The Serpent Prince (14 page)

The other woman smiled almost shyly. “How kind. And you, of course, must call me Rosalind.”

Lucy smiled back and tried to think whether Simon would mind if she told this delicate woman that she’d found him nude and half dead in a ditch. They were in Rosalind’s elegant carriage, and it turned out that Simon did indeed have a niece. Theodora rode in the carriage as well, which was rumbling through the streets of London.

Simon’s sister-in-law, the widow of his elder brother, Ethan, looked like she should be gazing from a stone tower, waiting for a brave knight to come rescue her. She had gleaming, straight blond hair, pulled into a simple knot at the crown of her head. Her face was narrow and alabaster white with wide, pale blue eyes. If the evidence wasn’t sitting right next to her, Lucy would never have believed she was old enough to have an eight-year-old child.

Lucy had been staying with her future sister-in-law for the last sennight in preparation for her wedding to Simon. Papa had not been pleased by her match, but after grumbling and shouting for a bit, he’d reluctantly given his blessing. During Lucy’s time in London, she had visited a bewildering variety of shops with Rosalind. Simon was insistent that Lucy get a completely new trousseau. While she was naturally pleased to have so many fine clothes, at the same time it gave Lucy a niggling worry that she would not make a proper viscountess for Simon. She came from the country, and even dressed in lace and embroidered silks, she was still a simple woman.

“Simon and I met on the lane outside my home in Kent,” Lucy hedged now. “He’d had an accident, and I brought him home to recover.”

“How romantic,” Rosalind murmured.

“Was Uncle Sigh in his cups?” the little girl beside her wanted to know. Her hair was darker than her mother’s, more of a gold, and curly. Lucy remembered Simon’s description of his brother’s curly locks. Theodora obviously took after her dead father in that respect, although her eyes were her mother’s wide blue.

“Theodora, please.” Rosalind drew her brows together, creasing two perfect lines into her otherwise smooth forehead. “We’ve discussed the use of proper language before. What will Miss Craddock-Hayes think of you?”

The child slumped in her seat. “She said we could call her Lucy.”

“No, dear. She gave me permission to use her Christian name. It wouldn’t be proper for a child to do so.” Rosalind darted a glance at Lucy. “I’m so sorry.”

“Perhaps since I’ll soon be Theodora’s aunt, she might call me Aunt Lucy?” She smiled at the girl, not wanting to offend her future sister-in-law but feeling sympathy for the daughter as well.

Rosalind bit the corner of her lip. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Theodora gave a small wiggle in her seat. “And you can call me Pocket, because that’s what my uncle Sigh calls me. I call him Uncle Sigh because all the ladies sigh over him.”

“Theodora!”

“That’s what Nanny says,” the little girl defended herself.

“It’s so hard to keep servants from gossiping,” Rosalind said. “And children from repeating it.”

Lucy smiled. “And why does your uncle Sigh call you Pocket? Because you can fit in one?”

“Yes.” She grinned and suddenly resembled her uncle. She glanced at her mother. “And because I look in his pockets when he comes to visit.”

“He spoils her terribly,” Rosalind sighed.

“Sometimes he has sweets in his pocket, and he lets me have them,” the child confided. “And once he had some lovely tin soldiers, and Mama said that little girls don’t play with soldiers, and Uncle Sigh said then it was a good thing I’m a pocket and not a girl.” She took a breath and glanced at her mother again. “But he was teasing because he knows I’m really a little girl.”

“I see.” Lucy smiled. “It’s probably things like that that make the ladies sigh over him.”

“Yes.” Pocket squirmed again. Her mother laid a hand on her thigh and she stilled. “Did you sigh over Uncle Sigh?”

“Theodora!”

“What, Mama?”

“Here we are,” Lucy interjected.

