Her hair was still damp from their encounter, and this fact was incredibly erotic, especially when he remembered tasting her. Sweet, sweet woman, all honey and cream and all for me. If he didn’t have her soon, he’d explode.
“You are changing the subject,” she said.
“You are this subject, love. I will not ignore you or allow Alexander to kill me. If you believe he will embrace me tenderly when I return to fulfill the prophecy, you are wrong. He will still try to kill me, whether I fulfill the prophecy or no.”
“But if I understand right, if you arrive with me, your people will believe in you. They believe in the prophecy, like Sasha. They would help you defeat this Alexander. Without me, they will lose faith in you.”
Damien said nothing, because she was right. Having the people of Nvengaria on his side would give him more power than Alexander, despite his control of the military. The Nvengarians would also embrace Penelope wholeheartedly, and not just for Damien’s sake.
She was beautiful and spirited. They would adore her.
She would marry him and go home with him. He saw that in her eyes. She was willing to risk all the danger for his sake. He knew that if he tried to leave her behind now, she would smuggle herself along in the baggage, no doubt aided by Petri, Sasha, Rufus, and all the other servants. They already adored her.
He reached out and traced a curl on her cheek. “I suppose I will have to live with having an astonishing woman in my life,” he said with a lightness he did not feel.
“You ought to have told me,” she said stubbornly.
“I ought to do so many things. I am not one for obedience.”
She watched him, agitated, her green-gold eyes filled with fear and anger and worry. Worry for him. Women in the past had chased him and desired him and threatened suicide when he left them, but not one had ever worried about him.
She grew more astonishing every day. He tilted her chin with his fingers, brushed a kiss to her mouth. “‘Tis done, love,” he said, his groin tightening in anticipation. “I will tell Sasha to begin the betrothal rituals.”
“You seem preoccupied,” Grand Duchess Sephronia said.
Alexander came out of his reverie at the sound of his wife’s voice. Sephronia lay on a scroll-backed chaise, plumped on pillows. The beribboned peignoir she wore and the cashmere blanket over her legs could not disguise her extreme thinness.
Her beauty had gone, her once-vivacious face now sunken, her skin stretched over her skull. Her luxurious black hair had been shaved for her fever, and what little had grown back consisted of thin black wisps on her head.
She no longer allowed anyone into her rooms, except her maids and Alexander. She would have kept Alexander out if she could, but he insisted on visiting her every day. He had never been in love with her—she had been too frivolous for deeper emotion—but she was his wife, and he would not allow her to die alone and forgotten.
He stirred now and answered her question. “My sources inform me that Damien has found his princess, and she has agreed to marry him. Also that more than one assassination attempt has failed.”
“Oh, dear.” Sephronia bit her lip. She did not really understand the prophecy business, but she knew that Alexander wanted Damien dead.
“One tried to stab him in broad daylight and was thwarted by his bodyguards,” Alexander went on. “The other tried to shoot him as he frolicked with his princess in a river and was frightened off by another young lady and guests at the house.” He shook his head. “These hotheads want glory in killing the Imperial Prince, but what they mostly do is make fools of themselves. One might find luck and kill him, I suppose, but I will simply have to deal with Damien when he reaches Nvengaria.”
“Poor Alexander.” Sephronia gave him a weak smile. “Prince Damien is a headache, isn’t he?”
“He is like his father. Has his father’s luck. But I will snip this sapling of the family tree and be rid of him.” Alexander scissored his first two fingers. “No more Imperial Princes. Nvengaria can emerge into the modern world. We are four centuries behind, at least.”
“What about the princess?” she asked. “Will you snip her, too?”
He smiled a little. “No need to be so barbaric. She is an Englishwoman with no knowledge of Nvengarian nonsense. I will send her back home. She is an imposter, in any case.”
“Your subjects might not think so,” she pointed out.
