The Serpent Prince (8 page)

Lucy sighed and rolled her eyes. They were all assembled in the front sitting room, waiting for Lord Iddesleigh so they could go into supper. Actually, she wasn’t all that anxious to see the viscount again anyway. She’d made a fool of herself the evening before. She still wasn’t quite sure why her anger had suddenly boiled over; it had been so sudden. But it had been real. She was so much more than daughter and nursemaid; she knew that deep within herself. Yet, in tiny Maiden Hill, she could never become who she wanted to be. She was only dimly aware of who she might become, but stuck here, she knew she’d never discover herself.

“I’m sure he’ll be down presently, sir,” Mr. Fletcher said. Unfortunately, Lord Iddesleigh’s friend didn’t sound sure at all. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I ought to go—”

“What an exquisite company.” Lord Iddesleigh’s voice came from the doorway.

Everyone swung around, and Lucy almost let her mouth hang open. The viscount was magnificent. That was the only word for it.
Magnificent.
He wore a silver brocade coat embroidered in silver and black on the turned-back sleeves, skirts, and all down the front. Underneath was a sapphire waistcoat with vining leaves and multicolored flowers lavishly embroidered all over. His shirt had falls of lace at the wrists and throat, and he wore a snow-white wig on his head.

The viscount strolled into the sitting room. “Never say you have all been waiting for me.”

“Late!” Papa exploded. “Late for my supper! Sit down promptly at seven o’clock in this household, sir, and if you cannot . . .” Papa trailed off and stared fixedly down at the viscount’s feet.

Lucy followed his gaze. The viscount wore elegant pumps with—

“Red heels!” Papa shouted. “Good God, sirrah, think you this is a bordello?”

The viscount had made Lucy’s side by this time, and he languidly lifted her hand to his lips as her father sputtered. He looked up at her, his head still bowed, and she saw that his eyes were only a few shades darker than his snowy wig. He winked as she stared, mesmerized, and she felt the wet warmth of his tongue insinuate itself between her fingers.

Lucy inhaled sharply, but the viscount let go of her hand and whirled to face her father as if nothing had happened. She hid her hand in her skirt as he spoke.

“A bordello, sir? No, I confess that I never mistook your home for a bordello. Now, had you decorated the walls with a few paintings depicting—”

“Shall we go in to supper?” Lucy squeaked.

She didn’t wait for an assent; the way the conversation was progressing, there would be all-out warfare before supper was ever begun. Instead she seized the viscount’s arm and marched him into the dining room. Of course, she would never be able to physically force Lord Iddesleigh to go where he did not wish to go. Fortunately, he seemed content to let her lead him.

He bent his head close to hers as they entered the dining room. “Had I known, sweeting, that you desired my company so devoutly”—he pulled out a chair for her—“I would’ve damned Henry and come down in my smallclothes.”

“Ass,” Lucy muttered to him as she sat.

His smile widened into a grin. “My angel.”

Then he was forced to round the table and sit across from her. As everyone else found their places, Lucy let out a small sigh. Maybe now they could be civil.

“I’ve often wanted to visit Westminster Abbey in London,” Eustace said rather pompously as Betsy began ladling out potato and leek soup. “To see the graves of the poets and great men of letters, you understand. But I’m afraid I’ve never had the time on the occasions I’ve traveled to our wonderful capital. Always busy with church matters, you know. Perhaps you could give us your impressions of that magnificent abbey, Lord Iddesleigh?”

All heads at the dinner table swiveled in the viscount’s direction.

The lines around his silver eyes deepened as he fingered his wineglass. “Sorry. Never had a reason to enter the dusty old mausoleum. It’s not my cup of tea, really. Probably a terrible moral failing on my part.”

Lucy could practically hear Papa and Eustace agreeing in their minds. Mr. Fletcher coughed and buried his face in his wineglass.

