The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)

The Serpent Prince (Princes #3) Page 22

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?”

“Yes,” she said meekly.

“Very well. The Serpent Prince waved one pale hand, and suddenly Angelica’s drab brown rags had turned to a shimmering dress of copper. In her hair were copper and ruby jewels and on her feet, embroidered copper slippers. Angelica twirled in a circle, delighted at her transformation, and she exclaimed, ‘Wait until Prince Rutherford sees me!’”

“Rutherford?” Lucy arched an eyebrow.

He stared at her sternly.

“Sorry.”

“Prince Rutherford, he of the curling golden hair. But the Serpent Prince did not reply, and only then did Angelica notice that he had sunk to his knees beside the brazier and that the blue-flamed fire within burned lower. For in giving the goat girl her wish, he had depleted his own power.”

“Silly man.”

He looked up and smiled at her and then seemed to notice the dark sky for the first time. “Good Lord, is it as late as that? Why didn’t you tell me? You need to return to Rosalind’s town house at once.”

She sighed. For a London sophisticate, her fiancé had become lamentably stodgy lately. “All right.” Lucy stood and dusted off her skirt. “When will I see you next?”

“I’ll come for breakfast.” He sounded distracted.

Disappointment shot through her. “No, Rosalind says we must leave early to go to the glover’s, and we’ll be away for luncheon as well. She’s made arrangements to introduce me to some of her friends.”

Simon frowned. “Do you ride?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But I haven’t a mount.”

“I have several horses. I’ll come by Rosalind’s town house before breakfast, and then we’ll ride in the park. We’ll be back in time for Rosalind to take you to the glover’s.”

“I’d like that.” She looked at him.

He stared back. “God, and I can’t even kiss you. Go on, then.”

“Good night.” Lucy smiled as she walked back up the aisle.

Behind her she could hear Simon cursing.

“MAY I JOIN YOU?” SIMON COCKED a brow at the cardplayers that night.

Quincy James, seated with his back to him, swung around and stared. A tic started under his right eye. He wore a deep red velvet coat and breeches, and his waistcoat was an eggshell white, embroidered in red to match the coat. Taken with his clubbed guinea-colored hair, he was a pretty sight. Simon felt his lips curve into a satisfied smile.

“’Course.” A gentleman in an old-fashioned, full-bottomed wig nodded.

He had the dissipated face of a gambler who’d spent a lifetime at the tables. Simon hadn’t been introduced to him, but he’d seen him before. Lord Kyle. The other three men at the table were strangers. Two were in their middling years, nearly identical in white-powdered wigs and with faces flushed from drink. The last was only a youth, his cheeks still spotty. A pigeon in a den of foxes. His mother ought to have kept him safe at home.