Penelope had thought her mother did not care what he said. But then she’d catch her mother crying, when moments before she’d airily tossed off her husband’s insults.
“Mama, he does not mean to be cruel,” she’d say.
“Yes, he does,” Lady Trask would sob. “He hates me and loves you. He always has. I do not understand what I did wrong.”
Indeed, her father had once said to Penelope, “The only decent thing your mother ever did was give me you.”
Her father had turned all his devotion to Penelope. If Penelope had been a shallow person, she’d have reveled in his attention, gloating over the fact that she’d edged out her mother. But Penelope was not shallow, and she could only be sorry that her father had dismissed Lady Trask as nothing. “Be kind to her, Papa,” she’d beg him.
“I am kind. I give her as much money as she needs and all the gewgaws she wants. A woman like her is happy as soon as you dangle a trinket before her.”
For some reason, this particular memory chose to haunt Penelope now. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her face.
“I never meant to make you cry,” Damien said behind her.
Penelope jerked her head up. He leaned against the column nearest her, his coat stirring in the breeze from the river. He was hatless, his dark hair black in the shadows of the folly. His boots were polished, buckles shined, the soles muddy from their walk through the meadow.
His kisses still burned on her mouth. He’d touched her with gentle hands and awakened a fire she’d never felt.
Desire, she thought in dismay. I desire this man. Whether he be prince or liar.
“I am not crying because of you,” she said with difficulty.
He took two slow steps, then lowered himself to the stair next to her. “I am pleased.”
He smelled of the outdoors and tobacco and a male scent. His bulk shielded her from the breeze, warming her. His blue eyes swept to take in the view, his black hair brushing his shoulder as he turned his head.
“Does no one in Nvengaria wear hats?” she asked, sniffling.
“What?”
“Hats. You have not worn a hat, and neither have your men.”
He turned his gaze to her, catching her once more like a moth entranced by a candle flame. If she moved too close, she’d incinerate.
“Hats never caught on as fashion in Nvengaria.” A smile tugged the corners of his lips. “Too windy.”
“What do you do in the winter?”
“We have fur things—gzizbas, they are called. They cover the head and ears. They look silly, but keep us remarkably warm.”
She crossed her arms over her bent knees and laid her head on them. “You really are from Nvengaria.”
“I know.”
Her eyes stung, her cheeks wet. “I did not like the way you and your man so easily dismissed my mother in favor of me.”
“She refused me. It was logical to next go to you.”
“So I must be this princess? And marry you? You might have told me from the beginning and spared me your talk of love.”
His thigh rested close to hers, muscles filling out his breeches. He was large and masculine, like no other man she’d met.
The silver ring clasped his forefinger. She looked at it, and saw what his gloves had hidden when she’d ridden with him, that his hands were callused and workroughened. His strong, blunt fingers dwarfed hers as he lifted her hand.
“It is done, Penelope.” His words were quiet, but final. “I came here to find my bride, and you are she. I knew so when I first saw you, though I did not understand.”
He was doing it again. His voice was smooth and low and wrapped her senses. She’d determined to be skeptical, but under the spell of his voice, she could only stammer.
“How could you know?”
He gave her his smile. “I told you I had fallen in love with you. In ten minutes. It was the prophecy, and my sage told me I would follow it, whether I willed it or not. I fell in love because I was destined to.” He ran his thumb over the joint of her first finger. “Why I fell in love does not change the fact that I did so.”
She pulled her gaze from his with difficulty. “You must be completely mad. Or I am. Princes of Nvengaria do not turn up in out-of-the way villages and declare they want a bride.”
“You know all about princes of Nvengaria, then?” he asked, humor in his tone.
“Well, not much. But Michael is right. You could be a charlatan. Most likely, you are. Nvengaria is a great long way away from here. Near Transylvania and Moldova and lands of the Ottoman Empire.”
“You are well informed. Most English people have no knowledge of it.”
“I know of it because I study fairy tales. I collect them into little books.”
He looked interested. “You know Nvengarian fairy tales?”
“Only one,” she said, trying to sound indifferent. “I found it in French. It was all about a fountain and a coin and an old woman and a goose. I could not understand it very well.”
He nodded gravely. “I have heard that one. I do not understand it, either.”
“I never found any about an eight-hundred-year-old ring and an English girl who should marry a prince.”
His eyes twinkled. “That is because it is still being written.”
She swallowed a lump in her throat. “I wish you would not look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He leaned forward, his dark hair brushing his shoulders, his eyes blue and intent upon her.
“Like you want to kiss me again,” she said faintly.
“Would that be so bad?”
Yes. She was confused, and another dark kiss would confuse her more. “It would be very, very bad.”
“I do not think so.” He touched her hair.
“I think so,” she said breathlessly. “Definitely, very bad.”
He moved closer still, the heat of his body wrapping her like a blanket. “No, Penelope. With you it will always be good.”
He leaned down and brushed her lips with a small, slow kiss.
Penelope drew a sharp breath. He smiled. His eyes went dark, flecks of black in the blue.
“Stop,” she whispered.
“Why?” He caressed her lips again. “You will marry me. We may kiss as much as we please.”
She drew back. “I have not said I would marry you.”
“You will.”
“You are arrogant.”
“It is not arrogance. I know it will happen.”
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 tong
ue 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?”
Chapter Six
Damien wanted to laugh at Meagan’s delight, but the way Penelope watched him kept him sober. Meagan leapt to her fe
et, 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.