The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)

The Serpent Prince (Princes #3) Page 10

“You’re being mean.”

“You’re being overly kind.”

Mr. Fletcher made a particularly showy slash.

Patricia eyed him. “Although I have to admit he is tall.”

“Tall? That’s the only nice thing you have to say about him?” Lucy poured her more tea.

“Thank you.” Patricia took her cup. “You shouldn’t disparage height.”

“You’re shorter than I, and I am no Amazon.”

Patricia waved a biscuit, nearly entangling it in her gold curls. “I know. It’s sad, but there it is. I’m strangely drawn to men who tower over me.”

“If that is your criteria, Mr. Fletcher is about the tallest man you’re likely to find.”

“True.”

“Perhaps I should invite you to dine with us so that you may get to know Mr. Fletcher better.”

“You should, you know. After all, you’ve already taken the only eligible bachelor in Maiden Hill who isn’t a Jones or hopelessly simple.” Patricia paused to sip her tea. “Speaking of which—”

“I should ring for more hot water,” Lucy cut in hastily.

“Speaking of which.” Patricia trundled right on over her. “I saw you out driving with Eustace yesterday. Well?”

“Well what?”

“Don’t play stupid with me,” Patricia said, looking like an irate marmalade kitten. “Has he said anything?”

“Of course he said something.” Lucy sighed. “He discussed at length the repairs to the church roof, Mrs. Hardy’s ankle, and whether or not it might snow.”

Patricia narrowed her eyes.

She gave in. “But nothing about marriage.”

“I take back what I said.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows.

“I think we shall have to place Eustace into the hopelessly simple category.”

“Now, Patricia—”

“Three years!” Her friend thumped a settee cushion. “Three years he’s been driving you up and down and all around Maiden Hill. His horse can find the way in its sleep by now. He’s made actual ruts in the roads he takes.”

“Yes, but—”

“And has he proposed?”

Lucy grimaced.

“No, he has not,” Patricia answered herself. “And why not?”

“I don’t know.” Lucy shrugged. It honestly was a mystery to her as well.

“The man needs a fire lit under his feet.” Patricia jumped up and started trotting back and forth in front of her. “Vicar or no vicar, you’re going to be gray-haired by the time he brings himself to the point. And what’s the good of that, I ask you? You won’t be able to bear children.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

She thought she’d spoken too quietly to be heard over her friend’s diatribe, but Patricia stopped short and stared. “You don’t want to have children?”

“No,” Lucy said slowly, “I’m not sure I want to marry Eustace anymore.”

And she realized it was true. What just days ago had seemed inevitable and good in a predictable way, now seemed old and stale and nearly impossible. Could she spend the rest of her life having settled for the best of what Maiden Hill had to offer? Wasn’t there so much more in the wider world? Almost involuntarily, her eyes were drawn to the window again.

“But that leaves only Jones men and the truly . . .” Patricia turned to follow her gaze. “Oh, my dear.”

Her friend sat back down.

Lucy felt a flush start. She quickly drew her eyes away. “I’m sorry, I know you like Eustace, despite—”

“No.” Patricia shook her head, curls bouncing. “This isn’t about Eustace, and you know it. It’s about him.”

Outside, the viscount got up to demonstrate a move, his arm outstretched, one elegant hand on a hip.

Lucy sighed.

“What are you thinking?” Patricia’s voice cut in. “I know he’s handsome, and those gray eyes are enough to make the average virgin faint, not to mention that form, which apparently you got to see nude.”

“I—”

“But he’s a London gentleman. I’m sure he’s like one of those crocodile creatures they have in Africa that waits until some unfortunate person gets too close to the water and then eats them up. Snip! Snap!”

“He’s not going to eat me up.” Lucy reached for her teacup again. “He’s not interested in me—”

“How—”

“And I’m not interested in him.”

Patricia raised an eyebrow, patently dubious.

Lucy did her best to ignore her. “And besides, he’s out of my sphere. He’s one of those worldly gentlemen who live in London and have affairs with stylish ladies and I’m . . .” She shrugged helplessly. “I’m a country mouse.”

Patricia patted her knee. “It wouldn’t work, dear.”

“I know.” Lucy chose another lemon biscuit. “And someday Eustace will propose to me and I’ll accept him.” She said it firmly, a smile fixed on her face, but somewhere inside her, she felt a building pressure.

And her eyes still strayed to the window.

“I HOPE I’M NOT DISTURBING YOU?” Simon asked later that evening.

He had prowled into the little room at the back of the house where Miss Craddock-Hayes hid herself. He was curiously restless. Christian had retired to his inn, Captain Craddock-Hayes had disappeared on some errand, Henry was fussily arranging his clothes, and he should probably be in bed, continuing his recovery. But he wasn’t. Instead, after grabbing one of his own coats and dodging Henry—who’d wanted to put him through a full toilet—Simon had tracked down his angel.

“Not at all.” She looked at him warily. “Please, have a seat. I had begun to think you were avoiding me.”

