The Serpent Prince (5 page)

She wouldn’t blame him if he hid in his room after tonight. And that would disappoint her terribly. Even though she knew, deep in her soul, that she should stay away from the viscount, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about him. All the time. It was really rather irritating. Perhaps it was merely the novelty of a new person in her narrow circle of acquaintances. After all, she’d known the people she saw every day since infancy. On the other hand, maybe it was the man himself, and wasn’t that an uncomfortable thought?

“No, I don’t believe so.” Lord Iddesleigh answered her father’s question as he helped himself to more boiled potatoes. “As a rule, the members of my family avoid anything resembling work. Much too taxing, and it has an unfortunate tendency to lead to sweat. We much prefer to idle our days away eating cream cakes and discussing the latest gossip.”

Then again, Lucy reflected, the younger man did seem to be holding his own with her father. Papa’s eyes narrowed ominously.

She picked up a basket and waved it under her parent’s nose. “More bread? Mrs. Brodie baked it fresh this morning.”

He ignored her ploy. “Old landed gentry, are they?” Papa sawed vigorously at his meat while he spoke. “Let others toil on their land, eh? Spend all their time in the sinful fleshpots of London instead?”

Oh, for goodness’ sake! Lucy gave up and set the bread basket down. She would enjoy the meal even if no one else did. Their dining room was hopelessly out of date, but it was cozy for all that. She tried to focus on her surroundings rather than on the distressing conversation. She turned to her left, noting in approval the cheerfully burning fire.

“Why, yes, I quite like a fleshpot now and then,” Lord Iddesleigh said, smiling benignly. “That is, when I can find the energy to get myself out of bed. Have since I was but a tiny lad in leading strings accompanied by my nurse.”

“Really—” she began, only to be cut off as Papa snorted. She sighed and looked to the other end of the room where a single door led into the hall and then the kitchen. It was so nice that the room wasn’t cursed by a draft.

“Although,” the viscount continued, “I must confess I’m a bit hazy on what exactly constitutes a fleshpot.”

Lucy’s gaze dropped to the table—the only safe thing to look at in the room at the moment. The old walnut dining table wasn’t long, but that made meals all the more intimate. Mama had chosen the striped burgundy and cream wallpaper before Lucy’d been born, and Papa’s collection of sailing ship prints graced the walls—

“I mean, flesh and pot, how did the two come together?” Lord Iddesleigh mused. “I trust we are not discussing chamber pots—”

Dangerous territory! Lucy smiled determinedly and interrupted the awful man. “Mrs. Hardy told me the other day that someone let Farmer Hope’s pigs out. They scattered for half a mile, and it took Farmer Hope and his boys a whole day to get them back.”

No one paid attention.

“Ha. From the Bible, fleshpot is.” Papa leaned forward, apparently having scored a point. “Exodus. Have read the Bible, haven’t you?”

Oh, dear. “Everyone thought it might be the Jones boys that let them out,” Lucy said loudly. “The pigs, I mean. You know how the Joneses are always up to mischief. But when Farmer Hope went round to the Jones place, what do you think? Both boys were in bed with fever.”

The men never took their gaze from each other.

“Not recently, I confess.” The viscount’s icy silver eyes sparkled innocently. “Too busy idling my life away, don’t you know. And fleshpot means . . . ?”

“Harrumph. Fleshpot.” Papa waved his fork, nearly spearing Mrs. Brodie as she brought in more potatoes. “Everyone knows what fleshpot means. Means fleshpot.”

Mrs. Brodie rolled her eyes and set the potatoes down hard at Papa’s elbow. Lord Iddesleigh’s lips twitched. He raised his glass to his mouth and watched Lucy over the rim as he drank.

She could feel her face warm. Must he look at her like that? It made her uncomfortable, and she was sure it couldn’t be polite. She grew even more warm when he set the glass down and licked his lips, his eyes still holding hers. Wretch!

Lucy looked away determinedly. “Papa, didn’t you once tell us an amusing story about a pig on your ship? How it got out and ran around the deck and none of the men could catch it?”

Her father was staring grimly at the viscount. “Aye, I’ve got a story to tell. Might be educational for some. About a frog and a snake.”

“But—”

“How interesting,” Lord Iddesleigh drawled. “Do tell us.” He leaned back in his chair, his hand still fiddling with the glass stem.

