The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(21)

“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.