A few did dwell on the political situation, speculating that Damien would find difficult opposition from Grand Duke Alexander and the Council of Dukes.
One article focused on Alexander himself, going on at length about how the Grand Duke’s father had been executed by the old Imperial Prince and that Alexander’s wife, the Grand Duchess, had recently died of a wasting disease. Now he was a grieving widower with a small son. A drawing of him, a fierce-looking man of Damien’s age with a handsome Nvengarian face, broad shoulders, and sharp eyes, peered out at her from the pages of the story.
Penelope looked back at him, realizing that here was a man who would not simply bow out and let Damien walk to his throne unmolested. What would Duke Alexander make of Penelope, the simple English girl who claimed to be Princess of Nvengaria? She saw no sympathy in that gaze, only ruthlessness.
She had no chance to discuss these newspaper stories with Damien because neither of them had a moment to spend alone together. Damien had been pulled off almost immediately behind tall, gilded doors to mysterious meetings, and Penelope had been pushed and pulled by dressmakers, and given more hasty lessons in Nvengarian by Sasha.
Not to mention looking after Wulf. The boy wanted to explore every cranny of the gaudy palace, and saw no reason not to change into his demon form to climb to the lofty ceilings and examine paintings there.
“If we take him to Westminster Abbey,” Egan McDonald said on one occasion when Penelope had to coax him down, while the terrified staff looked on, “mebbe he could be a gargoyle.”
She thanked heaven for Egan’s presence every day. While Damien wooed ministers and ambassadors, Egan remained at Penelope’s elbow, escorting her through the palace and relieving tension when she was scrutinized by the Prince Regent’s many guests, including the beautiful countess and baroness whom she’d overheard talking about Damien at the fete. She was not certain she could have survived the first days without Egan.
Egan even now met her on the wide landing, resplendent in crisp plaids and lawn shirt, and led her down to the ballroom for the first of the Regent’s planned extravaganzas.
“Don’t look so disappointed to see me, lass,” Egan said, grinning. “You hurt a man’s feelings.”
She smiled, contrite. “I’d hoped Damien would be able to escort me tonight.” She rubbed her cold fingers together, absently noting the new diamond-studded band next to her silver Nvengarian ring.
Damien had given her the diamond ring the day they’d reached London, having sent for it from Bond Street jewelers. “The first of many such things I will give you,” he’d murmured as he slid it on her finger. He’d kissed her with promise, his blue eyes dark, then disappeared to meet with the Regent.
“He’s being pulled this way and that, poor lad,” Egan said as Penelope slipped her hand in the crook of his arm. “Everyone wants a piece of the Imperial Prince, and he’s trying to run through them quickly so you can leave for Nvengaria in time for the Midsummer festival. The Regent, now, he doesn’t understand the hurry.” He winked. “Why rush away when you can linger over fine wine, lavish entertainment, and beautiful women?”
“There are many beautiful women about, aren’t there?” she said glumly.
Egan lifted his brows. “Now, then, Miss Princess, none of that. Damien has eyes only for you. I’ve never seen him look at a woman the way he looks at you. Like he wants to eat you up.”
She felt herself blush. “But this is their world. The ladies here are sophisticated and know all the rules. I blunder and never realize it. I am the simple country fool who caught the prince’s eye, and they wait eagerly for him to turn his eyes elsewhere.”
“Which he’ll never do.” Egan pressed her hand. “I know Damien. He’s loyal and true when he believes in someone, and he believes in you.”
“And that plunges me into abject terror,” she said. “What if I disappoint him? What if I cannot be the princess he needs me to be?”
“My dear, you need some Egan McDonald wisdom.” He grinned. “You said they know all the rules and you don’t. Well, then you make up your own rules. If they want a charming country lass; be a charming country lass, don’t try to be one of them. When they look at me, they see the Mad Highlander, so the Mad Highlander I become. I can do and say what I like, and no one says the worse of me, because I’m the Mad Highlander. Do you see?”
