The Serpent Prince (17 page)

“Because you look nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.” Simon angled his head to search down the nave.
Where the hell was she?

“You do seem nervous.” Now Pye was looking at him queerly.

Simon deliberately stilled himself and took a deep breath. It was just past ten o’clock on the morning of his wedding day. He stood in the designated sacred church, arrayed in formal wig, black brocade coat, silver-embroidered waistcoat, and red-heeled shoes. He was surrounded by friends and loving family—well, his sister-in-law and niece anyway. Pocket bounced in the front pew while Rosalind tried to shush her. Christian looked distracted in the row behind. Simon frowned. He hadn’t talked to Christian since the duel; there hadn’t been time. He’d have to do it later. The vicar was here, a young man whose name he’d already forgotten. Even de Raaf and Harry Pye had shown. De Raaf looked like a provincial squire in muddy boots, and Pye could have been mistaken for the sexton in plain brown.

The only thing missing was the bride.

Simon suppressed an urge to charge down the aisle and peer out the front doors like an anxious cook awaiting the arrival of the fishmonger with her eels.
Oh, God, where was she?
He hadn’t been alone with her since she’d caught him returning from the duel with James, nearly a week ago now, and while she seemed content, while she smiled at him when in the company of others, he couldn’t shake off this morbid worry. Had she changed her mind? Had he repulsed her, making love to her while his shoulder dripped gore and he wore the stain of a dead man’s blood like a badge of dishonor on his chest? He shook his head. Of course he’d repulsed her, his angel with her strict morals. She must’ve been horrified. Was it enough to make her break her promise? She’d given her word, on her mother’s memory, that she wouldn’t leave him.

Was that enough?

Simon walked to a granite pillar that towered to the barrel ceiling fifty feet overhead. A double row of the pink granite columns held aloft the ceiling, decorated with recessed painted squares. Each square was edged in gilt, as if to remind one of the golden afterlife that presumably awaited. Off to the side, he could see into a St. Mary’s chapel with a statue of a pubescent Virgin Mary gazing serenely down at her toes. It was a pretty church, lacking only a pretty bride.

“He’s pacing again,” de Raaf said in a tone he probably thought was quiet.

“He’s nervous,” Pye replied.

“I am not nervous,” Simon said through gritted teeth. He reached to stroke his ring before remembering it was gone. He turned to saunter back and caught Pye and de Raaf exchanging a significant glance. Wonderful. Now he was considered a case for Bedlam by his friends.

A screech came from the front of the church as someone opened the big oak doors.

Simon wheeled. Lucy entered, escorted by her father. She wore a rose-colored gown, pulled back in front to reveal the pale green underskirt. The color made her complexion glow, gave her dusky eyes, brows, and hair a perfect setting, like a rose surrounded by dark leaves. She smiled at him and looked . . . beautiful.

Simply beautiful.

He felt like rushing to her and capturing her arm. Instead, he straightened and moved to stand by de Raaf. He watched her approach, patiently waiting. Soon. Soon, she would be his. He would have no need to fear her loss, her desertion. Lucy laid her hand on the crook of his arm. He refrained from clamping down on it with his other hand. The captain scowled at him and slowly released his daughter’s arm. The old man wasn’t happy about this. When he asked for her hand, Simon had known that had Lucy been younger or less loved, he would have been out on his ear in an instant. As it was, his angel had prevailed even against her father’s clear disapproval. Simon smiled at the older man and gave in to his urge to grasp her hand on his arm. She was his now.

The captain didn’t miss the gesture. His ruddy face darkened.

Simon leaned his head close to hers. “You came.”

Her face was grave. “Of course.”

“I wasn’t sure you would after the other morning.”

“Weren’t you?” She watched him with unfathomable eyes.

“No.”

“I promised.”

“Yes.” He searched her face but couldn’t read any more there. “Thank you.”

“Are we ready?” The vicar smiled vaguely.

Simon straightened and nodded.

“Dearly beloved,” the vicar began.