The carriage had stopped in the middle of a bustling lane, unable to reach the side of the street because of the crush of carriages, dray carts, hawkers, men on horses, and pedestrians. The first time Lucy had witnessed a scene such as this, her breath had been quite taken away. So many people! All of them shouting, running,
living.
The cart drayers shouting abuses at pedestrians in their path, the hawkers crying their wares, liveried footmen clearing the way for fine carriages, urchins scampering nearly under the hoofs of the horses. She’d not known how to take it all in; her senses were overwhelmed. Now, nearly a week later, she’d become a trifle more used to the city, but even so, she found the constant bustle invigorating to her ears and eyes every time. Perhaps she always would. Could a person ever find London boring?

One of the footmen opened the door and folded down the step before assisting the ladies to alight. Lucy held her skirts well off the ground as they made their way to the shop. A strong young footman walked ahead, both protection and future parcel-bearer. The carriage pulled away behind them. The coachman would have to find a place to stop farther on or circle back.

“This is quite a nice millinery shop,” Rosalind said as they entered the establishment. “I think you’ll like the trimmings they have here.”

Lucy blinked and looked at the floor-to-ceiling shelves of multicolored lace, braid, hats, and trim. She tried not to appear as overwhelmed as she felt. This was a far cry from the single shop in Maiden Hill that had but one shelf of trimmings. After she’d lived for years with a few gray gowns, the variety of color almost made her eyes hurt.

“Can I have this, Mama?” Pocket held up a length of gilt braid and started to wrap it around herself.

“No, dear, although perhaps it would be right for Aunt Lucy?”

Lucy bit her lip. She couldn’t really see herself in gilt. “Maybe that lace.” She pointed.

Rosalind’s eyes narrowed at the pretty Belgian lace. “Yes, I think so. It will go nicely on that rose print sack gown we ordered this morning.”

Thirty minutes later, Lucy walked out of the shop, glad that she had Rosalind as a guide. The other woman might look delicate, but she knew her fashions and she bargained like a seasoned housekeeper. They found the carriage waiting in the road, an angry cart driver shouting at the coachman because he couldn’t get past. The ladies hurried into the carriage.

“My.” Rosalind patted her face with a lace handkerchief. She looked at her daughter, lying on the seat in childish exhaustion. “Perhaps we should go back to the house for some tea and refreshments.”

“Yes,” Pocket said in heartfelt agreement. She curled up on the seat and was soon asleep, despite the jolting of the carriage and the noise from without. Lucy smiled. The little girl must be used to the city and its ways.

“You aren’t what I expected when Simon said he was to be married,” Rosalind said softly.

Lucy raised her brows in question.

Rosalind bit her bottom lip. “I don’t mean to insult you.”

“I’m not.”

“It’s just that Simon has always kept company with a certain type of lady.” Rosalind wrinkled her nose. “Not always respectable but usually very sophisticated.”

“And I’m from the country,” Lucy said ruefully.

“Yes.” Rosalind smiled. “I was surprised, but nicely, at his choice.”

“Thank you.”

The carriage stopped. There appeared to be some sort of jam in the road. Angry male shouts rose outside.

“Sometimes I think it would be easier to walk,” Rosalind murmured.

“Certainly faster.” Lucy smiled at her.

They sat, listening to the commotion. Pocket snored softly, unperturbed.

“Actually . . .” The other woman hesitated. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but when I first met them—Ethan and Simon—it was Simon I was attracted to at first.”

“Really?” Lucy kept her features neutral. What was Rosalind trying to tell her?

“Yes. He had that darkness about him, even before Ethan’s death, that I think most women find rather fascinating. And the way he talks, his wit. It can be quite captivating at times. I was enthralled, although Ethan was the more handsome brother.”

“What happened?” Had Simon been equally enthralled by this delicate woman? Lucy felt a stab of jealousy.

Rosalind gazed out the window. “He scared me.”

Lucy caught her breath. “How?”

“One night, at a ball, I came upon him in a back room. It was a study or a sitting room, rather small and simply decorated except for an ornate mirror on one wall. He was all alone and was standing there, just staring.”

“At what?”

“At himself.” Rosalind turned to her. “In the mirror. Just . . . watching his reflection. But he wasn’t looking at his wig or his clothes like another man might. He was staring into his own eyes.”

Lucy frowned. “That’s strange.”

