Damien’s servants had taken over every aspect of the house, including the cooking, resulting in the old cook’s giving notice. It took Damien to charm her into staying. He made her a sort of glorified chef who could sit on her backside and shout at people as much as she liked. Since most of the Nvengarian staff didn’t speak English, she bellowed and they ignored her, thus maintaining mutual satisfaction.
“If I go to Nvengaria,” Penelope said to Meagan as they awaited the Regent’s coach, “would you come with me? If only for a little while? I would miss you so, and truth to tell, I cannot imagine going alone. Not even with Damien.”
Meagan hesitated a long moment before answering. The approaching cloud of dust blurred the horizon, kicked up by horses and a breeze.
“I will understand if you do not want to,” Penelope began around a lump in her throat. Meagan shook her head.
“Penelope, Damien says we cannot come with you. None of us.”
She froze. “What?”
Meagan kept her eyes on the approaching coach, her cheeks pink. “I argued with him already. He says it is too dangerous for I or my father or your mother to come with you. That his enemies might use us to get to you or Damien. That he cannot spare the men to protect us all.”
Penelope’s mouth tightened. “Oh, did he?”
“Penny, I think he’s right. I did not know what to do when that man ran at you with a knife. All I could think of was to dive behind the well. I couldn’t even help you.” She looked mournful. “What if I should be the cause of someone hurting you? Or Damien? I would die. That is, if the assassins left me alive long enough.”
“But—”
“I brought forth every argument I could think of—that I am small and do not take much room, that I could look after you as well as myself, that I am a coward and would stay far away from any assassin—but he countered them all. He and his men can take care of you, Penelope. He is right. We’d only be in the way.”
“You would not be in the way,” Penelope protested, feeling desperate.
“Yes, we would, and you know it. We would not know what to do. Look how Sasha rushed to protect you.”
“I would rather not think of it.” She had relived the moment in her dreams over and over, Sasha shoving her hard against the stone well, his slight body covering her own, his sharp gasp as the knife slid into his back.
She also remembered how Sasha had relaxed and breathed out when she’d washed his wound in the tavern, happily declaring the pain gone.
Whether she truly did have healing magic, or whether Sasha only believed it so much that it worked, she did not know. But Sasha had recovered quickly from his wound with no ill effects. Damien’s entourage, even the cynical valet, Petri, had begun to look at her with new respect.
Sasha stood not far from them, waiting stiffly, in full regalia. He’d put on a uniformlike suit that was even more military-looking than his previous suits. Medals dangled from his breast, and his sash of office shone like he’d polished it.
The other servants had spit and shined every piece of their livery as well. Those with more braid, lace, and medals strutted a bit cockier than those with less. Rufus and Miles stood with heads high, their chests covered with the most medals of all, their shoulders weighted with yards looped of braid.
In contrast, Damien wore a suit of almost drab plainness. It was obviously cut by an expensive Bond Street tailor, but it was severe black and brown, having none of the flash and color of the Nvengarian livery.
When the coach stopped and a dozen servants in the Regent’s livery swarmed about the coach like bees on a hive, Penelope understood Damien’s choice in clothing. Damien could have easily outshone the Prince Regent had he worn an elegant suit or Nvengarian finery. He had, for whatever reason, deliberately decided not to.
The footmen hauled the Regent from the coach and settled him in his Bath chair, taking care to balance his gouty foot. Damien bowed low before him, showing him every deference, then shook his hand like a friend. The Regent cast a jealous eye over Damien’s athletic body, then assessed his clothes with a certain smugness.
Penelope pictured the thoughts in the Regent’s head—Damien might be handsome and well-formed, but the Regent’s own clothes were far more sumptuous. The prince of Nvengaria obviously had no idea how to dress.
Penelope saw Damien’s face when the Regent was wheeled away to be greeted by an ecstatic Lady Trask. His expression held calm assurance that everything was going his way. He caught Penelope’s eye, and winked.
She frowned back at him. The man knew exactly how to sweeten everyone to his will—Meagan, her mother, the villagers, and now the Prince Regent. Even Michael had thawed considerably toward him. Everyone did exactly what Damien wanted them to do, and fell all over themselves to do it.
Including herself.
He had convinced Meagan and her mother and Michael to allow him to take Penelope away with him alone, leaving friends and family behind. He’d never consulted Penelope, or even mentioned it to her. He decided, then charmed others into going along with his decisions.
She scowled at him, earning herself a dazzling smile. It did not help that every time he smiled, she wanted to do every single thing he told her to.
She forced herself to frown again, then turned her back and went into the house.
The fete was the talk of society for years to come. Prince Damien had gotten it up in grand style, with banquet tents for the posh ladies and gents and tables outside for the villagers.
The villagers of Little Marching had privileged status at the food stalls and the games, which made them carry their heads a little higher. Nvengarian and British flags flew over everything, and every time a prince was spotted, a cheer went up. The Regent nodded and waved, reveling in his popularity.
There were races for ponies and men and children, archery competitions, a gypsy fortune-teller, games of chance, exhibitions in Nvengarian-style wrestling—which had become quite popular—fencing matches, country dances for the villagers, puppet theatre, and pantomimes.