He wore David’s old clothes, none of which fit him, her brother being shorter and broader in the torso. The scarlet coat’s sleeves let his bony wrists stick out and at the same time the coat hung about his neck. He had gained some color in his face in the last days to replace the awful dead white he’d sported when she’d first found him, although his face seemed to be naturally pale. He should have looked ridiculous, yet he did not.

“Once there was a little frog and a great big snake,” Papa began. “The snake wanted to cross a stream. But snakes can’t swim.”

“Are you sure?” the viscount murmured. “Don’t some types of vipers take to the water to catch their prey?”

“
This
snake couldn’t swim,” Papa amended. “So he asked the frog, ‘Can you take me across?’”

Lucy had stopped even pretending to eat. She switched her gaze back and forth between the men. They were engaged in a conflict with multiple layers that she was powerless to influence. Her father leaned forward, red-faced under his white wig, obviously intent. The viscount was bare-headed, pale hair glinting in the candlelight. On the surface he was relaxed and at ease, maybe even a little bored, but below that surface she knew he was just as focused as the older man.

“And the frog says, ‘I’m not a fool. Snakes eat frogs. You’ll gobble me down, sure as I’m sitting here.’” Papa paused to take a drink.

The room was silent, save for the snap of the fire.

He set down his glass. “But that snake, he was a sly one, he was. He said to the little frog, ‘Never fear, I’d drown if I ate you crossing that big stream.’ So the frog thinks things over and decides the snake is right; he’s safe while he’s in the water.”

Lord Iddesleigh sipped his wine, his eyes watchful and amused. Betsy began clearing the dishes, her fat, red hands quick and light.

“The snake creeps on the little frog’s back, and they start into the stream, and halfway across, do you know what happens?” Papa glared at their guest.

The viscount slowly shook his head.

“That snake sinks his fangs into the frog.” Papa slapped the table to emphasize his point. “And the frog, with his last breath, calls, ‘Why did you do that? We’ll both die now.’ And the snake says—”

“Because it’s the nature of snakes to eat frogs.” Lord Iddesleigh’s voice mingled with her father’s.

Both men stared at each other for a moment. Every muscle in Lucy’s body tightened.

The viscount broke the tension. “Sorry. That story made the rounds several years ago. I just couldn’t resist.” He drained his glass and set it carefully by his plate. “Perhaps it’s in my nature to spoil another man’s tale.”

Lucy let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Well. I know Mrs. Brodie has made apple tart for dessert, and she has a lovely cheddar cheese to go with it. Would you care for some, Lord Iddesleigh?”

He looked at her and smiled, his wide mouth curving sensuously. “You tempt me, Miss Craddock-Hayes.”

Papa slammed his fist on the table, rattling the dishes.

Lucy jumped.

“But as a lad, I was warned many times against temptation,” the viscount said. “And although, sadly, I’ve spent a lifetime disregarding the warnings, tonight I think I shall be prudent. If you will excuse me, Miss Craddock-Hayes. Captain Craddock-Hayes.” He bowed and left the room before Lucy could speak.

“Impudent young bounder,” Papa growled, pushing his chair back from the table suddenly. “Did you see the insolent look he gave me as he left? Damn his eyes. And fleshpots. Ha, London fleshpots. I don’t like that man, poppet, viscount or no viscount.”

“I know that, Papa.” Lucy closed her eyes and wearily laid her head in her hands. She felt the beginnings of a migraine.

“The entire
house
knows that,” Mrs. Brodie proclaimed, banging back into the room.

Simon leaned against the window frame in his borrowed bedroom, watching the night outside. She was in the dark garden, apparently strolling in the cold after that delicious but socially disastrous supper. He followed her movements by the pale oval of her face, the rest of her lost to the shadows. It was hard to tell why she fascinated him so, this rural maiden. Perhaps it was simply the draw of dark to light, the devil wanting to despoil the angel, but he thought not. There was something about her, something grave and intelligent and harrowing to his soul. She tempted him with the perfume of heaven, with the hope of redemption, impossible as that hope was. He should leave her alone, his angel entombed in the country. She slumbered innocently, doing good works and managing with a steady hand her father’s house. No doubt she had a suitable gentleman who called upon her; he’d seen the trap and horse pull away the other day. Someone who would respect her position and not test the iron that he sensed lay underneath her facade. A gentleman entirely unlike himself.