The other woman nodded. “And I knew then. He wasn’t happy. His darkness isn’t an act; it’s real. There is something that drives Simon, and I’m not sure it will ever let him go. I certainly couldn’t help him.”

Uneasiness washed over Lucy. “So you married Ethan.”

“Yes. And I’ve never regretted it. He was a wonderful husband, gentle and kind.” She looked at her sleeping daughter. “And he gave me Theodora.”

“Why did you tell me this?” Lucy asked softly. Despite her calm words, she felt a surge of anger. Rosalind had no right to make her doubt her decision.

“Not to frighten you,” Rosalind assured her. “I just felt that it would take a strong woman to marry Simon, and I admire that.”

It was Lucy’s turn to gaze out the window. The carriage had finally started again. They’d soon be back at the town house where there’d be an array of exotic foods for luncheon. She was famished, but Lucy’s mind wandered back to Rosalind’s last words:
a strong woman.
She had lived all her life in the same, provincial place where she’d never been challenged. Rosalind had seen what Simon was and prudently turned aside. Was there hubris in her own urge to marry Simon? Was she any stronger than Rosalind?

She smoothed a hand down her new gown and nodded at the maid. “Yes, please. Go ahead and knock.”

The maid lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall. Lucy watched the door expectantly. It wasn’t as if she didn’t see Simon—he made sure to dine at least once a day at Rosalind’s town house—but they never had a moment alone. If only—

The door was pulled open, and a very tall butler looked down a beak of a nose at them. “Yes?”

Lucy cleared her throat. “Is Lord Iddesleigh in?”

He lifted one shaggy eyebrow in an incredibly haughty way; he must practice nights in front of a mirror. “The viscount is not receiving visitors. If you will leave a card—”

Lucy smiled and walked forward so that the man was forced to step back or let her run into his belly. “I am Miss Lucinda Craddock-Hayes, and I am here to see my fiancé.”

The butler blinked. He was obviously in a quandary. Here was his soon-to-be mistress demanding entry, but he probably had orders not to disturb Simon. He chose to bow to the devil in front of him. “Of course, miss.”

Lucy gave him a small, approving smile. “Thank you.”

They entered a grand hall. Lucy took a moment to look around curiously. She’d never been inside Simon’s town house. The floor was black marble, polished to a mirror finish. The walls were also marble, alternating black and white in panels bordered in gilt curlicues and vines, and the ceiling . . . Lucy blew out a breath. The ceiling was all gold and white with painted clouds and cherubs that appeared to hold the crystal chandelier that dangled from the center. Tables and statues were set here and there, all of them in exotic marbles and woods, all decorated lavishly in gilt. A black marble Mercury stood nearby to Lucy’s right. The wings on his heels, his helmet, and his eyes were all gold. Actually,
grand
didn’t quite describe the hall.
Ostentatious
was the better word.

“The viscount is in his greenhouse, miss,” the butler said.

“Then I will see him there,” Lucy said. “Is there a place my maid might wait?”

“I will have a footman show her to the kitchens.” He snapped his fingers at one of the footmen standing at attention in the hallway. The man bowed and led the maid away. The butler turned back to Lucy. “If you will come this way?”

Lucy nodded. He led her down the hallway toward the back of the house. The passage narrowed and they went down a short set of stairs; then they came to a large door. The butler started to open it, but Lucy stopped him.

“I’ll go in alone, if you don’t mind.”

The butler bowed. “As you wish, miss.”

Lucy tilted her head. “I don’t know your name.”

“Newton, miss.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Newton.”

He held the door open for her. “If you need anything more, miss, simply call me.” And then he left.

Lucy peered into the enormous greenhouse. “Simon?”

If she wasn’t looking at it right now with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed such a structure could exist, hidden in the middle of the city. Rows of benches disappeared into the darkened end of the greenhouse. Every available surface was crowded with green plants or pots of soil. Underneath her feet was a brick walkway that somehow felt warm. Condensation dewed the glass at her shoulders. The glass began at waist height and vaulted overhead. Above her, the London sky had already begun to darken.