“It is a bit easier for you,” she pointed out. “You are a war hero.”
“And you are the Imperial Princess of Nvengaria. They’ve never met an Imperial Princess, so you can be Imperial Princess any way you like. They believe everyone from Nvengaria is half-mad anyway, which is true.”
“You are saying I should be eccentric?”
“With you, lass, you be just as you are, and you’ll wrap these posh ladies and gents around your little finger, just like you’ve done me and all the Nvengarians.”
She took his arm again. “You are very flattering.”
“I’m only truthful. Come on, then, let’s join the queue. Think of it this way—the Regent spent a fortune on this knees-up. The food and drink should be palatable.”
She laughed, knowing that he was trying to make her laugh, and let him lead her through wide halls to the crowd gathering at the top of the ballroom stairs.
When it was their turn to enter, the major domo straightened to his full height and bellowed: “Lord Egan McDonald and her Imperial Highness, Princess Penelope of Nvengaria.”
All faces turned upward as Egan led Penelope down the grand stairs. She felt every gaze in the ballroom rivet to her, curious, or hostile, or excited. But her eyes were only for Damien, who had just slipped through a door on the other side of the ballroom, one that led to the Regent’s chambers, where they’d presumably been meeting.
He looked every inch a Nvengarian in severe military-style suit, with his rows of medals dangling from his chest, his gold sash of office a bright slash from shoulder to waist. Gone was the casual man who’d ridden across Holden’s meadow with her weeks ago, who’d kissed her in the tall grass. Gone was the man who’d tossed his clothes from his body and slid into the river to suckle her toes. In his place was the Imperial Prince, his stance straight, his face severe. Only his blue eyes glittered as he took her in, his bride, his princess, his showpiece.
She lifted her chin, knowing that diamonds sparkled in her hair and that her gown was a masterwork. The lines about his mouth softened a little, the corners tilting upward.
The guests at the bottom of the stairs crushed forward, each wanting the privilege of being the first to meet the new princess.
“Ah, McDonald,” said a gentleman lucky enough to be at the forefront. “Introduce me, there’s a good chap.”
He held out a pudgy, beringed hand to Penelope, bowing and grinning and taking in every inch of her apparel. He turned out to be an earl, the men with him, a baron and a general. Their wives nearly shoved themselves across the ballroom to take advantage of their husbands’ “in,” and Penelope faced their smiling, eager faces with a demure smile of her own.
When Egan led her away, her legs were shaking, and her smile felt stretched. “Nicely done,” he murmured in her ear.
“Thank you, may I retire to the privy now?”
He chuckled. “No, lass, you’re doing fine.”
He led her in Damien’s general direction, but so many people shoved themselves in front of them, all thrusting hands to her and demanding introduction, that it took the better part of an hour to get through them all. Not only did she have to greet them, she also had to spend a few moments conversing on all sorts of subjects—they wanted her opinion on everything from the latest fashion in riding boots to the King of France’s restoration.
Penelope, who had never been asked her opinion on anything before, except by her father, answered the best she could and hoped she did not sound like a fool.
“You come from Oxfordshire,” one gentleman who smelled of port remarked. “What effect do you think enclosure has had there?”
>
“What think you of the idea of steam engines, Your Highness? Is it the fantasy of a madman, or the future of England?”
“Do they have plays in Nvengaria? Like our Sheridan and Shakespeare?”
“What sort of flowers did you have when you married the prince? What did your dress look like? I saw a drawing in the newspaper, but it did not resemble you in the least.”
Penelope thanked heaven she’d listened for years to her mother make small talk about nothing. She was able to make replies that did not sound too insipid, and even had her own opinions about things such as enclosures and steam, thanks to her father.
By the time Egan and she made it through the crowd, she was already exhausted. They found Damien speaking at some length to a tall woman in a simple but elegant ensemble of deep blue, which offset her glossy brown hair. She was older than Penelope, probably Damien’s own age of thirty, with a lovely face and chocolate-brown eyes framed with lush black lashes. She wore only a circlet of pearls on her perfect white throat, and Penelope at once felt overdressed and over-glittering.
