Damien’s fingers locked about her elbow as he led her away, burning her skin through his gloves. She was very aware of his powerful body close to hers, his heat against her side. He leaned down, his breath warming her ear. “Not long, love.”
She looked quickly up at him, hoping to catch the desire in his eyes, but some other diplomat was already sliding to them. Damien pasted a neutral smile on his lips and turned away to greet him.
Chapter Nineteen
Penelope did not dance with Damien again the rest of the night. She became separated from him quickly, but she was never alone.
The Regent himself claimed her attention and introduced her to ambassadors and diplomats, dukes and generals, and other fine people at his ball. He showed her off like a proud papa, and started putting out the story that he’d been instrumental in Penelope and Prince Charming coming together. Most people knew of the Regent’s propensity to exaggerate, and ignored him.
Penelope danced with dukes and foreign counts, ambassadors and emissaries. Each of her partners passed her to the next in a smooth exchange, and she was led into the supper room by a man called the Duke of St. Clair, who was young, handsome, and charming in his own way. He did something high-placed in the Admiralty, she gathered, though he was no naval man.
She caught sight of Damien escorting a middle-aged duchess to a place somewhere down the long table, turning to charm her. Penelope could always tell when he slid into the role of Prince Charming. His smile became secretive, his movements more foreign, as though he struggled with the customs of the country and was making the best of it. His accent would become more pronounced, and he’d smile apologetically for his blunders while the woman he charmed melted under his serene blue gaze.
Penelope sent him an ironic smile when he caught her gaze on him. He used her attention to point her out to the duchess, smiling an almost bashful smile that caused the duchess to tap him with her fan and give him a “naughty boy” look.
Penelope restrained herself from rolling her eyes, and Damien gave her a surreptitious wink.
After supper, the dancing began again and became interminable. Penelope lost track of all the people she’d met and their names and faces, though of course, they all expected her to remember them. Egan, thank heavens, saved her more than once, rudely claiming a dance with her, rushing her off to the floor like a jealous suitor.
When she tried to thank him for the reprieve, he merely bowed and said, “At your service, Princess.”
It was Egan who led her out of the ballroom at last, when the crowd began to grow restless. Egan told her that they’d stay until the last trump unless she left first.
She had to go around the entire ballroom and say her good nights. She did not see Damien at all and wondered where he was, but no one else seemed to miss him.
Her feet aching, her face almost numb from smiling, she let Egan lead her out the doors, up the stairs, and through another door into the private halls and stairways of the palace.
They reached a deserted staircase, a silent sweep of marble that led to the opulent private chambers. Penelope collapsed to a step with a heartfelt sigh. “Is it all over?”
Egan laughed as he plopped to the step next to her and leaned back on his elbows. He stretched out his legs, his kilt spilling over brawny thighs. “Must have drunk a vat of champagne tonight. My head’s spinning ’round and ’round. What is that woman doing up there?”
Penelope craned her head to look at the fat goddesses parading across the ceiling far above them. Most of them were overly plump and quite naked, and looked a bit silly.
She turned to make a quip to Egan and was startled to see his cheeks wet. She sat up. “Are you all right?”
“Aye,” he said, not moving. “I was remembering looking at paintings like these with a lass once, and what she said about them. She had a sharp wit, she did. I fell in love with her that day, I think.”
His eyes held vast sadness. Penelope put her hand on his shoulder. “And you lost her?” she asked.
He stared at her blankly, then blinked, as though he’d not meant to say the words out loud. He made a brushing-aside gesture. “Don’t listen to me, Princess. I’m bloody drroonk.”
“Do not begin the Scottish burr with me, Egan. Tell me about this woman.”
He made a face. “‘Tis nothing, lass. She married another. I’m man enough to get over it.”
