Alexander, though seething with the need for revenge, understood the folly of acting too openly against the Imperial Prince. So outwardly he’d stepped into his father’s place as Grand Duke; inwardly he’d schemed and bided his time.
And now that monster’s son, Damien, the libertine prince, beloved of monarchs across Europe, was ruler of Nvengaria.
Alexander had tried to stop the Council of Dukes from sending for Damien at the old prince’s death. Nvengaria could do much better without the son of the idiot who’d ruined them, he’d argued. The Council could rule in the Imperial Prince’s name while Damien continued entertaining countesses and fencing and being the life of royal parties.
They didn’t need him.
But Misk, keeper of the Imperial ring, like all Nvengarians, liked tradition. The man was enslaved to tradition. So was the Council of Dukes.
Too much damned tradition in this country.
Misk had slipped out in the middle of the night, against orders, found Damien, and brought him home.
Alexander had looked into the eyes of the Imperial Prince’s son and seen the same ruthlessness, the same uncontrolled will that had characterized the father. Alexander had decided then and there that he would not let Nvengaria fall a second time, and stirred the Council of Dukes and the Council of Mages to oppose Damien.
Damien had the love of the people—stupid people who saw only the pageantry of their prince—but Alexander controlled the army. And the treasury. And the Councils. Damien had popularity and tradition; Alexander had power and money.
Alexander knew he could save Nvengaria if Damien were made a puppet prince, a figurehead. Alexander would rule. Damien could ride his horse in parades and bow and be loved—and do exactly what Alexander told him to.
Damien, unfortunately, was as pigheaded as his father. He’d met Alexander’s stare when he understood the scheme, and flatly refused.
When Damien understood that Alexander had the military behind him and could not be touched, he had backed off, and they’d come to an uneasy truce, but Alexander knew they’d soon fight to the death.
When the prophecy business had come up, when Nedrak announced that all the signs were right, Alexander felt fortune turn in his direction. The Nvengarian people loved prophecy and destiny and magic. They were all for Damien going on a quest to find and restore the long-lost princess.
Damien hadn’t believed the prophecy any more than Alexander had, but he knew the power of his people. If he’d refused, they’d have rioted. Nvengarians were not calm, rational people; they loved emotion and liked to bury themselves in it. Both Damien and Alexander knew that Damien had no choice but to go.
The prophecy said that Damien would return the princess by Midsummer’s Day or die in the attempt. The Nvengarians liked that. Succeed or die. It touched their romantic souls.
Alexander did not trust that Nedrak’s magic spells would force Damien to break the prophecy and thus sacrifice himself, but he did trust his hand-picked assassins.
Damien might succeed. But it was far more likely he’d die in the attempt.
Alexander smiled.
Nedrak nervously wet his lips. “What is it, Your Grace?”
“Nothing.” Alexander rose, firelight catching in the bloodred jewel on his finger. “You may go if you like. I am finished here.” He drew in a breath, preparing himself for what would come next.
“Are you?” Nedrak looked surprised. Duke Alexander rarely stopped working until well into the small hours of the morning.
“For now. I told my wife I would visit her tonight.”
“Ah.” Nedrak caught Alexander’s cold eye and halted his sympathetic nod. “Please give Her Grace my very best wishes for her health.”
“She is dying. It will do no good.” Alexander pulled a watch from his pocket, checked it, then tucked it away as he walked to the door. “But I will tell her.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Nedrak said, and then decided it would be wise to close his mouth and say nothing more.
Alexander gave him a nod and quietly departed the room.
Nedrak waited until Alexander’s footfalls had faded in the distance, then he sank into his chair, fanning his lined face in relief.
“I admire that man,” he confided to his scrying crystal. “As I admired his father. A smart, capable man is the Grand Duke.” He blew out his breath. “But he scares the hell out of me.”
“The Prince Regent, here!” Lady Trask gasped, hands at her cheeks.
She’d known for two days the Prince Regent was coming, and yet Lady Trask found every opportunity to throw her hands in the air and cry that he’d never find her home acceptable and they’d never be ready in time.
Alongside her mother, Penelope worked through the chaos in a slight daze. She had not seen much of Damien since the night he’d come to her room, and he’d taken care not to be alone with her.
At first, Penelope thought him wise, because she’d nearly flung off her night rail and begged him to lie on top of her on the floor of her chamber. But as the hours, then the days, passed, she began craving him with mindless intensity.
She thought of the feeling of his hands on her breasts, his fingers manipulating her with skill. She relived the sensation over and over in her dreams and in her waking hours.
A man had touched her body and called her beautiful.
One kiss could not hurt, she’d think. Or one touch of his hand. Even a moment snatched with him so their gazes could meet and they could speak.
But Damien wrapped himself in preparations for the coming fête, and spent his time with Sasha or his valet, Petri. He went to the village often, taking one or more of his huge footmen with him.
The footmen came home singing; Damien was always quiet and watchful.
Michael had decided to stay after all. He told Penelope he would not leave her and her mother until things were settled. He’d started to believe Damien’s story, but was still wary.