Lucy took a few steps into the humid air. She didn’t see anyone in here. “Simon?”

She listened but heard nothing. Then again, the greenhouse was awfully big. Perhaps he couldn’t hear her. Surely he’d want to keep the hot, moist air in. She pulled the heavy wood door closed behind her and went exploring. The aisle was narrow, and some of the foliage hung over it, forcing her to push through a verdant curtain. She could hear dripping as water condensed and ran off hundreds of leaves. The atmosphere was heavy and still, musty with the smell of moss and earth.

“Simon?”

“Here.”

Finally. His voice came from up ahead, but she couldn’t see him for the obscuring jungle. She pushed aside a leaf larger than her head and suddenly came out into an open space, lit by dozens of candles.

She stopped.

The space was circular. The glass walls flew up into a miniature dome, like the ones she’d seen in pictures of Russia. In the center, a marble fountain played softly, and around the outside were more benches with roses. Roses blooming in winter. Lucy laughed. Reds and pinks, creams, and pure whites, the roses’ heavy scent filled the air, topping off the sense of wonder and delight. Simon had a fairyland in his house.

“You’ve found me.”

She started and looked in the direction of his voice, and her heart fluttered at the sight. Simon stood at a bench in his shirtsleeves. He wore a long green apron over his waistcoat to protect it, and he’d rolled his sleeves up, exposing his forearms, which were dusted with blond hair.

Lucy smiled at the thought of Simon in working attire. This was an aspect of him that she’d never seen before, and it intrigued her. Since they’d come to London, he’d always been so polished, so very much a man of the world. “I hope you don’t mind. Newton showed me in.”

“Not at all. Where’s Rosalind?”

“I came alone.”

He stilled and darted a look at her that she found hard to interpret. “All alone?”

So that was his worry. He’d made it very plain when she first came to London that she was never to leave the house by herself. She’d nearly forgotten the injunction in the intervening week, for nothing had happened as far as she could tell. Obviously, he still worried about his enemies. “Well, except for the coachman and footmen and maid—I borrowed Rosalind’s carriage.” She smiled easily at him.

“Ah.” His shoulders relaxed, and he started to take off his apron. “In that case, may I offer you some tea?”

“You don’t have to stop because of me,” she said. “That is, if I don’t disturb you.”

“You always disturb me, sweet angel.” He retied his apron and turned back to the workbench.

She saw that he was busy, but they were to be married in less than a week. A thought whispered at the back of her mind, the niggling fear that he’d grown bored of her already, or worse, was having second thoughts. She walked to his side. “What are you doing?”

He seemed to tense, but his voice was normal. “Grafting roses. Not a very exciting chore, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to watch.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“No, of course not.” He stooped over the bench, not looking at her. He had a prickly stick in front of him, presumably part of a rose, and was carefully cutting the end into a point.

“We haven’t been alone together in several days, and I thought it would be nice just to . . . talk.” She found it hard to speak to him while he was half turned away.

His back was stiff, as if he were mentally pushing her away, but he made no move. “Yes?”

Lucy bit her lip. “I know I shouldn’t be calling so late, but Rosalind has me busy all day shopping and finding clothes and such. You wouldn’t believe how crowded the streets were this afternoon. It took us an hour to drive home.” Now she was babbling. Lucy sat on a nearby stool and took a breath. “Simon, have you changed your mind?”

That got his attention. He looked up, frowning. “What?”

She made a jerky gesture of frustration. “You seem so preoccupied all the time, and you haven’t kissed me since you proposed. I wondered if perhaps you had time to think about it and changed your mind about marrying me.”

“No!” He threw the knife down and leaned straight-armed on the bench, head bowed. “No, I’m so sorry. I want to marry you, long to marry you, now more than ever, I assure you. I count the days until we are finally wed. I dream of holding you in my arms as my wedded wife and then must distract my mind or go mad waiting for the day. The problem is mine.”

“What problem?” Lucy was relieved but honestly confused. “Tell me and we can work on it together.”