“Ah,” Egan said in a loud voice. “The lovely Anastasia. My dear, it has been too long.” He made a deep bow with a flourish, his McDonald plaids whirling.
“Do I behold Egan McDonald?” the creature said, her voice dusky and low, with hints of sultriness. “I last saw you chatting up lasses in Paris, drunk as a lord.”
“Or drunk as a laird,” Egan said cheerfully. “You are as beautiful as ever, my darling Anastasia.”
“You are as flattering as ever.” Her gaze moved to Penelope, but she would not speak until introduced.
Damien, whose dark gaze had landed and lingered on Penelope’s bared shoulders, said, “Penelope, may I present Anastasia Dimitri, Countess of Nvengaria. Anastasia, my wife, Her Imperial Highness, Princess Penelope.”
Anastasia curtsied as the other women had, but the look she cast over Penelope was more thorough, more careful. She laid her hand on Damien’s arm.
“Oh, Damien,” she breathed. “Yes, she’ll do.”
“You are Nvengarian?” Penelope asked politely, her heart thumping.
“Austrian,” Damien answered. “She married a Nvengarian count.”
Anastasia’s dark eyes flickered. “And I became more Nvengarian than the Nvengarians, Your Highness. If I may say so, you will make a splendid princess.”
She did not remove her hand from Damien’s arm. Damien did not seem to notice this. Egan did but said nothing. Anastasia continued to study Penelope, something behind her neutral expression that Penelope could not read.
Penelope’s throat felt tight, and she struggled to keep the inane smile on her face. “Thank you, Countess.”
“Anastasia is on our side,” Damien said in a low voice.
Anastasia sent him a sharp look. “Of course, I do believe some of Alexander’s reforms to be necessary. Some of them are overdue.”
“I do not deny that he is an intelligent man with excellent ideas,” Damien answered. “But his methods are to gut everything completely and start again, which is foolish.”
“If he could be put to use heading reforms, he would be a formidable ally.”
“That is, if he can take the time from attempting to murder me,” Damien said.
“True, but—”
To Penelope, it sounded like the two of them had argued the point countless times. Many arguments, many conversations, when Damien had barely spoken of Alexander to Penelope.
There is no reason I should be jealous, she scolded herself.
And whyever not? said the part of her that saw the world very clearly. The two had obviously been friends, perhaps more than that. Damien had not seen his way to mentioning her before. Had they been lovers? Were they still?
“Are we to speak of wretched politics all night?” Egan broke in. “The pair of you would bore a tortoise. This is a ball; I say we join the dancing.”
The musicians were warming up in the gallery, the opulent ballroom clearing so that dancing could commence.
Anastasia squeezed Damien’s arm. “They will love to see you lead your bride out in the first minuet.”
“I intend to.” Damien’s eyes warmed, and he held out his gloved hand to Penelope. “My love?”
She put her hand into his strong one, trying to suppress the shiver that flowed through her. She had not slept with him since their wedding night, and her body craved him.
The other two noticed their attention on each other, because Egan snickered and Anastasia’s smile grew wide.
Damien bent them a severe look. “Mind your own business. Egan, take the countess out.”
“The minuet is a bloody silly dance,” Egan said. “All that hopping and bobbing and bowing in place.”
Anastasia snaked her elegant arm around Egan’s. “Lead me out, McDonald. You can do a Highland sword dance for all I care, but I need people to see me enjoying myself in a frivolous fashion.”
Egan looked aggrieved. “Aye, it’s work, work, work for poor old Egan. Use him and discard him, he doesn’t care.” His grin fixed in place, he tucked her hand under his arm and strode smoothly to the forming squares.
Damien led Penelope a little way behind them, his arm bent formally at the elbow, her hand on his.
“Is she Egan’s long-lost love?” she asked. She remembered Meagan stating that she believed Egan had a secret sorrow, a love unrequited. Anastasia was certainly beautiful enough for any number of men to fall in love with.