“Damien is a personable fellow,” he said to Penelope. “And if the Prince of Wales vouches for him, I shall believe him. But your mother grows too excited at the prospect of royalty near at hand.”
“Please understand,” Penelope appealed to him. “She adored being a baronet’s wife and going to all the best balls and parties in London. She felt it keenly when all the income went to my cousin, and we could no longer live in Town.”
“Penelope.” Michael put his hand on her shoulder, his kind eyes still. “I know. But perhaps your mother cannot forgive me not giving her what her husband did.”
“She loves you very much. Please give her a chance.”
Michael promised, but evasively. Penelope worried—amid her worries of everything else. Her mother sometimes treated Michael poorly, but if he went, he would truly break her heart. Penelope could hardly run off with Damien and leave her all alone, in that case.
Then Damien would ride away, searching for another princess.
The thought of Damien taking another woman’s hand and looking into her eyes and telling her the prophecy made him fall in love with her drove her wild. She could not face that possibility.
But the thought of leaving home and England for a remote land she knew little about terrified her.
It was not as though Damien lived in the next county or even as far away as Northumberland. His kingdom was on the other side of the world, in a land of sharp mountains and cold winters and wild wolves.
She’d asked at supper one night how long the journey to Nvengaria would be. Sasha had answered at once. “A long and difficult road of many perils through many miles. There will be danger at every turn.” His eyes glowed.
Damien had silenced him with a look but hadn’t contradicted him.
Penelope knew that if she hadn’t been so attracted to Damien, the choice would be easy. The sensible part of her told her to refuse Damien’s suit, stay home to look after her mother, to try to reconcile Lady Trask and Michael so the two could make a happy marriage. Remain here as Michael’s
stepdaughter and Meagan’s stepsister. That would be best for everyone.
But every time she pictured Damien riding away, never to return, her heart squeezed in pain. Losing Damien would hurt far worse than had crying off her engagements. The feelings did not even compare.
She had a thought—perhaps Reuben and Magnus had been so awful because she was meant to jilt them. Perhaps the prophecy had worked to make certain Penelope was free when Damien at last arrived.
Penelope turned the thought over in her mind, then impatiently dismissed it. She was getting as bad as Sasha.
On the Wednesday after Damien’s arrival, Sasha had them gather in the large drawing room for the ritual of turning Lady Trask’s ring over to Penelope.
Sasha wanted Lady Trask and Penelope to repeat their required phrases in Nvengarian.
“Oh, heavens, I never could,” Lady Trask said, eyes wide. “Goodness, even my French master was that exasperated because during my lessons I kept calling the Queen of England a putain, which means whore, I believe. Goodness, I thought I was using a term of affection.”
Meagan clapped her hand over her mouth, and her eyes grew moist. Penelope looked down in embarrassment.
“You see?” Lady Trask said. “I might blunder.”
“She can say it in English,” Damien broke in, his own Nvengarian accent strengthening with his impatience. “Your mother said the words in English when she gave you the ring.”
“That is true,” Lady Trask said.
“And yet the prophecy continues. Do not make them say the Nvengarian, Sasha. It is impossible.”
Sasha opened his mouth to protest, but looked at Damien’s face and shut it again. Penelope had come to learn that Sasha knew just how far he could push his prince.
And so Penelope stood in the late afternoon sunshine under the huge Palladian window that looked over the garden, and received the ancient silver ring from her mother.
“This ring I give you, of my own free will,” Lady Trask said, “to hold and protect, until destiny draws it forth.”
Lady Trask giggled a little over the words. Then, with Sasha hovering so close Penelope felt the man’s breath on her shoulder, Lady Trask slid the ring onto Penelope’s finger.
Penelope glanced at the card on which Sasha had carefully written her reply. “I accept this ring as the symbol of my lineage. I will safeguard it with pride, and carry it to my destiny.”
Sasha’s mouth moved along with Penelope’s, and when Penelope let go of Lady Trask’s hand, he gushed a sigh, “It is done.”
The Nvengarian servants in the hall whooped in delight. Several of the English servants did as well. Mathers looked aggrieved, but the other Trask servants had decided that the Nvengarians’ high spirits and habit of bringing forth ale or whiskey to celebrate just about anything were more to their taste than quiet soberness.
In the drawing room, Petri poured bloodred wine and handed it ’round. Penelope sipped hers, surprised at the thick, mellow taste. Meagan took a hearty swig, until Michael gave her the eye, and she innocently set the goblet on the table.
In the hall, one of Damien’s footmen, Rufus or Miles—she could not tell them apart yet—shouted in heavily accented English, “All hail Princess Penelope!”
“All hail Princess Penelope!” came the returning cry, in English and in Nvengarian.
Lady Trask looked proud, Meagan, excited.
Damien was watching her. Penelope pretended not to notice, but the look in his eyes was dark and intense and satisfied.
Damien quit the house after the ritual, to avoid succumbing to temptation and dragging Penelope off to have his way with her. He’d wanted to drag her to him and kiss her and kiss her, savoring every inch of her.