Sephronia could sometimes see to the heart of a matter. If the romantic Nvengarian people wanted to see a longlost princess, they’d convince themselves she was a longlost princess. “I have the proof,” he said, thinking of the papers hidden away in his chamber. “They dislike being duped, and will not accept her.”
“The people might not believe you. Of course,” she said slowly, “you could always marry her yourself.”
She sounded wistful. Sephronia had never been in love with Alexander, but she had loved being Grand Duchess, loved dressing in finery, loved playing hostess, loved setting fashion for Nvengaria and countries around them. Even Parisian ladies looked to see what Sephronia wore in any given season. Her greatest regret was that her illness no longer allowed her to assume her duties.
“I will not marry again,” Alexander said. Courtship and marriage were the last things on his mind. “I have no need. I have a son, and he is enough for me.”
“Yes,” Sephronia said proudly. She’d never taken much notice of their small son, now five, but she prided herself on having given Alexander a robust male heir. “You are a handsome man, Alexander. You will need a woman.”
He shook his head. “Not a wife. Nor a mistress. I have no need to slake my lust every night.”
“You are so strong.” She reached out a wasted hand and touched his knee. “I wish I could have been strong, like you.”
He covered her hand with his own, her fingers like bare sticks. Sephronia had slaked her own lusts in wild affairs with dandies and roués pleased to bed the wife of one of the most powerful men in Nvengaria. She was always discreet, bringing no open shame on Alexander, but he knew about every single one of her lovers. He kept his eye on them, in case they were scoundrels trying to use her to get to him. She had been very careful, he granted her that.
“You were strong enough,” he said.
She gave him a tender look. “Did you ever take lovers? I never knew.”
“One or two.”
“Good. I am glad you were not alone.”
Her concern amused him. Alexander had never been one for sentiment and romance. He enjoyed his pleasure with women, but did not lose his heart. He admired and delighted in beautiful women, but he did not need a female to make his life complete. His marriage to Sephronia had been political, and both of them had known that.
Her eyes took on a faraway look. “We were beautiful together, weren’t we, Alexander? Me on your arm at every ball and soiree and every gathering at court. You, the most handsome man in Nvengaria, and I the most beautiful woman. Everyone envied us.”
“Yes,” he said.
He remembered her black hair shining with pearls, her gowns cut to show her slim shoulders and elegant breasts, the lift of her head on her long neck. He’d escorted her in his Nvengarian regalia and sash of office, the most powerful couple in the kingdom.
They’d been invited everywhere; hostesses were known to lock themselves into their chambers for days and not come out if Alexander or Sephronia turned down an invitation. Sephronia had danced and laughed and flirted and wooed and been the toast of the town. Had Alexander ever had the opportunity to take her to Paris or Rome or London, she would have forced society there to eat from her hand.
Even her pregnancy had been celebrated. She’d set fashion again by having her dressmaker create clever gowns to hide her swelling figure.
She’d always been careful in her love affairs never to conceive a child that was not Alexander’s. She knew that putting another man’s son in Alexander’s nursery would not only be embarrassing, but dangerous. The father m
ight use the child to gain power or to manipulate Alexander. Politics in Nvengaria always balanced on a knife’s edge.
She sighed. “I know balls and soirees are not as important to you, but they were my life. They were my triumph.”
He squeezed her hand. “I was always proud of you, Sephronia.”
Tears shone in her eyes. “Where are they all now? All those men who declared they loved me and threatened to shoot themselves if I did not abandon you for them. Since I fell ill, not one of them has tried to see me. Not one. Only you.”
“I am your husband,” he said simply.
She gave a little laugh. “No one would blame you for deserting me. You are kindhearted.”
“I believe you are the only person in the world who calls me kindhearted.”
“You are kind. Deep down inside. I’ve seen it in you.” She gave his hand a weak squeeze. “What I would like you to do is find someone to make you happy. Not for politics or power, but just happiness. I could never give you that.”
“I am happy enough.” He had Nvengaria to rule, and that took all his time and attention. “I do not think rulers have time for happiness. We rule, and this matters.”
