One of the rituals involved bathing in a deep bath. He could already feel her slick skin under his hands as he washed her, purifying her for their first coupling. He’d slide fingers over her curves, finding the secret recesses of her.
That was one ritual Sasha was not going to supervise.
Yes, he would certainly drag every benefit out of this that he could.
He lowered his head, wanting to kiss her lips again, despite Meagan’s interested gaze. Penelope tasted like a warm spring breeze. He wanted to taste her again. And again.
Stay with me, love.
Penelope broke away from him in a swirl of skirts. She glared at Meagan, then at Damien, then turned and ran from the folly. The wind lifted her dress, revealing a pair of plump calves and pretty ankles before the cloth swirled down again.
Her swaying backside held his gaze, too.
Damien let her go. She was too flustered, too frightened. He’d give her a chance to cool down, to regain her senses. And then he’d try again.
A part of him was glad she resisted. This woman would not meekly go where she was told. He liked a challenge, and he needed a woman who was up to it.
He needed a woman who would put her hands on her hips and face him down. A woman who could also face down his enemies. His heart beat faster. What a princess she’d make.
Meagan patted his shoulder in sympathy. “I said too much, didn’t I?”
“I am afraid we both did.”
Meagan kept her hand on Damien’s shoulder. “She really was hurt before. Twice. Deeply. She is afraid to trust again.”
Something darkened inside him. “Who would hurt her?”
“Stupid gentlemen with no sense of honor. Mr. White was the worst. He made her believe he truly loved her, when, of course, he did not. Magnus Grady was just nasty.” Her fingers dug a little through his coat. “I vow, Prince Damien, you are quite muscular. Does your prophecy say that you can marry the soon-to-be stepsister of the bride if she refuses?”
He looked into her impudent smile and grinned in response. “Alas, no.”
“Well, that’s all right.” She let go of his arm. “I see the way you look at Penelope. You are far gone on her, are you not? I am pleased. She needs someone who will fall head over heels in love with her.”
Damien had fallen head over heels in love with her, just like the damned prophecy had said he would.
He hadn’t believed it. He’d never believed in magic before, thinking the Council of Mages a pack of charlatans who tailored their predictions to whatever the Imperial Prince or Duke Alexander wanted to hear.
But maybe, just maybe, they’d been right about this.
Damien also needed Penelope, and needed her for more than the reasons a man usually needed a woman. He wondered if that needing would in the end outweigh the love.
Penelope had disappeared through the trees, but her presence lingered. If he’d met her a year ago, he’d have lain her down and made sweet love to her right away.
No, probably not. He knew the difference between an untouched miss and the hungry married women who pursued him. He’d have looked at Penelope, had an erection-throbbing fantasy about her, but left her alone.
Now he wanted her, and he could have her. And he would have her. He’d change her no to a yes, and then they’d be betrothed, and, according to Nvengarian custom, they’d become lovers.
A betrothal was as legally binding as a marriage in Nvengaria. Nvengarians did not consider a child conceived or even born before the wedding to be illegitimate, as long as the couple was legally betrothed.
He’d never given much thought to that custom before, but it pleased him now.
She’d say yes, and then he’d spend the rest of his time in bed with her, while Sasha carried on with the betrothal festivities.
What a lover Damien could teach her to be. Would teach her to be. His breeches tightened to the point of pain.
“I could imprison the gentlemen who broke Penelope’s heart, if you like,” he said. “I can tell Sasha to throw them into the deepest dungeons. Have them tortured even.”
“Oooh, that sounds nice,” Meagan said happily.
What Meagan did not understand was that Damien really could.
What Damien’s father hadn’t understood was that you were stronger if you did not.
Meagan suddenly cocked her head and put her hands on her hips. “My father is right about one thing. How do we know you are a real prince?”
Damien looked into surprisingly shrewd eyes in her pointed face. “I thought you were on my side.”
“I am. But Penelope is my best friend. And soon to be stepsister. I want her to marry a prince, not a hoaxer.”
“I quite understand.” He descended the steps of the folly and politely held out his hand to help Meagan down. “But I will prove it.”
“How?”
He gestured expansively. “I will hold a festival, in a week’s time, for your family and friends. For your entire village. Sasha has already begun the arrangements. I invited many acquaintances from London, including a man whom you will believe when he tells you I am Prince Damien of Nvengaria.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, yes? And who is this man?”
“The Prince Regent.”
“Oh.” She looked thoughtful, then took Damien’s arm as they began walking slowly back to the house. “That will work, I suppose. Providing, of course, that we believe he’s really the Prince Regent.”
Near midnight, Michael Tavistock entered Lady Trask’s bedchamber and closed the door.
Lady Trask heard him, but she did not look ’round from brushing her hair. Her maid had undressed her, helped her into a dressing gown, then discreetly left the room.
Any minute now, Michael would cross to her, put his hands on her shoulders, tilt her head back and kiss her. Lady Trask waited in excited anticipation. Michael could kiss like fire.
He did no such thing. He remained by the door, his arms folded, watching her in the mirror.