Penelope gave him a skeptical look. Egan scrubbed his face with a sinewy, callused hand. “All right, she was a wee lass called Zarabeth. She saved my life; I fell in love with her. And if I weren’t so bloody stupid, I’d have snatched her up, instead of wandering the world drowning myself in malt whiskey. She made me promise to give it up. I didn’t. We quarreled. I left. That was years ago, and now she’s married some duke. End of story.”
He said the words in a hard voice, as though it was something he never thought about anymore.
Penelope knew better. “I am sorry.”
He pointed a thick finger at her. “Don’t you dare tell a soul. I don’t want to read stories in the newspaper about the Mad Highlander and his broken heart.”
“I’d never betray a confidence, Egan.”
The finger wavered. “Sorry, Princess, I didn’t mean to doubt you.” He put his hand to his head. “Och, teach me to drink champagne. Damn bubbly froth with no body. Nvengarian whiskey, now that stuff will give you balls of brass.”
Penelope laughed. Egan glanced at her as though he’d forgotten who he was speaking to. “Ignore my manners. I’m only the Mad Highlander.”
She opened her mouth to tell him she liked him the way he was, but she saw Damien below, walking swiftly through the open and deserted hall. Anastasia was by his side, her arm locked through his, the train of her skirt a silken ripple on the marble.
Penelope rose, ready to go down to them. At that moment, Damien turned and pressed Anastasia against the wall, putting his large body over hers.
Penelope heard nothing over the rushing in her ears, could see nothing but her husband leaning close to Anastasia, resting his weight on his arm above her head, her white hands pressing back into the marble wall.
Two lackeys in the Regent’s livery clattered past the couple below, thankfully not looking up to spy Penelope, rigid and openmouthed on the stairs. The lackeys skirted Damien and Anastasia, pretending not to see them, and hurried through another door on whatever errand they pursued.
Damien took a step back from Anastasia, but she remained against the wall, looking up at him with her sculpted face.
Penelope became aware of Egan’s fingers heavy on her elbow, his voice in her ear devoid of its Scots accent and champagne-drenched slur. “It’s not what it looks like, lass.”
Her cold fingers closed on her skirts. She wanted to run, to flee the palace, flee London, run all the way back to the safety of Oxfordshire. Her throat felt tight, her legs weak.
“What is it, then?” she asked stiffly.
“Damien will have to tell you that. An open stairwell is no place for it.”
He made her proceed with him up the stairs. Penelope turned her head to stare down at Damien, who’d leaned toward Anastasia again.
The catty part of her wanted to race down the stairs, yank Damien away, and tell the fair Anastasia to stay away from her husband. Like a fishwife, she thought, cringing. Perhaps I’d strike her, too, maybe rake my claws across her face.
Then she’d die of mortification. A lady never twitted her husband about his mistresses. She looked the other way and pretended they did not exist. That was the only way husband and wife could live in harmony.
Gentlemen took mistresses. It was the way of things. Her father never had because he’d had no use for women at all, but he’d never had much use for his wife, either. However, she knew good and well that most gentlemen of the ton gave their wives one house and tucked ladybirds into another.
She bit her lip and turned away, hoping Egan was right about it not being what it looked like, and then hoping s
he was not being too dreadfully naive.
Damien shed his tight coat like an unwanted skin, and Petri caught it in waiting hands. “Thank God that pantomime is over,” he said.
Damien was used to being an object of fascination at European courts, but tonight, he’d been fawned over and followed and teased and bantered with like never before. The elusive, charming bachelor Prince Damien had caught himself a beautiful bride.
“But you ought to have seen her, Petri,” he said as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. “She makes an astonishing princess. She knows how to talk to people, how to say what they want to hear, how to be charming and pretty and yet not so pretty and charming that people envy her. They like her.”
Petri gave him a grin as he folded away the Imperial Prince’s sash. “I’m sure she was a paragon, sir.”
“This was thrust upon her before she had time to prepare, and she rose to the occasion. I thought we’d go straight to Nvengaria, where she’d have training and polishing before we ventured to entertain crowned heads. She is amazing.”
