She gazed up at him, resolute, though her fingers trembled. “I am certain.”
He framed her face with his hands and kissed her, hard, then he released her, and said, “Stay there.”
In the outer chamber, Petri had busied himself with the task of unpinning and shining each of the medals attached to Damien’s coat. Damien hadn’t earned all of them. Ten he’d inherited at his father’s death, and six had been bestowed on him for the simple act of returning to Nvengaria to become Imperial Prince. Once he brought Penelope home, his coat would likely sport so many medals he’d barely be able to wear it.
He said in Nvengarian, “No one is to come in, Petri. No one. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, sir.” Petri’s eyes twinkled. “What if the house is burning down?”
Damien considered. “Only if these chambers are in any danger.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good night, Petri.”
“Night, sir.” Petri grinned and returned to his task, taking a moment to turn the key in the lock of the outer door.
Inside the bedchamber, Penelope stood where Damien had left her, her expression both excited and wary. He moved to her and gently turned her to face away from him. “I will play lady’s maid and undress you.”
“Hilliard will be furious,” she said, her voice shaking.
“I will make it up to her.” Gently he untied the silken ribbon that kept the bodice closed, then slowly unhooked the tiny fabric clasps down its back. Her sleeves, mere wisps of silk, loosened and dropped.
He took a moment to trace the curve of her shoulder blade. Her skin was hot and slightly damp, and the flesh rose where he touched it.
I do not deserve her, he thought, as he followed his touch with his tongue. But lord, how I want her.
He unfastened the hooks that closed the waistband, and the entire dress loosened, letting him easily skim it down her hips and legs.
Penelope made a futile grab at it. “I should not leave it on the floor. It was so costly.”
“You are Princess of Nvengaria,” he said. “You may have a dozen.”
“I will not win the love of your people if I am frivolous about dresses.”
He pretended to bow to her wisdom. “You may have a point, my dear. Step out.”
She moved her silk-clad feet outside the circle of the gown. Damien lifted the dress with reverence and laid it carefully over a long sofa on the other side of the room. He turned back. “Better?”
She faced him, clad in stockings, slippers, chemise and stays. She looked less like a regal princess and more like a dairy maid, except for the diamonds in her hair.
He gazed at her in pure hunger, loving the way she looked, enticing himself by not allowing himself to touch her.
She waited under his gaze, clearly wondering, until she asked, “Are you not going to be lady’s maid any longer?”
He put his fingers to his lips, as though pondering the matter. “I have a better idea. Undress for me, Penelope. Let me watch you.”
He drew forward a gaudy, straight-backed chair with a leopard-print cushion and positioned it about five feet from her. He sat down, stretched out his legs, crossing one foot over the other, and waved his hand. “Proceed.”
Instead of obeying, she giggled. “You look like a sheik, waiting for his harem ladies to dance for him.”
He contrived to look stern. “There is a bit of Turk in the Nvengarians as well as wild Magyar, so I suppose it is natural.” He gestured again. “Undress, my harem lady.”
She began to frantically tug at the hooks that held her stays closed. He held up his hand. “Slowly. Make me anticipate.”
She stared a moment, as though wondering why he would want that, then she made her hand still. Slowly, she unhooked the top clasp of her stays, waited, then unhooked the next one. He watched, savoring, as her breasts loosened beneath.
She unfastened the last hook and drew the stays from her body. She looked at them for a moment, then walked to the sofa and laid them reverently next to the dress.
He stifled his laughter as she moved back to the precise point on the carpet she’d stood before, and untied the tapes in the front of her chemise. The short-sleeved garment bared her elbows and clung to her plump breasts and hips. He blessed whoever had invented it: though meant for modesty, it revealed much.
Penelope pulled a ribbon slowly out of its knot, dangling the tie as long as she could before moving to the next one. He forced himself to keep still, not letting his smile crease his lips. She had no idea how to move like a courtesan, and her attempts were charming and quite enticing.