Disappointment darted through her. The afternoon had been exhausting. Penelope had been most trying, completely ignoring Lady Trask’s attempts to point out that she’d never get a better offer than from a prince, and what was the matter with her?
Michael, the exasperating man, took Penelope’s side. He could not possibly know what it was like to have a daughter who’d jilted two perfectly good London gentlemen with money and connections. Granted, neither Mr. White nor that somewhat awful Magnus Grady had been as handsome and charming as Prince Damien, but really. To refuse a prince, it was too much.
Lady Trask had told her so. Michael had watched in silence.
Meagan, at least, had some sense. If Penelope was not careful, Meagan would snatch Damien out from under her friend’s nose, never mind this prophecy business.
Prince Damien had not said much the rest of the afternoon and during dinner, but he’d watched Penelope. He was determined; that was a point. He’d not be put off by maidenly resistance.
Sasha had kept up a running commentary all afternoon and evening on the history of Nvengaria and the glory of Prince Damien until she’d wanted to scream. Michael’s silence had unnerved her, as had the look in his dark eyes.
It unnerved her now.
She at last laid down her brush and gazed at him in the mirror. He remained rigidly on the other side of the room.
“Well, it has been an eventful day, has it not?” she began brightly.
“Simone,” Michael said in a warning tone. “Don’t.”
His voice could always make her shiver.
“Don’t what?” She rose from the dressing table and turned to him.
As usual, she was struck with how desperately she loved him. He was so handsome. So tall and strong and virile. And he didn’t mind that she was fifty and past her first looks. Lady Trask slathered her face in buttermilk and lemon every night, and declared her skin as fresh as her daughter’s. Michael seemed to like her skin. Liked touching it all over. Often with his tongue.
<
br /> No man had ever excited her like he did.
And he was all hers. He was not poor, he could have his pick of any chit in London with skinny arms and a lisp, but he’d chosen her.
She crossed to him, put her hands on his shoulders. “Darling.”
He did not move. His muscles were hard and still beneath her touch.
She grew worried. “Darling, what is the matter?”
He frowned at her. “You have been pretending that today is simply an amusing aberration. It is not. This is serious business.”
“I know.” Her eyes widened. “Imagine, a prince coming all this way to marry me. It was too droll.”
Michael’s eyes were cold. “Droll is not the word I thought of. You would have done it, wouldn’t you?”
His look began to frighten her. “Of course I would not have. You know that. You heard me turn him down.” She forced a laugh. “Michael, pet, you cannot think a box of rubies and a prince could sway me from your side.” She leaned into his chest, rubbed her palms up and down his arms.
His heart beat slow and hard beneath her ear.
“But you were swayed,” he said.
She looked up, her breath catching. “Michael…”
“I can never give you rubies, you know that. I cannot make pretty speeches and promise you a kingdom. You know what I have to offer, and it is not much. Not even as much as your husband gave you.”
“I know, but I hated him.” She seized upon this argument in her confusion. “I’d rather have the little bit you give me and be with you.”
There, that should settle his pride. Men set such a store on how much they had or didn’t have.
He still did not open his arms. She stepped back, put her hands on her hips. The movement opened her dressing gown a little. She hoped a glimpse of round flesh would make him come to her.
He did not move. Drat the man.
“Well, if you are going to be jealous,” she tried, “you can just go.”
His look grew more stern. “This man is prepared to marry your daughter and carry her off God knows where. And you stand here bleating about jealousy. Are you not the least bit concerned about Penelope?”
She grew offended. “Of course I am concerned! How can you say that? She is my daughter.”
“All the man has done is wave around a box of rubies and go on about an old ring. Penelope at least has the sense to be skeptical. You seem to be willing to hand her over on very slender evidence.”
Hurt welled up inside her. She remembered the day Sir Hilton Trask had stood at the top of the stairs in their London house and shouted, “Simone, you are the stupidest woman alive!”
She knew she wasn’t smart like Penelope and didn’t give a fig for what was in books. But she was smart in other ways, she knew she was. Her husband—and her daughter—simply never gave her a chance.
“Well, you are here, pet, to think of things like that, and make certain everything is all right.” Flattering a man for his wisdom never hurt, either.
His voice was quiet. “I cannot help remembering how enthralled you were when you saw the rubies. I cannot help remembering that you forgot I was in the room until Meagan reminded you.”
She stared at him. Was he mad? She could never forget Michael was in the room. His presence caught at her, making her heart beat fast as though she was a giddy girl. She’d simply wanted to see how far Prince Damien would go. Really.
She forced a laugh. “Oh, you are jealous, that is all. Do go away if you want to sulk.”
She turned to the dressing table, loosening the gown as she went, to let it slide down and bare her shoulders.
He would come after her. He’d fold his arms around her waist, bury his lips in the curve of her neck and tell her how beautiful she was. Then he’d pull off the dressing gown and catch her breasts in his hands. He’d suckle them, and she’d run her hands through his unruly hair. The man made love with feral grace.
On the other side of the room, Michael said, “Yes, I think it would be best if I go. I will stay until this business with Penelope and this man is settled, and then I shall take Meagan and go back home.”
She spun around. “What are you talking about?”