Simon concentrated on the words that would bind Lucy to him. Perhaps now his fear of losing her would finally die and be laid to rest. No matter what she found out about him, no matter what ghastly mistakes, what grave sins he committed in the future, his angel would have to remain with him.

She was his, now and forever.

The butler closed the door softly behind him. Lucy returned to gawking at the room.
Her
room. And she’d thought the bedrooms in Rosalind’s town house grand. The walls were covered in rose damask, a warm and soothing color that gave the bedroom the intimate feel of an embrace. Underfoot, the patterned carpet was so thick her heels sank into it. Above, the ceiling was painted with cupids or angels—hard to tell in the dim light of evening—and was edged in gilt. Of course.

And centered between two long windows was a bed.

But to call this piece of furniture a bed was like calling St. Paul’s Cathedral a church. This was the gaudiest, the largest, the most sumptuous bed Lucy had ever seen in her life. The mattress was easily three feet off the ground, and on one side were steps, presumably to mount the thing. A massive poster rose from each corner, carved, gilded, and draped with swathes of burgundy velvet. Gold ropes drew back the burgundy drapes to reveal pink gauze underdrapes. The actual bed linens were ecru and made of satin. Lucy hesitantly touched them with one finger.

Someone tapped at the door.

Lucy whirled and stared. Would Simon knock? “Come.”

A mobcap peeked around the door. “Mr. Newton sent us, my lady. To help you undress?”

“Thank you.” Lucy nodded and watched the little woman trot into the room, trailed by a younger girl.

The older maid immediately began rummaging through the wardrobe. “You’ll want the lace chemise, I think, don’t you, my lady? On your wedding night?”

“Oh. Yes.” Lucy felt a flutter in her stomach.

The maid brought the chemise over and began unhooking the back of Lucy’s dress. “They’re all talking about the wedding breakfast this morning, my lady, down in the kitchen. How elegant it was. Even that Henry, my lord’s valet, was impressed.”

“Yes, it was very nice.” Lucy tried to relax. Even after a fortnight in London, she still wasn’t used to being served quite so intimately. She hadn’t had help with her clothes since she was five. Rosalind had assigned one of her maids to look after her, but it seemed that now that Lucy was Simon’s wife, she required two.

“Lord Iddesleigh has such a wonderful sense of style.” The older maid grunted and bent to undo the last hooks. “And then they say he took you ladies on a tour of the capital after the wedding breakfast. Did you enjoy that?”

“Yes.” Lucy stepped out of her gown. She’d been with Simon for most of the day, but they’d never been alone. Perhaps now that they were finally married and the ceremonies over with, they could spend more time together, learn to know one another.

The maid quickly gathered the material and handed it to the younger maid. “Now mind you check that over good. Wouldn’t want a stain to set.”

“Yes’m,” the girl squeaked. She looked no more than fourteen and was obviously in awe of the older woman, although she towered over her.

Lucy took a deep breath as the maid undid her stays. Her underskirts and shift were whisked off and the lace chemise settled over her head. The maid brushed her hair until Lucy could stand it no longer. All this fussing was giving her too much time to think, to worry about the coming night and what would happen.

“Thank you,” she said firmly. “That’s all I need for the night.”

The maids curtsied as they left, and suddenly she was alone. Lucy sank into one of the chairs by the fire. There was a decanter of wine on the table next to her. She stared thoughtfully at it for a moment. The wine might dull her senses, but she was fairly certain it wouldn’t calm her nerves. And she knew she didn’t want her senses dull tonight, no matter how nervous she was.

A soft tap came from the door—not the one to the hall but the other one, presumably a connecting door.

Lucy cleared her throat. “Come.”

Simon opened the door. He still wore his breeches, hose, and shirt, but he’d removed his waistcoat and coat and he was bareheaded. He paused in the doorway. It took her a moment to place his expression. He was uncertain.

“Is that your room in there?” she asked.