Simon sighed and pushed away from the window frame. He’d never dealt very well with the
shoulds
and
shouldn’ts
of his life. He left his temporary room and stole down the stairs, moving with ridiculous care. Best not to alert the protective papa. An angle on the dark landing caught him on the shoulder and he swore. He was using his right arm as much as possible, trying to exercise it, but the damn thing still felt like the very devil. The housekeeper and maid were working in the kitchen when he passed through. He smiled and walked swiftly.

He was already through the back door when he heard Mrs. Brodie’s voice. “Sir—”

He gently shut the door.

Miss Craddock-Hayes must have heard it. Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she turned. “It’s cold out here.” She was only a pale shape in the dark, but her words floated toward him on the night breeze.

The garden was perhaps a quarter acre. What he’d seen of it in daylight from his window was very neat. A low-walled kitchen garden, a small lawn with fruit trees, and beyond, a flower garden. Gravel walks connected the different parts, all of them properly put to bed for the winter, no doubt the work of her hands as well.

By the light of the dim sickle moon, though, it was hard to get his bearings. He’d lost her again in the dark, and it bothered him inordinately. “Do you think it cold? I hadn’t noticed, really. Merely brisk.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets. It was bloody freezing in the garden.

“You shouldn’t be out so soon after being ill.”

He ignored that. “What are you doing here on a chilly winter night?”

“Looking at the stars.” Her voice trailed back to him as if she were walking away. “They’re never so bright as they are in winter.”

“Yes?” They all looked the same to him, whatever the season.

“Mmm. Do you see Orion over there? He glows tonight.” Her voice dropped. “But you should go in, it’s too cold.”

“I can do with the exercise—as I’m sure your father would point out—and winter air is good for a decrepit fellow like myself.”

She was silent.

He thought he moved in her direction, but he was no longer sure. Shouldn’t have mentioned the father.

“I’m sorry about Papa at supper.”

Ah, farther to the right. “Why? I thought his story quite clever. A trifle long, of course, but really—”

“He’s not usually so stern.”

She was so close he could smell her scent, starch and roses, curiously homey and yet arousing at the same time. What an ass he was. The crack to his head must have addled his wits.

“Ah, that. Yes, I did notice the old boy was a bit testy, but I put it down to the fact that I’m sleeping in his house, wearing his son’s clothes, and eating his very fine food without a proper invitation.”

He saw her face turn, ghostly in the moonlight. “No, it’s something about you.” He could almost feel her breath brushing against his cheek. “Although you could have been nicer, too.”

He chuckled. It was that or weep. “I don’t think so.” He shook his head, though she couldn’t see it. “No, I’m certain. I definitely can’t be any nicer. It’s simply not in me. I’m like that snake in your father’s story, striking when I shouldn’t. Although in my case, it’s more that I quip when I shouldn’t.”

The treetops moved in the wind, raking arthritic fingers against the night sky.

“Is that how you ended up nearly dead in the ditch outside Maiden Hill?” She’d crept closer. Lured by his studied frankness? “Did you insult someone?”

Simon caught his breath. “Now why do you think the attack was any fault of mine?”

“I don’t know. Was it?”

He settled his rump against the kitchen garden wall, where it promptly started freezing, and crossed his arms. “You be my judge, fair lady. I shall set my case before you, and you may pronounce sentence.”

“I’m not qualified to judge anyone.”

Did she frown? “Oh, yes, you are, sweet angel.”

“I don’t—”

“Hush. Listen. I got up that morning at a horribly unfashionable hour, dressed, after a small argument with my valet over the advisability of red-heeled pumps, which he won—Henry absolutely terrorizes me—”

“Somehow I very much doubt that.”

Simon placed a hand over his heart, even though the movement was wasted in the dark. “I do assure you. Then I descended my front steps, magnificently arrayed in a dashing blue velvet coat, curled and powdered wig, and the aforementioned red-heeled pumps—”

She snorted.

“Strolled down the street less than a quarter mile and was there set upon by three ruffians.”

She caught her breath. “Three?”

Gratifying.