Carriage after carriage arrived from London, guests filling the Trask home and neighboring houses and inns for miles. Ambassadors and other dignitaries visiting the Regent had been invited, along with his London set. Russian, French, and even Piedmontese noblemen met Penelope and declared her an unsullied beauty, and wasn’t Damien lucky to find himself a fresh English rose? The Londoners peered at her avidly, then congratulated Damien, looking a bit puzzled, as though wondering why Damien would want such a fresh English rose.
No sophistication, she could almost hear them say. One stooped, white-haired man bent to Damien, saying, “Innocence is lovely, Your Highness, but a short time at court will tarnish her. Ladies’ heads are so easily turned by fashion and money.” The man meant to say this in confidence, but he must have been hard of hearing, for his loud voice bellowed this proclamation over the crowd.
Damien, smooth as ever, only replied that Penelope was quite wise for her years, and she showed remarkable good sense. The white-haired man snorted in disbelief, and moved off.
Damien shot her a sly smile like it had been a good joke. Penelope said nothing, wondering if Damien truly thought that of her, or whether he’d been placating the white-haired London gentleman.
No matter what their reaction, Damien’s betrothal to Penelope would be seen, witnessed, and remembered by people with connections all over Europe. The new Nvengaria ruler was taking a bride of both English and Nvengarian lineage to cement his position within and outside of Nvengaria.
He was busy turning the entire world up sweet.
Penelope bowed and shook hands and smiled until her face ached. Damien kept his hand on her arm or the small of her back, possessive, as he introduced her to his London friends and acquaintances. He made certain, somehow, that each person saw the silver rings on his finger and hers, the symbol that they belonged together.
Not until late afternoon could she snatch a moment to herself. When she saw her chance, she
slipped away to the folly to rest in its cool shade and listen to the music of the river. She could not entirely shut out the noise of the fete, because the tents and stalls had encroached to within twenty feet of the folly. Only the woods around it had kept the tents out.
She sat on the steps, her back to a pillar, and stretched her legs out in front of her. She removed her bonnet and ran her hands through her loosened hair.
So much had happened since she’d sat here the day Damien had arrived and told her he was in love with her. He’d inflamed her with kisses, convinced her she was a long-lost princess, enchanted the villagers, told her stories, given her healing powers, and brought the Prince Regent to visit.
It was all too much. He rushed through this, she knew, so that she’d grow bewildered and give in to what he wanted. Damien was a charmer, but a strong-arm charmer. He got his way in the end, even if he did it with a dazzling smile and a wink of his blue eye.
She felt the trap of it close around her, slowly, gently, but inexorably. Like a doe trusting an approaching hunter, she dazedly watched herself be pursued. If only the hunter were not Damien. He’d trapped her the moment he’d kissed her in Holden’s meadow, and he knew it.
“He has certainly not lost his charm,” said a haughty Englishwoman’s voice, as though answering her thoughts.
Penelope froze. The most difficult thing about the fete had been meeting and speaking to the ladies of the ton and their foreign friends. They stared at her coldly, not hiding that they considered her an interloper. How dare she, a mere daughter of a baronet, try to rise above herself and marry a prince. Especially that prince? Damien was the most eligible bachelor in Europe, and this plain miss had snared him by trickery.
She remained still, praying the ladies would not see her. She could smile and make polite conversation with them when Damien stood next to her, but she had no wish to face them alone.
“Yes, a charmer, zat one,” said a woman in a full-throated Russian accent. Penelope had met her, a Russian countess who fluttered her lashes at Damien and hung all over him. “Damien is zo handsome, zo—ah, I have no words to describe zis man, zis incredible man.”
To Penelope’s surprise, the other two ladies with the Russian countess dissolved into titters. “Oh, goodness,” said the Englishwoman. “Do you think that poor mousy thing knows?”
“Incredible is a good word,” a woman with a French accent said. “Stamina, this is another good word.”
More titters. “Incalculable length, is what I say,” the English one said.
The three ladies giggled, this time like they knew they were being naughty. “Eleven inches, would zis be not too far-fetched?” the Russian asked.
“No,” said the lady with the French accent, and they laughed again.
Penelope’s face scalded. Oh lord, if they saw her now! She remained rigid, her hands balling in her skirt, praying they would not notice her in the shadows of the folly.
“Do you know,” the Russian countess went on. “I was wiz him when his man came knocking on ze door to tell him he was Imperial Prince. Ah, he was in zuch a state. Zo angry, and yet zo cold. Dangerous he was, in zat mood. I was zat afraid of him, and at ze same time—ah, glorious.”
The other ladies agreed, sounding a bit jealous, that Damien unpredictable was quite exciting indeed.
“But what shall we do now?” the French lady asked. “He is marrying. We shall never see him again. Or his inches.”
“Nonsense,” the English lady said briskly. “He will deposit the chit in his castle, get a son on her, and forget about her. He will need to make state visits to England, and France, and Russia. And I imagine all that traveling will make him lonely…” She trailed off suggestively.