“I know, but you deserve someone to love you.” She withdrew her hand, resting it on her chest. “That is what I wish for you. And you will best Damien. I know you will.”
Alexander rose. He’d learned to sense when she was too tired to continue talking, and rather than embarrass her by letting her fall asleep, he’d rise and say a formal goodnight.
Tonight, for some reason, he had the compulsion to lean over her and press a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep well, Your Grace.”
She touched his face. “You as well, Your Grace.”
Alexander left her without another word. He closed the door, his heart heavy. She would die soon. He’d provided the best in care for her, but nothing could cure her. She would have the most elegant monument in the country, but that hardly compensated.
“Papa.”
He heard his son’s voice calling from the upper balconies of the prince’s palace. He took the steps two at a time and caught up with his wandering son. “What are you doing out of bed, pup? It’s past midnight.”
“I could not sleep, Papa. I managed to slip past my nurse before she awoke.”
Alexander suppressed a grin at his choice of words. Little Alex already loved intrigue and covert meetings. He’d make an excellent Grand Duke.
“Let us return before she misses you.” With his son perched on his shoulder, Alexander climbed into the dark reaches of the castle. He liked that Alex did not flinch from the shadows. The old prince had died when Alex was young enough not to remember the horrors of him. With any luck, Alexander would banish every horror the old man had perpetrated, so that his son grew up in a new world with nothing to fear.
“I will go riding tomorrow,” Alex announced. “Mama is too ill to ride, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“My nurse says she will die soon. Is that true?”
“I am afraid so.” Alexander saw no reason to hide the truth from the boy. He’d learn of it soon enough.
“Poor Mama.”
“Yes.”
There had never been any intimacy between Sephronia and Alex. He knew her for his mother, but he watched her from afar and knew very little about her.
“Are you going to kill Prince Damien, Papa?” Alex asked.
Alexander shifted the boy’s weight on his shoulder. Alex was growing, getting heavier. “If I must.”
“Is he a very bad man?”
“He is.”
“Nurse says his father used to eat little boys for breakfast. Is that true?”
Alexander saw that he’d have to have a word with Nurse. Telling Alex the truth was one thing; embellishing tales was another.
“He was a bad man, but not a cannibal.”
“Oh.” Alex sounded a bit disappointed. “Is Prince Damien a cannibal?”
“I don’t know. When he returns, we will ask him.”
“And then you will kill him?”
Alex sounded interested, just like his mother. “Yes,” Alexander answered. “I will kill him.”
The ritual bonding of the bride- and groom-to-be commenced at the end of the week.
“About time,” Damien muttered as Petri dressed him in his most formal of uniforms.
“You are keen, sir.” Petri smirked. “I’ve never seen you so keen for a lady.”
“This is a very special lady. You ought to be congratulating me, not laughing at me.”
“I do congratulate you, sir.” Petri tugged the cravat tight. “She is a most entrancing young lady, and she will make a regal princess. I feel great happiness for you.”
“You also look forward to me slaking myself so I will stop grumbling.”
Petri’s blue eyes twinkled. “When the royal rod feels the taste of her flesh, the ache will ease up, sir.”
“I doubt it, Petri. I doubt it. I will not be sated with her until I’m old and gray and half dead.”
“You do have it bad, Your Highness.” The valet hid his grin, not very successfully.
Penelope had won over Sasha with her healing powers and now Petri with her understanding and concern. He had no doubt she could walk into Nvengaria and win over the Council of Dukes, the Council of Mages, and Alexander himself in the space of an hour. That is, if she got the chance. Alexander would not give up without a bloody and vicious fight.
Petri eased Damien’s tight-cut coat over his shoulders. For this ritual, Damien wore the military-style clothing of the rulers of Nvengaria, a dark blue coat hung with too many medals, military breeches and boots. Last, Petri settled a sash of gold cloth over Damien’s right shoulder and fastened it at his left hip.
“You are every inch the Imperial Prince, sir.”