She sighed. When her father had invited Eustace to sup with them, Lucy had welcomed the diversion another guest would provide. Mr. Fletcher, although pleasant, had not been able to stand up to Papa’s grilling and had looked quite wan by the end of the noon meal on the previous day. And the viscount, while he could withstand her father’s obvious nettling, did it only too well. He drove her father into red-faced incoherence. She’d hoped Eustace would provide a buffer. Obviously, this was not to be the case. To make matters worse, she felt an absolute drab in her dark gray gown. It was well cut but so plain as to be nearly a rag next to the viscount’s finery. Of course, no one she knew dressed so ostentatiously in the country, and Lord Iddesleigh really ought to feel self-conscious to be so out of place.

On that thought, Lucy raised her glass of wine defiantly and stared at the viscount sitting across from her. A puzzled look flashed across his face before his habitual expression of ennui resettled.

“I could give you a colorful description of the pleasure gardens at Vaux Hall,” Lord Iddesleigh mused, continuing the topic Eustace had brought up. “Been there on too many nights to recall, with too many people I’d rather not recall, doing too many things . . . well, you get the picture. But I don’t know that it’s a description quite fit for mixed company.”

“Ha. Then I suggest you not give it,” Papa rumbled. “Not that interested in the sights of London anyway. Good English countryside is the best place in the world. I should know. Been around the world in my day.”

“I quite agree, Captain,” Eustace said. “Nothing is so fine as the English rural landscape.”

“Ha. So there.” Papa leaned forward and fixed a gimlet eye on his guest. “Feeling better tonight, Iddesleigh?”

Lucy nearly groaned. Papa’s hints that the viscount should leave were growing more and more explicit.

“Thank you, sir, for inquiring.” Lord Iddesleigh poured more wine for himself. “Except for the stabbing pain in my back, the unfortunate loss of sensation in my right arm, and a sort of nauseous dizziness when I stand, I’m as fit as a fiddle.”

“Good. You look well enough. Suppose you’ll be leaving us soon, eh?” Her father glowered from beneath his furry white brows. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“Papa!” Lucy cut in before her father had their guest out the door tonight. “Lord Iddesleigh just said he’s not fully recovered.”

Mrs. Brodie and Betsy came in to remove the soup dishes and serve the next course. The housekeeper took a look around at the uncomfortable faces and sighed. She met Lucy’s eyes and shook her head in sympathy before she left. Everyone started on the roast chicken and peas.

“I once went in Westminster Abbey,” Mr. Fletcher said.

“Were you lost?” Lord Iddesleigh inquired politely.

“Not at all. Mother and the sisters were on an architectural binge.”

“I didn’t know you had any sisters.”

“I do. Three.”

“Good God. Excuse me, Vicar.”

“Two elder,” Mr. Fletcher said chattily, “one younger.”

“My felicitations.”

“Thanks. Anyway, we toured the Abbey about ten years ago now, in between St. Paul’s and the Tower.”

“And you but a young and impressionable lad.” The viscount shook his head sorrowfully. “It’s so sad when one hears about this type of debauchery at the hands of one’s elders. Makes one wonder what England is coming to.”

Papa made an explosive sound beside Lucy, and Lord Iddesleigh winked across the table at her. She tried to frown at him as she raised her wineglass, but however awfully he behaved, she found it hard to censor him.

Next to the viscount’s magnificence, Eustace was a dusty sparrow in his usual brown broadcloth coat, breeches, and waistcoat. Of course, Eustace looked quite well in brown, and one didn’t expect a country vicar to go about in silver brocade. It would be improper, and he’d probably seem merely silly in such splendor. Which made one wonder why the viscount, instead of looking silly, appeared downright dangerous in his finery.

“Did you know if you stand in the middle of the Westminster nave and whistle, there is quite a nice echo?” Mr. Fletcher said, looking around the table.

“Absolutely fascinating,” the viscount said. “I’ll keep that in mind should I ever have occasion to visit the place and feel an urge to whistle.”

“Yes, well, try not to do it within sight of a female relative. Got my ears boxed.” Mr. Fletcher rubbed the side of his head, remembering.