The ring on her finger meant she accepted her lineage. That she was his for the taking. She’d looked up at him with confusion in her starry eyes, starting to believe in her fate and not certain she wanted to.
He wanted to take her to bed and show her everything her fate could be.
Best he leave the house before he swept her into his arms and ran upstairs with her, thus negating the prophecy, ruining his country, and playing into Alexander’s hands.
To curb himself, he took Petri with him to the village to check on preparations there.
They found Little Marching teeming with activity. Carts and wagons filled with lumber and canvas rumbled through the High Street. At the end of the High, in the village square, a platform had been built, the banner of the Imperial Princes—two snarling, golden wolves on a background of deep blue—already hanging from it. Awnings with the blue and gold of Nvengaria flapped from nearly every doorway and rose above the platform.
The tavern door stood open, and despite the work going on, plenty of men had found time to drop in for a pint.
As soon as Damien ducked through the doorway, a shout went up.
“Three cheers for Prince Damien!”
“Hip, hip, hooray!” Nvengarian flags came out and waved in fervor.
“Where did they get the flags?” Damien murmured to Petri in Nvengarian.
“Rufus and Miles,” he answered.
“Ah.” Damien called, in English, “Landlord, I will—what is the phrase?—I will stand the next round.”
The cheering rose. Men working outside hurried in to partake. The landlord, smiling broadly, handed tankards to his barmaids as fast as he could.
The landlord’s daughter flashed a hopeful smile at Damien as she brought him a tankard. Damien thanked her politely, then gave Petri a nod. Petri, taking the cue, slipped in beside her and easily diverted her attention. The village girls were finding Petri’s warm smiles and faulty English quite enchanting.
Damien quietly sipped his ale, listening to the others talk and laugh. When he felt the time right—the patrons sufficiently benevolent toward all things Nvengarian—he stepped in front of the bar and raised his hands for silence.
It took a while, because every man in the place started shouting—“Quiet, the prince is about to speak!” “I am quiet—you get quiet.” “If we all stop shouting, the man can talk!”
At last, Damien simply cut across their noise. “My friends.” The chatter ceased as they turned to look at him. “I thank you for the warm welcome you have given me and my people. I have grown to love your little village in the few days I have been here.”
This engendered more cheering. Damien knew it would. But Damien was used to waiting for crowds to quiet between sentences. In Nvengaria, one could never be certain what a speaker said to the masses, because he could never be heard over screaming of the crowd.
The English, at least, quieted a little in case he said something interesting.
“I have had word,” Damien went on, “that the Prince of Wales will indeed be attending our fête.”
More cheers. Englishmen, in general, rather despised the portly Prince Regent, but having royalty visit a village was reason for celebration. And another round of ale.
“You must do something for me,” Damien said.
The hubbub died down again. Eager, somewhat glassy gazes fixed on Damien.
“You must show great honor to your prince,” he said. “You must cheer mightily for him, and wave your English flags, and show your love of England to him. He will reward you well, I think.”
The farmer in the back raised his flagon. “Long live Prince George!”
“Long live Prince George! God save the King!”
Damien waited, smiling gently. He wanted the villagers on his side in his quest to win Penelope, in case he had to recruit them to help spirit her away. As well, it was satisfying to gain the reputation of benevolence. Prince Damien had learned how to be welcome, even by people who instinctively disliked and mistrusted foreigners.
But he needed the Prince Regent on his side as well. The Prince was jealous of Damien, and he would be less than pleased to discover that Damien had walked into an English village and taken it over.
Damien hadn’t really, he knew that. These men w
ere salt of the earth who might grumble over the posh gents in London overtaxing their poor bit of land, but, by God, they were English posh gents, and English taxes and English bits of land. No foreigners would tell them what to do.
Damien also needed England to come in firmly on his side of the uneasiness in Nvengaria. He could not afford to let England back Alexander. Republics were fashionable these days, and Grand Duke Alexander had the Council of Dukes and the Council of Mages cowed. If Damien could keep England on his side by making Prince George believe he was the center of attention at this fête, then so be it.
“Thank you, my friends,” he said to the assembly.
The same farmer shouted, “Long live Prince Damien!”
A huge cheer rattled the rafters. Damien bowed politely, smiled his thanks, and stepped away.
“I did not understand what you said,” Petri remarked in Nvengarian as they strolled away, “but it sounded impressive.”
Behind them, another man slurred, “Three cheers for Prince Damien!” His followers took up the call.
“Hip, hip, horaaaaay!”
To the same chant that had ushered them in, Petri and Damien ducked out of the tavern.
“They are good people,” Damien answered his valet.
Petri shot him a look. “It is not simply their good nature. You are a natural ruler, sir. The peasants in Nvengaria do not bow simply because they have to. The peasants here do not have even that stricture upon them, and yet, they show their respect. And their liking.”
“You exaggerate my virtues.”
“No, you downplay them. Your father hated you for a reason. The people loved you, and not him. Made him insane.”
Damien growled, “No more of that, Petri.”
Petri had known him forever and shrugged off reprimands. “You dislike hearing the truth, is all, sir. Look, here comes something that will cheer you.”