Damien glanced at himself in the mirror. His hair curled from his forehead to his collar, and his blue eyes were dark with anticipation. He looked well enough, but the uniform also brought out the resemblance to his father.
“Let us get on with it,” he said, turning from his reflection.
“Right, sir. Sasha is in ecstasy downstairs. He’s been dying for this day forever.”
“Well, he deserves ecstasy. He’s worked hard.”
“He so much needs a woman,” Petri muttered. “Preferably two.”
“You could always spare him one of yours.”
Petri grinned. “Charity is not my strong point, sir. But I’ll find him a lass. I imagine after today, ladies around here will go for anything Nvengarian.”
As long as Penelope did, Damien did not care.
He had already endured several days of Sasha’s rituals, which had only heightened his need for Penelope. He’d spent a long dull night in a chapel, to cleanse him of sin. Then he and Penelope had attended no fewer than three feasts, where they served each other traditional Nvengarian fare—venison, hare, fish, and wine. Especially the wine. Sasha had brought crates of the stuff, thick and red from the vineyards of Nvengaria’s finest wine-makers. Each ritual needed a different wine, and the guests partook, enjoying the discovery that Nvengarian wine was twice as heady as what they were used to imbibing.
The rituals were highly enjoyed by all but Damien. He’d not been able to touch Penelope, because the first round of rituals called for the couple to be celibate. No slaking needs on each other, no slaking them on anyone else.
But tonight was the bonding ritual, in which the couple would, in front of witnesses, agree to be bound to each other, by blood, forever. At the end of the ritual they’d be officially betrothed, and afterward they could slake all those needs that had built in the interim.
Damien growled in anticipation. What to do first? Strip her right away, or make her remove her clothes bit by bit while he watched? He could position her in front of a mirror while he stood behind her, still dressed, and taught her about her body. He let this enjoyable vision thread his mind.
Or should he take
her fully, on the bed, all at once, and when he was sated, teach her the myriad ways of pleasure? Or should he slowly build, starting at her fingertips, until their lovemaking was explosive for both of them?
Petri, as if knowing his thoughts, clapped him on the shoulders. “Time to go, sir.”
“Thank God. Let us get me betrothed.”
Petri grinned again, and the two of them left the room and headed downstairs.
At the bottom of the staircase paced a man dressed in a kilt with a white lawn shirt and a stiff black coat. He had dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck, with one escaped lock cascading over his cheek. He had a military bearing, and he walked restlessly, his hands behind him, holding himself apart from the murmuring guests in the ballroom.
When he heard Damien on the stairs, he looked up. He had a square, hard face, the face of a man who’d seen too much. But the hard face suddenly creased in an infectious grin, and the man’s restlessness vanished.
“Damien, you wild dog, why didn’t you tell me you were getting married?”
Damien came off the last step and clasped the man’s hand in a firm grip. The Scotsman thumped him on the shoulder, grinning hugely.
“What are you doing here, Egan?” Damien demanded. “I thought you had gone to chase bears in Russia.”
Egan McDonald laughed out loud. “Too many husbands after my Scottish blood. Thought it best to beat a retreat. Then I stroll through London and read that my old friend Damien of Nvengaria is sticking his head in the noose. How’d she catch you?”
“You have not met her yet, it is apparent.”
Egan raised his brows. “Oh-ho, you are well and truly snared. I see it in your eyes.” He turned to Petri and said in perfect Nvengarian, “You let him fall into the trap? I’m surprised at you, Petri. You’re supposed to protect him.”
Egan McDonald was one of the few friends Damien had made during his long years in exile. He’d met Egan in Rome, a few months after Waterloo. Egan, a captain in a Highland regiment, had gone to Vienna after the British victory, then had traveled to Rome, wanting to explore that city.
He’d met Damien late one night in a passage at a hotel, and they discovered they’d both been enticed to meet the same woman. When Egan understood that Damien was Nvengarian, he’d suggested, in that language, that they leave the duplicitous lady and share a bottle of brandy instead.