“Ah, the ladies do keep us in line.” Eustace elevated his glass and looked at Lucy. “I don’t know what we would do without their guiding hands.”

She raised her eyebrows. She wasn’t certain that she’d ever guided Eustace, but that seemed beside the point.

Lord Iddesleigh toasted her as well. “Here, here. My dearest wish is but to lie prostrate and humble beneath my lady’s iron thumb. Her stern frown makes me tremble; her elusive smile causes me to stiffen and shake in ecstasy.”

Lucy’s eyes widened even as her nipples tightened. The wretch!

Mr. Fletcher started coughing again.

Papa and Eustace scowled, but it was the younger man who got in the first word. “I say, that’s a bit bold.”

“It’s quite all right—” Lucy attempted, but the men weren’t listening to her, despite their flowery words.

“Bold?” The viscount lowered his glass. “In what way?”

“Well,
stiffen.
” The vicar blushed.

Oh, for goodness’ sake! Lucy opened her mouth but was interrupted before she could get a word out.

“Stiffen? Stiffen? Stiffen?” Lord Iddesleigh repeated, sounding uncommonly silly. “A perfectly nice English word. Descriptive and plain. Used in all the best houses. I’ve heard the king himself employ it. In fact, it describes exactly what you are doing now, Mr. Penweeble.”

Mr. Fletcher was bent double, his hands covering his reddened face. Lucy hoped he wouldn’t choke to death in his amusement.

Eustace flushed an alarming shade of puce. “What about
ecstasy,
then? I’d like to see you defend that, sir.”

The viscount drew himself up and looked down his rather long nose. “I would think that you of all people, Vicar, a soldier in the army of His Majesty’s church, a man of learning and exquisite reasoning, a soul seeking the divine salvation only available through Christ our Lord, would understand that
ecstasy
is a most righteous and religious term.” Lord Iddesleigh paused to eat a bite of chicken. “What else did you think it meant?”

For a moment, the gentlemen around the table goggled at the viscount. Lucy looked from one to another, exasperated. Really, this nightly war of words was getting tiresome.

Then Papa spoke. “Believe that may be blasphemy.” And he started chuckling.

Mr. Fletcher stopped choking and joined in the laughter. Eustace grimaced and then he, too, laughed softly, although he still looked uncomfortable.

Lord Iddesleigh smiled, raised his glass, and watched Lucy over the rim with his silver eyes.

He’d been both blasphemous and improper—and Lucy didn’t care. Her lips were trembling, and she felt short of breath just looking at him.

She smiled back helplessly.

Simon heartily agreed. His urgency was ridiculous. When had he ever run after a woman? But he had an awful need to talk to her, to explain his ungentlemanly conduct of the night before. Or perhaps that was an excuse. Perhaps the need was simply to be with her. He was conscious that the sands of time were running swiftly through his fingers. Soon he would run out of excuses to stay in tranquil Maiden Hill. Soon he would see his angel no more.

Thankfully, Miss Craddock-Hayes had heard his shout. She halted the horse just before the drive disappeared into a copse and turned in her seat to look back at him. Then she pulled the horse’s head around.

“What are you doing, running after me?” she asked when the cart had drawn alongside him. She sounded not at all impressed. “You’ll reopen your wound.”

He straightened, trying not to look like a decrepit wreck. “A small price to pay for a moment of your sweet time, oh fair lady.”

Hedge snorted loudly and banged the front door shut behind him. But she smiled at him.

“Are you going into town?” he asked.

“Yes.” She cocked her head. “The village is small. I can’t think what you could find there to interest you.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. The ironmonger’s, the cross in the center of the square, the ancient church—all are items of excitement.” He vaulted into the cart beside her, making it rock. “Would you like me to drive?”

“No. I can manage Kate.” She chirruped to the sturdy little horse—presumably Kate—and they lurched forward.

“Have I thanked you for your charity in rescuing me from a ditch?”