The other two ladies were silent a moment, then they burst out laughing, even more merrily than before. “I look forward to zis,” the Russian countess gloated.
“The poor child will not know what to do with him, in any case,” the Frenchwoman said. “She will hardly know the bed games Nvengarians like.”
“Indeed.” The Englishwoman put heavy emphasis on the word. “They are quite depraved, really quite depraved. She will be shocked out of her senses over what she is expected to do. One can almost feel sorry for her.”
Did they know Penelope sat not five feet from them, hearing every word? Perhaps they did, and spoke so for her benefit. She remained still, smarting in rage and humiliation.
“Not quite,” the Frenchwoman put in.
“Perhaps we ought to give her a book on positions,” the English baroness suggested. “And explain to her about bed toys. Really, sending an untried miss into Nvengaria is a bit cruel.”
“And ze little whips,” the countess said eagerly. “Do not forget ze little whips.”
Again they fell silent, and again, they burst into merry laughter. “Depend upon it,” the Englishwoman said. “We will have our prince back.”
“La, it is hot,” the Frenchwoman complained when their laughter had worn down. “I must return to the house, although that simpering woman is all over me. It is more comfortable than the outdoors.”
“Yes, what were they thinking, having a fete here, of all places?” The Englishwoman’s voice grew fainter as she and the other two ladies began strolling away. “Damien could have asked me to host it in Hertfordshire. We have a proper house.”
The other two murmured agreement and disappeared down the path.
Tears of fury fell from Penelope’s eyes before she dashed them away. How dare they sneer at her mother and the Trask home? How dare they flaunt that Damien had charmed every woman in Europe?
She got to her feet, glaring at the ring on her finger. She wanted more than anything to pull it off and fling it into the river. Her hand went to it.
She touched the cool band and stopped. The ring had belonged to her mother and her grandmother before her. It had nothing to do with Damien. Reluctantly, she breathed a sigh and let her hand drop.
Hugging her arms to her chest, she left the folly and strolled the path to the river. It was cooler here, with overhanging willows in the shallows. Not far along, the river gurgled into a deep pool, where Penelope and Meagan had swum as children.
She sat down on a log that formed a bench on the bank, stripped off her shoes and stockings and dabbled her feet in the soothing water. If Damien took her away, she could never come here again, to this place of her childhood where she’d found a modicum of peace. He’d take her away from her mother and Meagan and these woods and her fairy tales.
She clenched her hand. No, he would not. Just because he and Sasha had bounded here with stories of prophecies and princesses, and turned Ashborn Manor into a summer palace for their pleasure, she did not have to obey his commands.
Yes, he’d charmed her. Yes, she’d near fallen in love with him. But he could not take everything away from her.
“Penelope.” His voice drifted down to her from the top of the hill, rich and deep, with his full-throated Nvengarian accent.
She heard him move through bracken down the hill from the path. She did not look up, keeping her eyes on the calm current of the river.
She saw his booted foot land on the log beside her, a supple, now muddy boot that hugged the firm muscle of his calf and folded about his ankle.
His leg bent to show her a thigh in black breeches, his arm in a well-fitted brown coat resting on his knee.
“‘Tis not safe to wander here by yourself.” He clasped a branch above him with a strong hand. “I do not trust Alexander to send only one assassin.”
Penelope kept her eyes on the water. “I will be safe, Your Highness. I have decided not to be your princess, or marry you.”
Chapter Eleven
He said nothing.
Penelope risked a glance at him. He was not looking at her, but staring across the river as though he studied something she could not see. The faint white patches in the corners of his eyes were pale against his darker skin.
“That will not keep you safe,” h
e said after a time. “As long as someone believes you are a Nvengarian princess and precious to me, you are not safe.”
Precious to me.
She tried to sound cold. “I do not want a marriage of convenience.”
He turned to her, brushing his fingers over her hair. “I know that.”
“And yet, that is what you try to rush me into.”
His hand moved to the nape of her neck. “I hope it will be more than that to you.”
“Is it more than that to you?”
He leaned down and buried his lips in her hair. “I believe I have more than demonstrated what this marriage will mean to me.”
When he spoke in that tone, when he caressed her, it was so easy to believe he loved her. If only she hadn’t heard those women—his mistresses—speaking of him as though they owned him, as though he’d run back to them as soon as they crooked their fingers.
What had he whispered to them in the night? Not words of love, or they’d have boasted of it. But he’d touched them with warm fingers and kissed their hair—
Penelope pulled away. “If not for the prophecy, you never would have come here. You never would have looked at me twice.”
“You are half right.” He did not reach for her again, but twined his strong fingers over his knee. “I would never have known that Little Marching existed if not for Sasha. But had I encountered you in London or elsewhere, I would have looked at you for a long, long time.”
Eager need stirred in her, but she quickly suppressed it. “I am not fishing for flattery.”
“I know.” He glanced at her bare calves and feet in the water, his look appreciative. “I envy the fish come to nibble your toes.”
Penelope resisted pulling her legs up and covering them with her dress. He grinned, the side of his mouth pulling.