She ran out of ribbons to untie, and stood looking at him shyly. Then, very slowly, she dropped the chemise from her shoulders and let it slither to her feet.
His heartbeat shot skyward. Dear God, the woman was beautiful. He curled his left fist in his lap, wanting both to bear her to the ground, animallike, and to sit still and slide his gaze over her lush body.
Her breasts, a firm rise of flesh with dusky tips, rose with her breath; her slender waist tapered to sweet hips. Though her thighs probably were plumper than she liked, they deliciously framed the golden hair and the treasure within that he’d kissed and licked and loved.
Gold lace garters were tied just above her knees, and her white silk stockings smoothed over her lower legs to her silk slippers. She looked at him, her fingers curling at her sides.
She reached for the garter binding her right leg.
“No,” he said swiftly. She looked up, wondering. “Leave the garters and stockings on. And your slippers.”
She raised her brows in question, but stood up slowly, obeying.
He drew in a breath. “In the cupboard, on the bottom shelf, is a glass bottle. Bring it to me.”
She bit her lip, as though about to protest him ordering her like a servant, then seemed to decide it was part of the game. She walked to the cupboard, Damien admiring her elegant backside all the way, and pulled open the door.
The huge gilded mirror that stood next to the wardrobe let him watch both her back and her front as she leaned down and extracted the bottle of scented oil he’d purchased in a rather exotic shop in the Strand.
She straightened and held out the bottle. “This one?”
“Yes.” He rose and set a narrow table with a round top next to the chair. “Bring it,” he said, sitting down again. “Be careful.”
He did not think the oil could possibly mar the room’s loud red and gold carpet if it spilled, but he’d hate to waste it. He’d bought it after much thought, carefully inhaling each sample the proprietor brought out to him. He’d decided on one that put him in mind of Penelope, a delicate sandalwood with the barest hint of roses. He’d paid an exorbitant price for it, the proprietor cannily gauging that Damien could afford it, but simply watching her carry the bottle to him in both hands made it worth it.
“Set it down here,” he said, patting the table.
Penelope placed the bottle carefully on the table, her small breasts curving forward.
“Now,” he said, unable to keep the hunger from his voice. “Come here.”
She stood before him, and he touched his palm to her belly, stroking a little while he breathed her scent.
“What do you wish me to do?” she asked.
“Come to me, love.” He slid his hands to her hips and tugged her forward, nudging his knees between hers. He lifted her, hands under her thighs, and pulled her down to straddle him.
Delicious, he thought, and began to kiss her.
Chapter Twenty
Penelope shivered with sensations. The hot wet of his tongue on her mouth, his strong fingers on her thighs, the cool of his rings on her flesh. Her legs were spread wide, the feel of his lawn shirt and cashmere trousers strange against her bare body.
She rubbed herself a little against the fabric, liking the friction against her sensitive skin, liking that behind the cashmere, he was desperately hard. Damien pressed his teeth into Penelope’s lower lip,
the scrape complementing the burn of his shirt on her breasts.
His eyes darkened as he skimmed his hands up her back, and down again to rest against her buttocks.
“Penelope, love, you make me want…” he trailed off into Nvengarian, muttering words in a husky voice.
She moved her hand up his tricep, firm behind the fine lawn. “What is the bottle for?”
“For my pleasure,” he answered, his voice still low. “And yours.”
With one hand, he pulled off the glass stopper. The mellow scent of sandalwood floated to her, laced with the rich scent of roses. He brought the bottle between them, and spilled a stream of oil onto his fingers.
Her eyes widened. “You’ll get it on your shirt.”
He gave her a hot look. “It will be worth the sacrifice.”
He set the bottle on the table, then rubbed his hands together, his fingers growing shiny with the scented oil.
He placed his palms on Penelope’s waist and began to massage her there, stroking fingers and thumbs over her sides and ribs, below her breasts. She closed her eyes, letting his touch soothe her.