“I believe you have.” She darted a glance at him, then turned again to the road so that he couldn’t see her face around the brim of her hat. “Did I tell you we thought you dead when I first saw you?”

“No. I am sorry for your distress.”

“I’m glad you weren’t dead.”

He wished he could see her face. “As am I.”

“I thought . . .” Her words trailed away; then she started again. “It was so strange finding you. My day had been very ordinary, and then I looked down and saw you. At first I didn’t believe my eyes. You were so out of place in my world.”

I still am.
But he didn’t speak the thought aloud.

“Like discovering a magical being,” she said softly.

“Then your disappointment must’ve been severe.”

“In what way?”

“To discover me to be a man of earthen clay and not magical at all.”

“Aha! I shall have to note this day in my diary.”

He rocked against her as they bumped over a rut in the road. “Why?”

“December the second,” she intoned in a grave voice. “Just after luncheon. The Viscount of Iddesleigh makes a humble statement regarding himself.”

He grinned at her like an idiot. “Touché.”

She didn’t turn her head, but he saw the smile curve her cheek. He had a sudden urge to pull the reins from her hands, guide the horse to the side of the road, and take his angel into his clayish arms. Perhaps she had the spell that could turn the misshapen monster into something human.

Ah, but that would involve degrading the angel.

So instead Simon lifted his face to the winter sun, thin though it was. It was good to be outdoors, even in the chill wind. Good to be sitting beside her. The ache in his shoulder had subsided to a dull throb. He’d been lucky and not reopened the wound, after all. He watched his angel. She sat with her back upright and managed the reins competently with very little show, quite unlike the ladies of his acquaintance who were apt to become dramatic actresses when driving a gentleman. Her hat was a plain straw one, tied underneath her left ear. She wore a gray cloak over her lighter gray gown, and it suddenly occurred to him that he’d never seen her in any other color.

“Is there a reason you always wear gray?” he asked.

“What?”

“Your dress.” He indicated her apparel with his hand. “You’re always in gray. Rather like a pretty little dove. If you aren’t in mourning, why do you wear it?”

She frowned. “I didn’t think it was proper for a gentleman to comment on a lady’s attire. Are the social conventions different in London?”

Ouch.
His angel was in fine fettle this morning.

He leaned against the seat, propping his elbow behind her back. He was so close he could feel her warmth at his chest. “Yes, actually they are. For instance, it is considered de rigueur for a lady driving a gentleman in a trap to flirt with him outrageously.”

She pursed her lips, still refusing to look at him.

That served only to egg him on. “Ladies not following this convention are frowned upon severely. Very often you will see the elder members of the
ton
shaking their heads over these poor, lost souls.”

“You are terrible.”

“I’m afraid so,” he sighed. “But I’ll give you leave to disregard the rule since we are in the benighted country.”

“Benighted?” She slapped the reins, and Kate rattled her bridle.

“I insist on benighted.”

She gave him a look.

He stroked one finger down her ramrod-straight spine. She stiffened even more but didn’t comment. He remembered the taste of her fingers on his tongue the night before, and another less polite part of his anatomy stiffened as well. Her acceptance of his touch was as erotic as a blatant display in another woman. “You can hardly blame me, since, were we in the city, you would be compelled to say suggestive things to me in my blushing ear.”

She sighed. “I can’t remember what you asked me before all this nonsense.”

He grinned even though it was gauche. He couldn’t recall when he’d last had this much fun. “Why do you wear only gray? Not that I have anything against gray, and it does lend you an intriguing ecclesiastical air.”

“I look like a nun?” Her terrifying brows drew together.

The trap bumped over another rut in the road and jostled his shoulder against hers.

“No, dear girl. I am saying, admittedly in a roundabout and rather obscure way, that you are an angel sent from heaven to judge me for my sins.”

“I wear gray because it is a color that doesn’t show dirt.” She glanced at him. “What kind of sins have you committed?”