He frowned and glanced back. “No, it’s a sitting room. Yours, actually. Would you like to see it?”

“Yes, please.” Lucy rose, very conscious that she was nude beneath her flowing lace chemise.

He stepped back, and she saw a rose and white room with several settees and armchairs scattered about. There was a door on the farther wall.

“And is your room beyond that?” She nodded to the far door.

“No, that’s my sitting room. It’s rather dark, I’m afraid. Decorated by some dead ancestor with a gloomy sensibility and a disapproval of any color but brown. Yours is much nicer.” He tapped his fingers on the door frame. “Next to my sitting room is my dressing room, equally gloomy, and beyond that, my bedroom, which, fortunately, I’ve had redecorated in my own colors.”

“Good gracious.” Lucy raised her eyebrows. “What a hike you’ve had to make.”

“Yes, I—” He laughed suddenly, covering his eyes with one hand.

She half smiled, not knowing the joke, not knowing in fact how she was supposed to act with him, now that they were finally man and wife and alone in their own rooms. It was all so awkward. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry.” He dropped his hand so she could see that his cheeks had reddened. “This isn’t the conversation I’d expected to have on our wedding night.”

He’s nervous.
With that realization, a bit of her own anxiety seemed to fall away. She turned and strolled back into her bedroom. “What would you rather talk about?”

She heard him close the door. “I was going to impress you with my romantic eloquence, of course. I’d thought to wax philosophical about the beauty of your brow.”

Lucy blinked. “My brow?”

“Mmm. Have I told you that your brow intimidates me?” She felt his warmth at her back as he moved behind her, but he didn’t touch her. “It’s so smooth and white and broad, and ends with your straight, knowing eyebrows, like a statue of Athena pronouncing judgment. If the warrior goddess had a brow like yours, it is no wonder the ancients worshiped and feared her.”

“Blather,” she murmured.

“Blather, indeed. Blather is all I am, after all.”

She frowned and turned to contradict him, but he moved with her so that she couldn’t quite catch sight of his face.

“I am the duke of nonsense,” he whispered in her ear. “The king of farce, the emperor of emptiness.”

Did he really see himself so? “But—”

“Blathering is what I do best,” he said, still unseen. “I’d like to blather about your golden eyes and ruby lips.”

“Simon—”

“The perfect curve of your cheek,” he murmured close.

She gasped as his breath stirred the hair at her neck. He was distracting her with lovemaking. And it was working. “What a lot of talk.”

“I do talk too much. It’s a weakness you’ll have to bear in your husband.” His voice was next to her ear. “But I’d have to spend quite a bit of time outlining the shape of your mouth, its softness and the warmth within.”

Lucy felt a tightening in her middle. “Is that all?” And she was surprised at the low vibration of her voice.

“Oh, no. Then I’d move to your neck.” His hand came around and stroked the air inches from her throat. “How graceful, how elegant, how much I want to lick it.”

Her lungs were laboring to fill with air. He caressed her with his voice alone, and she wondered if she would be able to bear it when he used his hands.

He continued, “And your shoulders, so white and tender.” His hand hovered over her.

“And then?”

“I’d want to describe your breasts.” His tone had dipped and roughened. “But I’d have to see them first.”

She drew in a shaky breath. He breathed close to her ear. His presence surrounded her body, but he made no move to touch her. She raised her hand and grasped the ribbon at her throat. Slowly, she pulled it, and the whisper sound of the silk sliding free in the bedroom’s quiet was unbearably intimate. His breathing hitched as the edges of her chemise fell apart, baring the upper slopes of her bosom.

“So beautiful, so pale,” he murmured.

She swallowed and drew the fabric down her shoulders. Her fingers trembled. She’d never willingly exposed herself to another like this, but the roughened sound of his breathing drove her on.

“I see the soft mounds, the shadowed valley, but not the sweet tips. Let me see them, angel.” His voice shook.

Something feminine and primeval leaped within her at the thought that she could make this man tremble. She wanted to expose herself to him, her husband. She closed her eyes and pulled the chemise down. Her nipples peaked in the chilly air.