More oil splashed to his hands, and he moved to her breasts. He cupped them in his palms and lavished attention on the tips, circling his slick thumbs over her aureoles. He leaned down and kissed her neck, bared by the upward sweep of her coiffure.
He slid his hands to her back, pulling her closer, and she snuggled against his warm shirt, ignoring the streaks of oil she left on it.
He roved his hands up and down, sculpting her shoulder blades and waist, kneading her neck, skimming oil down her spine. He replenished the oil and stroked it over her buttocks, circling each with his palm, drawing his hands under them and to the underside of her thighs.
He dribbled oil to his fingers, letting her see, watching her with an unreadable gaze. “When you no longer like it,” he said, “you tell me to stop.”
She nodded, but could not fathom why she would want him to stop. Having his gentle hands warm her skin with oil was most pleasant, even if a bit naughty. But they were married, and a husband could smooth oil onto his wife without censure.
Damien slid his hands, fingers spread, to her buttocks again. He kneaded each one, pulling her hips the slightest bit apart. He leaned forward slightly and slid one oiled finger, just barely, into the small hole between her buttocks.
She gasped aloud. Hot dark sensation flooded her body, and her skin rippled with fire. She opened her eyes wide, wondering if the sensation hurt or if it were simply unbearable pleasure.
“Penelope.”
Penelope dragged her gaze to his. He watched her, eyes intent. “You tell me,” he said. “You tell me whether to stop or to go on.”
She swallowed, nodding. “Go on,” she whispered.
“You are certain?”
“Yes.” She barely heard the word.
“If I hurt you, you tell me.”
“Yes.”
He cupped her cheek with one hand, and with the other, slid his finger in, ever so gently, another fraction of an inch.
She cried out, letting her head drop back. “Damien, please.”
“Please stop?” he asked, voice hard. “Or please go.”
“Go,” she said wretchedly. “More.”
Very carefully, he pushed his finger farther, another inch. She cried out again, squeezing her thighs, wanting to draw him all the way in and wanting him out of her at the same time. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
His other hand moved, slick with oil, down her front, to slide between her thighs. His fingers moved to the folds of her opening, teasing them, parting them.
“Damien,” she cried. She moved her hips forward, wanting to drive herself onto him. She pulled at his finger behind her, and that hurt a little. She froze.
“Shh,” he soothed. He played his thumb across the sensitive button above her opening, moving the sheath, circling it with his touch. The heat inside her grew unbearable. She whimpered. He played still more, moving the fingers of both hands inside her. His thumb on her nub burned and ached.
When he kissed her, she closed her lips around his tongue, suckling mindlessly, wanting to and not knowing why.
He pinched her sensitive nub with his thumb, his nail just barely scraping her, perhaps unintentionally. The sensation triggered her. She dropped her head back, tears dripping from her eyes, and screamed her climax at the overly gilded and ornate ceiling.
Damien played with her further, his hands points of wild, raw pleasure. This was what he meant when he said his people were uncivilized, they let themselves be stripped of modesty and propriety to revel in this carnal, beautiful feeling.
“Damien,” she sobbed.
“Yes, love. Let it have you.”
She screamed again, writhing against his hands and his chest, feeling his teeth close on the skin of her neck. She bucked and arched, wanting every bit of the pleasure inside her. She’d never imagined feelings like this existed; she wondered how she’d lived her entire life without them.
She spiraled on the sensations, having no idea what words she cried, nor how long she’d kissed him, nor that she’d bitten him until she saw the teeth marks in his neck. When at last the feeling broke, and she tumbled back to herself again, she found her face wet with tears.
Slowly and gently, Damien withdrew his hands, sliding them out as carefully as he’d slid them in.
He made love to her after that, still in the gaudy chair. “We must get as much use as we can out of the ugly thing,” he said.
He rid himself of his clothes, then had her turn about. He grasped her hips in his hands, still slippery with oil, and entered her while he sat in the chair. She arched against him, her back to his broad chest, closing her eyes to the feeling of him stiff and upright inside her.