He leaned close, as if about to impart a confidence, and caught a whiff of roses. “I contest the word
color
used in reference to gray and submit that gray is not a color at all, but rather a lack thereof.”

Her eyes narrowed ominously.

He drew back and sighed. “As to my sins, my dear lady, they are not the sort that may be spoken of in the presence of an angel.”

“Then how am I to judge them? And gray is so a color.”

He laughed. He felt like throwing wide his arms and perhaps breaking into song. It must be the country air. “Lady, I concede to the power of your well-thought-out argument, which, I think, would have brought even Sophocles to his knees. Gray, therefore, is a color.”

She harrumphed. “And your sins?”

“My sins are numerous and irredeemable.” The image flashed through his mind of Peller desperately flinging out his hand and his own sword slicing through it, blood and fingers spangling the air. Simon blinked and painted a smile across his lips. “All who have knowledge of my sins,” he said lightly, “shrink in horror from the sight of me as if I were a leper revealed, my nose falling off, my ears rotting.”

She regarded him, so grave and so innocent. Brave little angel, untouched by the stink of men. He couldn’t help stroking her back again, cautiously, furtively. Her eyes widened.

“And so they should,” he continued. “For instance, I have been known to leave my house without a hat.”

She frowned. He wasn’t wearing a hat at the moment.

“In
London,
” he clarified.

But she wasn’t worried about hats. “Why do you think that you’re irredeemable? All men can find grace if they repent of their sins.”

“So speaketh the angel of the Lord.” He leaned close to her, under her flat straw hat, and smelled again the scent of roses in her hair. His cock twitched. “But what if I am a devil from hell itself and not of your world at all, angel?”

“I’m not an angel.” She tilted her face up.

“Oh, yes, you are,” he breathed. His lips brushed her hair, and for a wild moment he thought he might kiss her, might debauch this lady with his foul mouth. But the cart shook as they rounded a curve, and her head turned to mind the horse, and the moment passed.

“How independent you are,” he murmured.

“Country ladies need to be, if we are to get anywhere,” she said somewhat tartly. “Did you think I sit at home doing the mending all day?”

Ah, this was dangerous ground. They’d been in this territory when she’d grown angry with him two nights before. “No. I am aware of your many duties and talents, not least of which is to help the less fortunate of the village. I have no doubt you would make an admirable Lady Mayor of London, but that would involve quitting this lovely hamlet, and I am sure that the inhabitants would not survive without you.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” he said sincerely. “Aren’t you?”

“I think everyone would survive quite well without me,” she said rather dispassionately. “Some other lady would soon fill my shoes, I am sure.”

He knit his eyebrows. “Do you value yourself so lightly?”

“It’s not that. It’s simply that the charities I perform here could be done by anyone.”

“Hmm.” He considered her beautiful profile. “And were you to abandon all who depend on you here in Maiden Hill, what would you do?”

Her lips parted as she considered his question. He leaned closer. Oh, how he wished to tempt this innocent! “Would you dance upon the stages of London in purple slippers? Sail to far-off Araby in a boat with silken sails? Become a society lady famous for her wit and beauty?”

“I’d become myself.”

He blinked. “You already are yourself, beautiful and stern.”

“Am I? No one else notices but you.”

He stared then into her serious topaz eyes, and he wanted to say something. It was on the tip of his tongue, yet unaccountably he could not speak.

She glanced away. “We’re almost to Maiden Hill. See the church tower over there?” She pointed.

He dutifully looked, trying to regain some calm. It was past time he left. If he stayed, he would only be further tempted to seduce this maiden, and as he had proved his entire life, he was not capable of withstanding temptation. Hell, sometimes he ran toward it. But not this time. Not with this woman. He watched her now, her brow furrowed as she maneuvered her little trap into town. A lock of dark hair had come undone and caressed her cheek like a lover’s hand. With this woman, if he gave in to temptation, he would destroy something honest and good. Something he had never found anywhere else on this wretched earth.

And he did not think he would survive the devastation.