The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(15)

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.