He’d stationed the chair so the gilded mirror reflected their nude bodies locked together. Her white legs twined his strong brown ones. Her legs were open, his thick stem pressed up into her.
One of his sinewy hands rested on her white abdomen, while he slid his fingers through her wiry curls, teasing her until she felt like fire. When she came this time, he was inside her, heavy and wide, and she screamed for the joy of it.
He pumped into her, groaning wordless sounds into her ear, as she writhed on him. When he climaxed, he closed his eyes tight, pulling in a long breath and letting it out as one long “aahhhh.”
Then he licked and nipped her neck and lobe and cheek, as though tasting her was the most heady thing he’d ever done.
“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely as they both wound down, melding together in the chair. “I love you, sweet Penelope.”
They touched and kissed one another for a long time after that, eventually using the oil again, sliding it over each other’s bodies. Penelope giggled as they slithered from the chair, too slick to remain in it, and Damien’s warm chuckle answered her.
On the carpet, he made love to her again, this time pinning her hands above her head and riding her in slow, long strokes.
He was still inside her when she fell asleep, exhausted, on the carpet, but awoke again to find him carrying her to the bed. He laid her in the middle of the huge mattress, then climbed beside her and arranged the bedding around them, like a warm, comfortable nest. She smiled as she drifted to sleep again, spooning against his broad body, his warmth a satisfying blanket. She’d never felt so safe.
Damien opened his eyes to find Petri standing above him, a worried look in his blue eyes. “Sir.”
He spoke softly, but Damien put his finger to his lips. Penelope slept beside him under the sheets, her face relaxed, her body limp.
“I’d not wake you were it trivial,” Petri said. The candle he held wavered, splashing hot wax to the coverlet.
“I know.” Damien could not slide from the bed without waking Penelope, they were so twined together, so he nodded at Petri to tell him.
“Do you remember, sir, the man called Everard Felsan?”
Damien felt
a qualm of disquiet. “The Prussian pugilist turned mercenary?” he asked. “The man who will do any deed, including murder, for the right amount of gold?”
“That is precisely the man, sir.”
“What about him?” Damien continued, though he knew good and well what Petri was about to say.
“Young Titus came to me swearing he’d spotted Felsan in a tavern near Charing Cross.”
“Young Titus likes to drink and tell dramatic tales.”
Petri nodded. “I would have said the same, if Rufus and Miles hadn’t rushed in not a quarter hour later with the same news.” He looked grim. “Felsan is in London, in this corner of it. I’d wager even money that I know the name of the man he was sent to kill.”
“Or the woman,” Damien said softly, looking down at sweetly sleeping Penelope. “God damn it all, we must not let Felsan near her.” He drew in a breath, his mind spinning plan after plan, until he settled on one. “All right, Petri, here is what I want you to do.”
In the weak light just before dawn, Penelope followed Damien from the servants’ door of Carleton House and joined a crowd walking to the markets for the morning. Carleton House employed a large staff and the Regent liked to hold lavish entertainments, so shopping for household stuffs took many hours and many hands.
Petri and Titus walked nearby, dressed as English servants. Petri wore his breeches and red coat negligently, but Titus looked aggrieved. He was proud to wear the Imperial Prince’s livery, and looked upon English clothes as second class. Even so, he did not look too out of place.
The only incongruous one was Sasha. Petri had wanted to leave him behind with the rest of the entourage.
“He’ll slow us down,” she’d heard Petri argue as she’d hastily dressed in the next room. She’d learned enough Nvengarian now, thanks to Sasha, that she could understand most of Damien’s and Petri’s conversations. “He’ll never pass for English, and he never shuts up about you and the princess. Not that you’re not worth adoration, sir, but he puts you in danger.”
“He is an old man,” Damien said in a quiet but firm voice. “I will not risk that Felsan will not try to kill him if he’s left behind, or somehow use him to get to me. I promised to protect him.”