“Three.” He made his voice light. “Two I might have bested. One, assuredly. But three proved to be my downfall. They relieved me of everything I had on, including the pumps, which put me in the embarrassing position of having to meet you for the first time both in the nude and—even more shockingly—unconscious. I don’t know if our relationship will ever recover from the initial trauma.”

She declined the bait. “You didn’t know your attackers?”

Simon started to spread wide his arms, then winced and lowered them. “On my honor. Now, unless you consider red-heeled pumps to be an unbearable temptation to London robbers—in which case I was certainly asking for a drubbing going out in broad daylight wearing them—I think you will have to pardon me.”

“And if I don’t?” So soft, the wind nearly bore the words away.

Such a cautious flirt. Yet even this little hint of laughter caused his loins to tighten. “Then, lady, best call my name no more. For Simon Iddesleigh will be naught but a wisp, an exhalation. I will expire and disappear utterly, were you to denounce me.”

Silence. Perhaps the
exhalation
bit was overdone.

Then she laughed. A loud, joyful sound that made something in his breast leap in reply.

“Do you feed the ladies in London this poppycock?” She was literally gasping for breath. “If you do, I think they would all go about with grimaces on their powdered faces to keep from giggling.”

He felt unaccountably put out. “I’ll have you know, I am considered quite a wit in London society.” Good Lord, he sounded like a pompous ass. “The great hostesses vie to have me on their invitation lists.”

“Really?”

Imp!

“Yes, really.” He couldn’t help it; the words came out sounding disgruntled. Oh, that would impress her. “A dinner party can be proclaimed a success when I attend. Last year a duchess fainted dead away when she heard I couldn’t make it.”

“Poor, poor London ladies. How sad they must be at the moment!”

He winced.
Touché.
“Actually—”

“And yet they survive without you.” The laughter still lurked. “Or perhaps not. Perhaps your absence has caused a rash of hostess faintings.”

“Oh, cruel angel.”

“Why do you call me that? Is that a name you give many of your London ladies?”

“What,
angel
?”

“Yes.” And suddenly he realized that she was closer than he’d thought. Within reach, in fact.

“No, only you.” He touched a fingertip to her cheek. Her skin was warm, even in the night air, and soft, so soft.

Then she stepped away.

“I don’t believe you.”

Did she sound breathless? He grinned like a demon in the dark but didn’t answer. God, he wished he could simply pull her into his arms, open her sweet lips beneath his, feel her breath in his mouth and her breasts against his chest.

“Why
angel
?” she asked. “I’m not particularly angelic.”

“Ah, there you are wrong. Your eyebrows are most stern, your mouth curved like a Renaissance saint. Your eyes are wondrous to look upon. And your mind . . .” He stood and ventured a step toward her, until they almost touched, and she had to turn her pale face up to his.

“My mind?”

He thought he felt the warm puff of her breath. “Your mind is an iron bell that rings beautiful, terrible, and true.” His voice was husky, even to his own ears, and he knew he’d revealed too much.

A lock of her hair bridged the scant inches between them and caressed his throat. His cock came painfully erect, its beat echoing the one in his heart.

“I have no idea what that means,” she whispered.

“Perhaps that’s just as well.”

She reached her hand out, hesitated, then touched his cheek lightly with one fingertip. He felt the contact sizzle throughout his body down to his very toes.

“Sometimes I think I know you,” she murmured so low he almost didn’t catch the words. “Sometimes I think that I’ve always known you, from the very first moment you opened your eyes, and that, deep inside your soul, you know me, too. But then you make a joke, play the fool or the rake, and turn aside. Why do you do that?”

He opened his mouth to shout his fear or say something else entirely, but the kitchen door opened, spilling an arc of light into the garden. “Poppet?”

The guardian father.

She turned so that her face was silhouetted against the light from the kitchen. “I must go in. Good night.” She withdrew her hand, and it brushed across his lips as she retreated.

He had to steady his voice before he could speak. “Good night.”

She walked toward the kitchen door, emerging into the light. Her father took her elbow and searched the shadows of the garden over her head before closing the door behind her. Simon watched her go, choosing to stay in the dark rather than confront Captain Craddock-Hayes. His shoulder ached, his head pounded, and his toes were frozen.

And he played a game he could not possibly win.