He watched her for another quiet moment. “I said I would go. It is for the best. People are talking.” He turned away. “Good night, Simone.”
Before her stunned eyes, he opened the door and walked out of the room.
“Michael!” she cried.
The door clicked closed. “Michael, I didn’t mean—”
His footsteps faded as he moved down the hall.
Raw pain washed over her. She couldn’t lose him. She could not.
Lady Trask had never learned how to handle emotion with dignity. She’d never had to. She’d been spoiled as a girl, and her husband had ignored her. Her daughter treated her gently, but deep down, Lady Trask knew that Penelope did not really like her.
She burst into wild tears. She swung to the dressing table and swept bottles, brushes, cosmetics, and perfumes to the floor. Then she sank down amid the broken glass and stench of perfume and beat her fists on the carpet until her hands were cut and bloody.
Chapter Seven
Down the hall, Damien, sitting before the fire in pantaloons and lawn shirt open to the waist, heard the sudden commotion and Lady Trask’s weeping.
Petri stepped to the door and looked out as hurried footsteps converged on Lady Trask’s room. He watched a moment, then closed the door and returned to his task of carrying a glass of brandy to Damien. “Lady Trask, Highness,” he said. “Upset at the loss of the rubies, no doubt.”
“Mmmph, I do not think so.” Damien took the brandy and cradled the goblet in his palm. He had heard the quiet opening and closing of the door beforehand and imagined that her lover Tavistock had gone to have a word with her. “I believe there is one thing more important to her than jewels.”
Petri looked unconvinced.
Petri, Damien’s valet, was only a few years older than Damien himself. The two men had been raised together, Damien to rule, Petri to serve. Petri had followed him into exile, finding a young Damien shivering and half-naked in the woods where the Imperial Prince’s men had unceremoniously dumped him. Somehow Petri had gotten them over the pass and down into the Danube Valley before the wolves had found them. Damien knew he would have been dead many times over had it not been for Petri.
Despite their differences in station, Petri was closer to Damien than any brother could be. They could read each other’s moods and almost knew what the other would say before he said it.
Petri pursued women with enthusiasm. Being valet to a prince gave him a certain cachet among the servants of the noble classes of Europe. While duchesses and countesses vied for Damien’s notice, Petri busily seduced their maids.
“Behave yourself while you are here,” Damien had told Petri when he’d arrived.
Petri had widened his blue eyes in innocence. “When have I ever not? Do I not know discretion?”
He did, Damien had to credit him with that. Damien never once had to extricate him from a delicate situation, not even when Petri involved himself with more than one woman at a time. He knew how to woo and seduce, and then withdraw with no anger on either side. Damien had to admire him.
As Damien sipped his brandy—purchased in Paris and lovingly carried by Petri the rest of the journey—he listened to the sounds of a household trying to control its weeping mistress. The walls were thick, but when doors opened and closed, voices drifted down the halls to him.
“My lady, my lady you must not—”
“She is hurt. She is bleeding!”
“Whatever is the matter?”
The last voice was Penelope’s. Her gentle tones rose in exasperation, then the door closed, shutting out her words.
He smiled into his brandy. Penelope made his blood sing.
He wished she didn’t. Damien had survived all this time by not letting himself feel. Flirt, yes. Seduce, yes. Feel, no.
/> Enchant a woman, enjoy every moment with her, cut the tie, was his rule. Most women with whom he had affairs—upper-class, nobly born widows and married women or high-class courtesans—did the same to him. They did not have the energy to waste letting Damien break their hearts, and he did not have time to cultivate an affair lasting more than a few days.
All that had changed with one smile from Penelope’s lips.
After a time, he heard her leave her mother’s room. “Good night, Mama,” she said firmly, and shut the door behind her.
He grinned. The mother was weak and weeping, the daughter the pillar of strength. Penelope was strong and he liked that.
No, he needed that.
“Something funny, Highness?” Petri asked. The man refilled Damien’s glass of brandy, poured one for himself, and sat down facing Damien, choosing a chair less comfortable than the prince’s. Petri always reminded Damien that they came from different classes and always would.
“I am thinking of irony, Petri.” Damien sipped the mellow brandy. “What did I expect to find here? I no longer remember.”
“You expected a European princess with no chin, bad breath, and an irritating titter.” Petri shrugged. “Or so you said.”
“And I found a beautiful woman with a heart of steel.” He stared moodily at his brandy. “I sound like a fool in a bad Nvengarian drama.”
Petri grinned, his dark face creased. “I know what you need.”
“A hearty kick with a thick boot?”
“A dose of what bit you, sir. You want this woman.”
Damien snorted. “That is so. What betrays me?”
“Perhaps you should consider wearing looser trousers, Highness. At least until we’re finished here.”
“You are exceedingly amusing, my friend.”
“You need a bit of relief, that is all.”
Damien shook his head. He could not imagine going to any other woman now that he’d met Penelope. The women he’d had before, even bejeweled countesses and beautiful duchesses, paled beside this English girl with golden hair and green-gold eyes.
“I will not insult her by going to a courtesan to deflate myself. Besides, I do not think it would work.”