done is wave around a box of rubies and go on about an old ring. Penelope at least has the sense to be skeptical. You seem to be willing to hand her over on very slender evidence.”

Hurt welled up inside her. She remembered the day Sir Hilton Trask had stood at the top of the stairs in their London house and shouted, “Simone, you are the stupidest woman alive!”

She knew she wasn’t smart like Penelope and didn’t give a fig for what was in books. But she was smart in other ways, she knew she was. Her husband—and her daughter—simply never gave her a chance.

“Well,
you
are here, pet, to think of things like that, and make certain everything is all right.” Flattering a man for his wisdom never hurt, either.

His voice was quiet. “I cannot help remembering how enthralled you were when you saw the rubies. I cannot help remembering that you forgot I was in the room until Meagan reminded you.”

She stared at him. Was he mad? She could never forget Michael was in the room. His presence caught at her, making her heart beat fast as though she was a giddy girl. She’d simply wanted to see how far Prince Damien would go. Really.

She forced a laugh. “Oh, you are jealous, that is all. Do go away if you want to sulk.”

She turned to the dressing table, loosening the gown as she went, to let it slide down and bare her shoulders.

He would come after her. He’d fold his arms around her waist, bury his lips in the curve of her neck and tell her how beautiful she was. Then he’d pull off the dressing gown and catch her breasts in his hands. He’d suckle them, and she’d run her hands through his unruly hair. The man made love with feral grace.