She hesitated a moment, then shook her head, moving her mouth in a little smile.
“I have never done that,” he said. “I am strong, I meant to gentle it…”
She put her wet fingers to his lips. “You did not hurt me. Not like you mean. I am crying because you make me feel beautiful.”
Tears spilled from her eyes. He kissed one away. “You are profoundly beautiful.”
“I want you to think that without the influence of the prophecy.”
“Scrag the prophecy. This feeling is deeper than magic.”
She traced his cheek. “I never in my wildest dreams thought I could have a man like you.”
He smiled. “Do not flatter me yet. You have not lived with me.”
“I thought I was not the sort of woman a man could love. I broke my betrothals because I did not want to settle for someone who did not want me.”
“I know.” He regretfully slid out of her, his arousal still aching.
“And then I saw you. It might have been the magic, but I wanted you so much. I cried out for you, even though I tried to pretend to everyone, myself included, that I did not.”
“Sweet love.” He kissed her. “I made no secret that I wanted you.”
“I craved you, and I want to be with you forever.” She put her hands on each side of his face. “I still crave you, and I am jealous, and I hate those women who have been with you. I have become charged with emotion, wild with it, and I never was so before.”
He trailed a lazy finger down her throat, the hot water making him languid. “Yes, you were, love. You locked it inside you, until a mad Nvengarian came to let it out.”
“You have rearranged my entire life.”
“I know.” He kissed the line of her hair. “I know, my love.”
“I fear I will make a terrible princess. I have no idea how to be a princess.”
Her voice was tinged with panic. He smoothed his hand down her spine, trying to soothe her. “It does not matter. Sasha and I will guide you.”
“The prophecy could make you find a girl with a silver ring, but that does not make me a good princess,” she babbled. “Someone like the Russian countess or the English baroness would at least know how to give banquets and receive ambassadors. I was raised to be an English housewife.”
“Penelope.” He took a step back, slowly unwrapping her body from his. “The last thing I need is a woman with ideas of letting Russia get its great teeth into my little kingdom. Nor do I need an English aristocrat giving me his daughter for some kind of political gain. A simple English miss is exactly what I need, and you are the English miss I want.”
“I know nothing of political intrigue.”
“I know,” he said fervently. “That is one of the reasons I want you.”
Her eyes were a mystery. “If not for political intrigue, I would never have known you.”
“That is likely so.” He brushed a gentle hand across her skin. A woman did not want to hear that she was a safe bride. She wanted to hear that she was irresistible and maybe even forbidden, so that the gentleman risked much for her in the name of love.
The truth was, Damien had risked everything for her, including his life. “I need you,” he said. “Not for Sasha’s prophecy, not to be princess. I need you for myself.” He leaned down and nuzzled her neck so he would not have to look at her while he spoke. “I need you to save my life.”
“So that Alexander will not execute you?” she asked, puzzled.
“I do not mean that. I need you to keep me from becoming like my father. He was a monster; he destroyed everything he touched. He was so filled with hate and envy and anger that he could not let anyone love him.” He raised his head, displaced water droplets spattering. “Sometimes, when I am enraged, when I demand things to happen, I hear his voice in my mouth, I hear his words. From me, and I cannot believe it.”
Her tone turned worried. “If you know, you can stop yourself.”
“But what if I cannot? What if Alexander is right and the very worst thing that can happen to Nvengaria is to have me as prince? My father executed everyone who remotely disagreed with him. He ruled by absolute terror. He drove my mother to take her own life and executed his best friend, Alexander’s father, the man who kept my father plied with drink the night I was born. He was godfather to me. And yet, the day of the execution, my father snatched the musket from one of the marksmen and fired the killing shot himself.”
Her lips parted. “What had your godfather done?”
“Nothing at all, except remonstrate with him for how he treated my mother. My father, insanely jealous, accused the man of being her lover, then of plotting to assassinate him and take his place. Which was utter and absolute idiocy. He even made Alexander watch the execution, to learn what happened to a man who was not loyal. My father was a madman.”
“But you are not.”
“How do I know? Madness is inherited. How do I know I will not drive you to do what my mother did? Penelope, I do not know what I am.”
The words ripped out of him. And why the hell was he busily telling her things that he’d never before told a mortal soul? Why was he constantly baring himself to her, prostrating himself before her and essentially saying, Here is the wreck you have agreed to marry, God help you.
“You are my love and my prince. That is all.”
He held her, closing his eyes against the moisture in them. “No, he is here inside me like some damned ghost, like the demon your logosh turns himself into. That is why I am Prince Charming, as you call me, to hide the demon. I have been fighting him all my life.”
She buried her face in his neck, her soft body and sweet scent penetrating the sharp fear. “You no longer have to fight him alone.”
His arms tightened around her. Water trickled down his back as she soothed the hair at the nape of his neck. “I love you, Damien,” she whispered.
It didn’t reassure him, didn’t make all his fears go away that she’d agreed to help him. But it would be so much easier facing them with her.
“I want to make love to you again,” Damien said. “Right now.”
She jerked her head up, startled. “What about the ritual?”
“Later.” His arousal had sprung to life again, sorrow and fear giving way to hard need.
He turned her around and put his hands on her shoulders. “Get out of the bath and lie on the floor. Sasha left enough towels to cover a bed.”
“But…”
He closed his hands on her skin, letting his fingers bite. “Your first lesson in becoming a princess is to obey your prince at all times and without question.”
She sent him a skeptical look over her shoulder. “I am certain that is not a requirement. I will have to ask Sasha.”
He let his eyes go wide in mock severity. “I am the Imperial Prince of Nvengaria.”
“And I am Princess of Nvengaria, descended from one of the joint rulers. This makes me Imperial Princess, does it not? The equal of you?”
He wanted to laugh suddenly. She had spirit. “You question the will of your husband? English girls are raised to be obedient, are they not? And you just took a vow—before a vicar, no less—to obey me, did you not? Now get on the floor and make ready for me.”
She turned around, smiling seductively, one hand out as though to stop him. “That is not very charming, my prince.”
“I am tired of being Prince Charming. I wish to be the prince inside my wife.”
She might be an innocent, she might know nothing about being a princess and a woman of the world, but she knew how to entice, whether she understood her power or not.
“My modesty, sir.”
“You are naked in a bath with me,” he pointed out.
“Only because of the ritual.” Her smile widened. “Unless this is how all Nvengarians bathe?”
“It will be in our household. The Imperial Prince and Imperial Princess’s bath chamber will be installed as soon as we reach home.”
“Which we will n
ever do if we do not complete the ritual.”
He growled. The feral sound filled the room, and to his gratification, Penelope’s eyes widened.
She tried to run. She made it up the step to the edge of the bath before he caught her. She stifled her squeals as he swept her up and carried her to the pile of towels that could have dried a household of ten, and laid her down.
She peered up at him under lashes lush and thick, smiling like she’d done something clever.
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 lemo
nade, 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—