Simon winced. He had. But at the same time, he couldn’t stay away from her. Truth be told, he felt well enough to travel, even if he wasn’t fully recovered. He should pack up and quit this house gracefully.

“What are you sketching?” He sat beside her, too close. He caught a whiff of starch.

She mutely turned her enormous book so he could see. A charcoal Christian danced across the page, lunging and feinting at an imaginary foe.

“It’s very good.” Immediately he felt a fool for so pedestrian a compliment, but she smiled, which had its now- predictable effect on him. He leaned back and flicked the skirt of his coat over his groin, then stretched out his legs. Carefully.

She frowned, her straight eyebrows drawing together terribly. “You’ve strained your back.”

“You aren’t supposed to notice a gentleman’s infirmity. Our manly pride may become irreparably damaged.”

“Silly.” She got up and brought a pillow to him. “Lean forward.”

He complied. “Also, you shouldn’t call us silly.”

“Even if you are?”

“Especially if we are.” She positioned the pillow behind his back. “Absolutely devastating to the manly pride.” God, that felt better.

“Humph.” Her hand trailed lightly across his shoulder; then she went to the door and called for the housekeeper.

He watched her move to the fireplace and stir the embers into flame. “What are you doing?”

“I thought we’d have supper in here, if that agrees with you.”

“Whatever agrees with you, agrees with me, fairest lady.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The housekeeper appeared, and they conferred before Mrs. Brodie bustled out again.

“Papa is dining with Dr. Fremont tonight,” his angel said. “They like to argue politics together.”

“Indeed? Is that the same doctor who saw to my wound?” The good doctor must be a formidable debater to take on the captain. He had Simon’s best wishes.

“Mmm.”

Mrs. Brodie and the one maid returned with laden trays. They took some time setting up the meal on the side table and then left.

“Papa used to have wonderful discussions with David.” Miss Craddock-Hayes sliced a game pie. “I think he misses him.” She handed the plate to him.

Simon had an awful thought. “Are you bereaved?”

She stared at him blankly for a second, her hand hovering over the pie; then she laughed. “Oh, no. David is away at sea. He’s a sailor like Papa. A lieutenant on the New Hope.”

“Forgive me,” Simon said. “I suddenly realized that I didn’t know anything of your brother, despite using his room.”

She looked down as she selected an apple for herself. “David’s two and twenty, two years younger than I. He’s been away at sea eleven months now. He writes often, although we get his letters in clumps. He can only post them when they make port.” She settled the plate on her lap and glanced up. “Father reads them all at once when we get a packet, but I like to save the letters and read one or two a week. It makes them last longer.” She smiled almost guiltily.

Simon had an urgent wish to find this David and make him write a hundred letters more to his sister. Letters Simon could give her so he could sit at her feet and watch that smile on her lips. More fool, he.

“Have you a brother or sister?” she asked innocently.

He looked down at his pie. This was what came of being beguiled by dark, level brows and a serious mouth. One let one’s guard down. “I am deficient in sisters, alas.” He cut into the friable crust. “I always thought it would be nice to have a little sister to tease, although they have a tendency to grow up and tease back, I hear.”

“And brothers?”

“One brother.” He picked up his fork and was surprised to find his fingers trembling, damn them. He willed the shaking to stop. “Dead.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was nearly a whisper.

“Just as well.” Simon reached for his wineglass. “He was the elder, so I would never have attained the title had he not seen fit to shuffle off this mortal coil.” He took an overlarge sip of the red wine. It burned all the way down his throat. He set the glass down and rubbed at his right index finger.

She was silent, watching him from too-intense topaz eyes.

“Besides,” he continued, “he was rather an ass, Ethan was. Always worried about the right thing and whether I was living up to the family name, which of course I never was. He’d call me down once or twice a year to the family estate and look at me with lugubrious eyes as he enumerated my many sins and the size of my tailor’s bill.” He stopped because he was babbling.

He glanced at her to see if he’d finally shocked her into sending him away. She merely gazed back, compassion in her face. Dreadful, dreadful angel.

He transferred his gaze to the pie, although his appetite had fled. “I don’t believe I finished my fairy tale the other day. About poor Angelica and the Serpent Prince.”

Thankfully, she nodded. “You’d got as far as the magical cave and the silver snake.”

“Right.” He breathed deeply, trying to rid himself of the tightness in his chest. He took another swallow of the wine and marshaled his thoughts. “The silver snake was much larger than any Angelica had seen before; its head alone was as big as her forearm. As she watched, the serpent uncoiled itself and swallowed her poor little goat whole. Then it slowly slithered away into the darkness.”

Miss Craddock-Hayes shuddered. “It sounds awful.”

“It was.” He paused to take a bite of pie. “Angelica crept from the crack in the rock as quietly as she could and returned to her small stick shack to think things over, for she was quite frightened. What if the giant serpent continued to eat her goats? What if it decided to try a more tender meat and eat her?”