“A true princess, sir.”
“Cease your laughter, Petri. A man can be proud of his wife and still be a man.”
“Perhaps you should tell her this yourself, sir.”
Damien shot him a glance as Petri pulled off his silk waistcoat. “I intend to. And so much more than that.”
Petri chuckled. “I like you being in love, sir. It makes you—exuberant.”
“It maddens me. I want to snatch her away and spend a week in bed with her, but I have to woo the Regent and fight Alexander, instead. I want her in the sheets, with you occasionally pushing food under the door to us when we get hungry.”
“Happy to oblige, sir.”
Damien began unwinding his neckcloth, relieved to rid himself of the strangling folds. At the same time, someone tapped on the door, and Petri strolled to answer it.
A lackey announced, “The Princess Penelope,” and Penelope followed him in, agitation in every step.
She still wore her ball gown, cut to reveal her lovely shoulders, long neck, and beautiful breasts. The skirt brushed her hips and legs, reminding him of what they looked like bare.
Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling, gold and green, like amber and jade. Diamonds flashed in her hair, a fine net of them draped over a simple braid coiled on the crown of her head. He’d noted other ladies gazing over her coiffure with interest and predicted that “the Penelope” would soon become all the rage.
She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He slid his cravat from his neck and held the slithering linen folds to his manservant. “Petri,” he said.
Petri knew exactly what he meant. He caught the neckcloth before it dropped, took up the coat and sash, and discreetly faded into the next room.
Damien loosened the tapes that held his shirt closed, while he indulged himself in gazing at her. “Penelope, love,” he said, savoring the words. “What is the matter?”
She opened and closed her hands, took a step forward, then halted, as though not trusting herself to go too near him.
“I want you to teach me, Damien,” she said, her voice breathless. “I want you to teach me to do everything a Nvengarian woman would.”
He stilled, his body tightening. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Be certain,” he repeated. “I do not want to hurt you, or shock you, or frighten you.”
She lifted her chin. “If Lady Anastasia of Austria can weather a Nvengarian marriage, then I can. I am of hearty English stock. I want you to have me do—whatever you would ask Lady Anastasia to do.”
He grinned suddenly. “Spy on the Austrians?”
She stopped, lips parting. “Spy?”
He drifted toward the huge, much-draperied bed that the Regent had assigned him and leaned against a post, hoping Penelope would take the hint and follow. “Anastasia is better than any intelligence officer you will ever meet. She keeps me informed, in detail, of what Prince Metternich is up to. He likes to cast his eye on Nvengaria, and I do not wish him to. He adores Anastasia, and tells her everything. He believes he keeps her spying on me.”
“And is she? Spying on you, I mean?”
She began to walk toward the bed, to his delight. “Anastasia blames the Austrian army for her husband’s death,” he said. “The Nvengarian contingent volunteered to follow them against Napoleon when Metternich entered the war. We little wanted him marching his forces in our direction. Only our mountains had stopped him from flushing us out, but that would not last forever. The Austrians had no compunction about using Nvengarians to decoy the French forces, were not interested in those men’s lives. Anastasia has never forgiven the generals or the entire Hapsburg empire. She will do anything to work to Austria’s detriment.”
“Oh.” She looked down, some of her bravado fading. “Egan told me you had her working for you. I assume that you embraced her in the hall for the benefit of the servants who walked by.”
So she had seen that. He’d thought her safely upstairs where his actions would not hurt her. Damn Egan McDonald for not whisking her out of sight.
“You assume correctly.” When he had leaned against the wall, pressing Anastasia against it, she had kept up a snarling diatribe under her breath about the Regent, his servants, his house. The Austrian ambassador was trying to interest the Regent in a bite of Nvengaria, although the Regent exuded confidence that Damien would let him have more in return for a stand against such a thing. Anastasia promised to bring Damien more exact intelligence before he left for home.