He stopped breathing. “Ah, God, I remember them. Do you know what it did to me to turn away from you that night?”

She shook her head, her throat clogged. She remembered as well, his hot gaze on her bare breasts, her own wanton craving.

“It nearly unmanned me.” His hands hovered over her breasts, tracing her curves without touching. “I wanted to feel you so badly.”

His palms were so close to her skin that she could feel his heat, but he didn’t touch her. Not yet. She found herself straining toward his hands, anticipating that first contact. She withdrew her arms from the chemise sleeves but clutched the material at her waist so it wouldn’t fall.

“I remember you touched yourself here.” His hands cupped the air above her nipples. “May I?”

“I . . .” She shivered. “Yes. Please.”

She watched his hands descend and lightly touch her breasts. His warm fingers curved about her. She arched and her breasts thrust themselves into his palms.

“God,” he breathed. He stroked in a circle around her breasts.

She looked down at herself and saw his big, long-fingered hands on her skin. They looked unbearably masculine. They looked unbearably possessive. He brought both hands toward the tips of her nipples and gently but firmly squeezed them between his forefingers and thumbs. She inhaled at the shocking sensation.

“Does it feel good?” he asked, his lips in her hair.

“I . . .” She swallowed, unable to answer. It was more than good.

But that seemed answer enough for him. “Let me see the rest. Please.” His lips skimmed across her cheek, his palms still cradling her breasts. “Please show me, my wife.”

She opened her clenched fists, and her chemise fell to the floor. She was naked. He brushed one hand down to her belly and pulled her back against him so her nude buttocks brushed the fabric of his breeches. They were warm, almost hot, from his body. He pressed against her, and she felt his male organ, long and hard. She couldn’t help it. She began to shake.

He chuckled in her ear. “There was more I was going to say to you, but I can’t.” He pressed into her again and groaned. “I want you too badly, and I’ve lost the words.”

Suddenly he lifted her into his arms, and she could see his eyes, shining silver. A muscle in his jaw flexed. He set her on the bed and put one knee beside her, making the mattress dip. “It will hurt the first time; you know that, don’t you?” He reached both arms behind him and pulled his shirt over his head.

She was so distracted by the sight of his bare chest that she hardly heard the question.

“I’ll go as slowly as possible.” He was lean, the long muscles on his arms and shoulders moving as he climbed into the bed. His nipples stood out in startling contrast to his fair skin, brown and flat and so very naked. A diamond of short, fair hairs grew in the very middle of his chest. “I don’t want you to hate me afterward.”

She reached to touch his nipple. He groaned and closed his eyes.

“I won’t hate you,” she whispered.

Then he was on her, kissing her wildly, his hands at either side of her face. She felt like giggling and would have, if his tongue hadn’t been in her mouth. It was so wonderful to have him want her like this. She cradled the back of his head in her hands and felt the bristles of his shorn hair against her palms. He lowered his hips to hers and all thought spun away. He was hot. His chest slid across her breasts, damp with sweat. His hard thighs, still encased in his breeches, were nudging her legs apart. She opened her legs, welcoming the weight of his body, welcoming him. He settled against her most vulnerable part, and for a moment she was embarrassed. She was wet and the moisture must be staining his breeches. Would he mind? Then he pressed against her with his maleness and she felt . . .

Wonder.

It was so extraordinary, better even than when she touched herself. Was it always this good, this physical sensation? She thought not. It must be him—her husband—and she gave thanks that she had married such a man. He pressed again, sliding this time, and she sighed.

“I’m sorry.” He lifted his mouth from hers, his face tight and without humor.

He fumbled between them, and she realized he must be releasing himself. She skewed her head sideways to look. But he was on her before she could see.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his words sharp and bit off. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. If only”—something nudged against her—“later.
Ahh.
” He closed his eyes as if in pain.

And invaded her. Pushing and widening.
Burning.