He blew out a sigh, shook his head, and turned his face to her. “I don’t think so. This problem is all of my own making; dealing with it must be my own cross to bear. Thank God it will disappear in a week when we’re bound by the holy vows of matrimony.”

“You’re deliberately talking in riddles.”

“So militant,” he crooned. “I can picture you with a fiery sword in one hand, smiting recalcitrant Hebrews and unbelieving Samaritans. They’d cower before your stern frown and frightening eyebrows.” He laughed under his breath. “Let’s just say I’m having trouble being around you without touching you.”

She smiled. “We’re engaged. You can touch me.”

“No, actually, I can’t.” He straightened and picked up the paring knife again. “If I touch you, I’m not certain I’ll be able to stop.” He bent and peered at the rose as he made another deliberate cut in the stem. “In fact, I’m fairly certain I won’t stop. I’d be intoxicated by your scent and the feel of your white, white skin.”

Lucy felt warmth in her cheeks. She doubted very much if her skin was so white right now. But he’d hardly touched her at all in Maiden Hill. Surely if he could restrain himself then, he could now. “I—”

“No.” He took a breath and shook his head as if clearing it. “I’d have you on your back, your skirts tossed around your shoulders like a common cull before I could think, be in you before I could reflect, and once started, I sure as hell wouldn’t stop before we’d both reached heaven itself. Maybe not even then.”

Lucy opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Heaven itself . . .

He shut his eyes and groaned. “Jesus. I can’t believe I said that to you.”

“Well.” She cleared her throat. His words had made her feel shaky and hot. “Well. That’s certainly flattering.”

“Is it?” He glanced at her. He had spots of color high on his cheekbones. “I’m glad you’re taking your fiancé’s lack of control over his animal nature so well.”

Oh dear.
“Maybe I should go.” She made to rise.

“No, stay with me, please. Just . . . just don’t come near me.”

“All right.” She sat back straight and folded her hands in her lap.

His mouth curled down at one corner. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I, you.”

They exchanged a smile before he hastily turned away again, but this time she knew the cause and was unperturbed. She watched him set aside the stem and pick up a pot that contained what looked like a small stump. The fountain laughed in the background, and the stars began to fill the sky above the dome.

“You never finished telling me about that fairy tale,” she said. “The Serpent Prince. I won’t be able to finish the illustrations if you don’t tell me the rest.”

“Have you been making illustrations?”

“Of course.”

“I can’t remember where I stopped.” He frowned over the ugly stump. “It’s been so long now.”

“I remember.” She settled her bottom more firmly on the stool. “Angelica had stolen the Serpent Prince’s skin and threatened to destroy it, but she relented and spared his life in the end.”

“Ah, yes.” He made a careful V-shaped cut in the top of the stump. “The Serpent Prince said to Angelica, ‘Fair maid, since you hold my skin, you hold my very life in your hands. You have but to name it and I will grant you a wish.’”

Lucy frowned. “He doesn’t sound very bright. Why does he not simply ask for his skin back without telling her what power she has over him?”

He shot a glance at her from under lowered brows. “Perhaps he was enthralled by her beauty?”

She snorted. “Not unless he was extremely dim.”

“Your romantic soul overwhelms me. Now will you let me continue?”

She clamped her mouth shut and nodded mutely.

“Good. It occurred to Angelica that here was a very lucky thing. Perhaps she could meet the prince of the land at last. So she said to the Serpent Prince, ‘There is a royal ball being held tonight. Can you take me to the ramparts of the castle so that I may see the prince and his entourage pass by?’ Well, the Serpent Prince looked at her out of his gleaming silver eyes and said, ‘I can do better than that, I assure you.’”

“But, wait,” Lucy interrupted. “Isn’t the Serpent Prince the hero of the story?”

“A snake-man?” Simon inserted the pointed end of the stick into the notch he’d made in the stump and began wrapping both with a narrow strip of cloth. “Whatever gave you the idea that he would make a good hero?”

“Well, he is all of silver, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but he is also quite nude, and usually the hero of the story has something more to his name.”

“But—”

He frowned censoriously at her. “Do you wish me to continue?”