“You were lovers?” Penelope asked. Then she looked horrified and pressed her hand to her mouth.
Damien wanted to smile. The small spurt of possessiveness pleased him. It meant she wanted him and was not simply marrying him to save his life.
“Damien, I am sorry,” she breathed. “I do not know why I asked that. It is none of my business.”
He held out his hand, inviting her to step into the circle of his arm. “Come here, Penelope.”
Looking embarrassed, she glided across the room until she came to rest beside him. He slid his arm around her waist, cupping the curve between breasts and hips.
“It is your business, and I wish you to know,” he said. “I was her lover, but very briefly, years ago. When Anastasia’s husband was killed, she came to me. I was in France—Nvengaria was not officially at war with France, and I was in exile. I enjoyed staying at Napoleon’s court and watching what the bumptious little man and his hoipolloi family got up to. The English enjoyed my secret reports as well.” He smiled, remembering the vast pleasure he’d gotten by playing spy. Frivolous Prince Damien had never been suspected of sending secrets to King George’s generals.
“Anastasia was grieving. I have never seen a woman so devastated by grief. She was ready to destroy all of France for killing her husband and all of Austria for causing it to happen. She loved Dimitri more than her own life.” His voice softened. “I tried to comfort her, but she wanted Dimitri, not me. She had so much passion and so much rage, so I told her to channel this rage into working for me and Nvengaria, to keep the huge empires and kingdoms from using us. She accepted and began at once.” He paused. “She does not simply report to me, she talks to Alexander as well, knowing he is a formidable power in Nvengaria. I think she does not care who rules, me or Alexander; she cares only for punishing Austria and keeping Nvengaria far from its reach.”
Penelope looked up at him. “She does care for you, very much.”
“She is grateful to me,” he corrected her. He kissed her hair, diamonds scraping his lips. “She would have gone mad if I hadn’t recruited her, and she knows it.”
“It was kind of you.”
“Partly kind. Partly ruthless, because I saw what a good tool she could be.”
She kissed the line of his jaw. “You are not a monster, Damien, no matter what you try to tell me.”
He closed his other arm around her, basking in her scent and her softness.
<
br /> “Now that I have told you the story,” he asked, “do you still want me to show you what Nvengarians enjoy in bed?”
She looked at him from under her lashes, her cheeks flushed. “Yes.”
He felt a tightening in his groin. “I am pleased you say that.”
“I do want to know.” She lifted her chin, though her eyes were wary. “I hardly want you to run off to another Nvengarian woman because you believe me too hesitant.”
He traced his fingers along her cheek, turning her face to him. “Ah, Penelope. What I have to teach you will take many years to learn. I am patient enough to spend every day teaching you, if need be.”
Her flush deepened. “Where I come from, a man does not ask his wife for carnal things; he slakes his need on a mistress.”
Damien felt a sting of disgust for English husbands. “Not, it pleases me, where I come from.”
He touched his mouth to Penelope’s upper lip. She hungrily leaned into the kiss, but he pulled away. She sent him a look of frustrated need.
“We’ll do this slowly,” he said. “But do not worry. I will teach you everything.”
“Including…” She broke off and bit her lip. “The little whips?”
He stared at her, his already hard arousal springing to full length. “Little whips?”
Her face was crimson. “Yes, she—I heard that you liked—” Her voice lowered to a near whisper. “I am willing to try.”
“God in heaven.” Damien drew a long breath, trying to still the vision of a naked Penelope, tethered facedown to his bed, writhing in pleasure while he stretched next to her and tapped her buttocks with a strip of leather. His muscles were tight, sweat beading on his brow. “Is that what you want? I do not have such a thing with me, but I can arrange…”
“I do not know what I want.” She touched the opening of his shirt. “I want you.”
“Penelope, you play with fire.”
The look she slanted him told him she did not care.
“Hell.” He stood up and took her hands, raising her to her feet. “Make certain, love. I do not want to frighten you.”