Damien looked puzzled. “What are you saying?”
“Never mind. I thought perhaps the two of them—”
“Egan and Anastasia?” He looked so astonished that Penelope wished she’d said nothing. “No, Anastasia had one love, and that was her husband.”
“Was?”
He leaned close to her, his warm breath tickling her ear. “He was killed in the Peninsular War at Vitoria. He fought in an Austrian regiment, whose commander more or less abandoned his soldiers in an outcropping far from the town. The were pinned down by the French, and not one of them survived.”
Penelope looked up at him, startled. “Good heavens.”
“Yes. I can say no more at present.”
Penelope wondered what more there could be to the story, but they walked surrounded by glittering couples heading to begin the dance, all of whom eagerly watched the prince and princess. Nothing private could be said here.
It was the last moment alone Penelope had with Damien the entire night. They opened the dancing in the head square in the place of honor, the entire ballroom applauding when they appeared. Damien kissed Penelope’s hand before he released her so she could take her place, which engendered more applause.
The minuet began. Penelope had not seen Damien dance before. He moved with exquisite grace and animallike precision, his body moving in fluid time with the music. No hopping and bobbing, as Egan called it. She noted other ladies in the room turning heads to watch him, eyes sliding to Penelope in envy.
She caught sight of Egan from the corner of her eye. He bounced up and down, exaggerating the steps and hops, letting his kilt flap like a wild flag. But she saw that he, too, moved with feral grace, though he tried to hide it.
Damien noticed her watching him. “He plays the clown,” he breathed as they drew close.
Penelope wanted to lean to him, wanting him with a mindlessness that alarmed her. His medals clanged softly as he bowed and straightened. His eye caught hers, the spark in them telling her he sensed her longing.
“He distracts people,” she said softly in return.
His brows quirked at her perceptiveness. “He makes them forget what they want to pay attention to.”
They parted then, before he could elaborate on the cryptic statement. Penelope smiled at the other gentleman in the square, to whom the dance had her turn and curtsy.
When she and her husband drew together again, her need swamped her, and she gazed hungrily at him. One wisp of his hair fell to his brow, just above his heart-stopp
ing blue eyes.
“Damien,” she murmured.
His hand tightened on hers. “I know.”
The pressure of his fingers told her. He wanted her, had for all the tedious time they’d spent in the Prince Regent’s overly elaborate palace.
She had a sudden vision of him closing his fingers hard over her wrists and dragging her through the crowd, out the ballroom doors, and up the many staircases to his high-ceilinged chamber and his huge curtained bed. She wanted it so much it put a sharp taste in her mouth.
His fingers slipped from hers, and he shook his head once, ever so slightly.
Disappointment cut her. She curtsied and stepped back to her place, trying to keep the hurt from her face.
This is what it is to be a princess, she thought. Not spunsugar castles and happily ever after, but endless ceremony and parading before others when the heart longs only to be with the beloved.
She squared her shoulders. She could do it. She was made of stern stuff. She’d gone into this knowing she married Damien to save him, to fulfill his quest so his people would rally to him as prince. She loved him enough to want to save his life, even at the expense of her own happiness.
No matter that she was a drooling pool of lust. She hadn’t slept with him or even kissed him in days. Would this be their life? Coming together once a fortnight for hastened greetings before being whisked off to other duties?
Well, she would not let that happen. Saving Damien and Nvengaria was important, but once that was finished, she would insist on having a marriage. Certainly they could be prince and princess during the day, but at night, when the servants were gone and the candles lit, they would be husband and wife, in all ways.
She sent Damien a determined glance. He caught it and gave her a faint lift of brows in return.
The dance ended. She curtsied to the other gentleman, then the lady. They were high-placed diplomats from Prussia, she remembered, and she said her thanks in German, what little she knew of it. The husband and wife, both white-haired and looking vastly experienced with the diplomatic life, smiled and pronounced her charming.