The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(12)

He blinked and began his story again. “There seemed to be a flickering light coming from the crack. The space was narrow, but Angelica found that if she turned sideways, she could just slip in, and when she did, she saw an astonishing thing. A very strange man—or at least he seemed to be a man. He was tall and lean and had long silver hair, and he was quite, quite nude. He stood in the light of a small, blue-flamed fire that was burning in a brazier.”

Her brows arched.

“But what was strangest of all, was that as Angelica watched, he seemed to vanish. When she went to look where he had stood, there lay a giant silver snake, coiled around the base of the brazier.” He absently rubbed his index finger, running his thumb against the place his ring should be. Suddenly he was very tired.

“Ah, at last we come to the infamous Serpent Prince.” She looked up and must have caught the weariness in his expression. Her own face sobered. “How does your back feel?”

Like hell. “Plucky, just plucky. I think the knife wound may’ve actually improved it.”

She watched him for a moment. And for the life of him, even with all his years of studying women, he’d not a clue as to what she thought.

“Are you ever serious?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Not ever.”

“I thought not.” Her eyes were intent on him. “Why?”

He looked away. He could not sustain that intense, too-perceptive regard. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“I think you do know,” she said softly. “As to whether or not it matters . . . Well, that isn’t for me to say.”

“Isn’t it?” It was his turn to stare at her, pressuring her to admit . . . what? He wasn’t sure.

“No,” she whispered.

He opened his mouth to argue further, but some belated sense of self-preservation stopped him.

She inhaled. “You should rest, and I’ve been keeping you up.” His angel shut her book and rose. “I sent the letter to your valet yesterday. He should receive it soon.”

He let his head fall back against the pillows and watched her as she gathered the empty dishes. “Thank you, beautiful lady.”

She paused by the door and looked back at him. The candlelight flickered over her face, turning it into a Renaissance painting, most fitting for an angel. “Are you safe here?”

Her voice was soft, and he had begun to drift into dreams, so he wasn’t sure of the words—hers or his.

“I don’t know.”

Chapter Three

“Iddesleigh. Iddesleigh.” Papa frowned as he chewed his gammon steak, his chin jerking up and down. “Knew an Iddesleigh in the navy when I sailed The Islander five and twenty years ago. Midshipman. Used to get terribly seasick right out of port. Always hanging over the middeck rail looking green and heaving up his accounts. Any relation?”

Lucy suppressed a sigh. Papa had been twitting the viscount all through supper. Normally, her father enjoyed entertaining new guests. They were a fresh audience for his hoary sea stories, retold countless times to his children, neighbors, servants, and anyone else who would hold still long enough to listen. But something about Lord Iddesleigh had gotten her father’s back up. This was the first meal the poor man had been able to come down for after spending the last four days bedridden. The viscount sat at the table appearing urbane and at ease. One had to look closely to notice he still favored his right arm.

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.