The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(24)

She stared a moment longer at his dumbfounded face and then got up and hurried from the room.

Leaving him with a painfully aching erection.

Chapter Five

“He’s late!” Papa said the following night. He glared at the clock on the mantelpiece and then turned his glare on the rest of the room. “Can’t tell time in London, eh? Just wander about, showing up whenever a body wants?”

Eustace tsked and shook his head in sympathy with Lucy’s father—a rather hypocritical gesture since he was known to forget the time on occasion himself.

Lucy sighed and rolled her eyes. They were all assembled in the front sitting room, waiting for Lord Iddesleigh so they could go into supper. Actually, she wasn’t all that anxious to see the viscount again anyway. She’d made a fool of herself the evening before. She still wasn’t quite sure why her anger had suddenly boiled over; it had been so sudden. But it had been real. She was so much more than daughter and nursemaid; she knew that deep within herself. Yet, in tiny Maiden Hill, she could never become who she wanted to be. She was only dimly aware of who she might become, but stuck here, she knew she’d never discover herself.

“I’m sure he’ll be down presently, sir,” Mr. Fletcher said. Unfortunately, Lord Iddesleigh’s friend didn’t sound sure at all. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I ought to go—”

“What an exquisite company.” Lord Iddesleigh’s voice came from the doorway.

Everyone swung around, and Lucy almost let her mouth hang open. The viscount was magnificent. That was the only word for it. Magnificent. He wore a silver brocade coat embroidered in silver and black on the turned-back sleeves, skirts, and all down the front. Underneath was a sapphire waistcoat with vining leaves and multicolored flowers lavishly embroidered all over. His shirt had falls of lace at the wrists and throat, and he wore a snow-white wig on his head.

The viscount strolled into the sitting room. “Never say you have all been waiting for me.”

“Late!” Papa exploded. “Late for my supper! Sit down promptly at seven o’clock in this household, sir, and if you cannot . . .” Papa trailed off and stared fixedly down at the viscount’s feet.

Lucy followed his gaze. The viscount wore elegant pumps with—

“Red heels!” Papa shouted. “Good God, sirrah, think you this is a bordello?”

The viscount had made Lucy’s side by this time, and he languidly lifted her hand to his lips as her father sputtered. He looked up at her, his head still bowed, and she saw that his eyes were only a few shades darker than his snowy wig. He winked as she stared, mesmerized, and she felt the wet warmth of his tongue insinuate itself between her fingers.

Lucy inhaled sharply, but the viscount let go of her hand and whirled to face her father as if nothing had happened. She hid her hand in her skirt as he spoke.

“A bordello, sir? No, I confess that I never mistook your home for a bordello. Now, had you decorated the walls with a few paintings depicting—”

“Shall we go in to supper?” Lucy squeaked.

She didn’t wait for an assent; the way the conversation was progressing, there would be all-out warfare before supper was ever begun. Instead she seized the viscount’s arm and marched him into the dining room. Of course, she would never be able to physically force Lord Iddesleigh to go where he did not wish to go. Fortunately, he seemed content to let her lead him.

He bent his head close to hers as they entered the dining room. “Had I known, sweeting, that you desired my company so devoutly”—he pulled out a chair for her—“I would’ve damned Henry and come down in my smallclothes.”

“Ass,” Lucy muttered to him as she sat.

His smile widened into a grin. “My angel.”

Then he was forced to round the table and sit across from her. As everyone else found their places, Lucy let out a small sigh. Maybe now they could be civil.

“I’ve often wanted to visit Westminster Abbey in London,” Eustace said rather pompously as Betsy began ladling out potato and leek soup. “To see the graves of the poets and great men of letters, you understand. But I’m afraid I’ve never had the time on the occasions I’ve traveled to our wonderful capital. Always busy with church matters, you know. Perhaps you could give us your impressions of that magnificent abbey, Lord Iddesleigh?”

All heads at the dinner table swiveled in the viscount’s direction.

The lines around his silver eyes deepened as he fingered his wineglass. “Sorry. Never had a reason to enter the dusty old mausoleum. It’s not my cup of tea, really. Probably a terrible moral failing on my part.”

Lucy could practically hear Papa and Eustace agreeing in their minds. Mr. Fletcher coughed and buried his face in his wineglass.

She sighed. When her father had invited Eustace to sup with them, Lucy had welcomed the diversion another guest would provide. Mr. Fletcher, although pleasant, had not been able to stand up to Papa’s grilling and had looked quite wan by the end of the noon meal on the previous day. And the viscount, while he could withstand her father’s obvious nettling, did it only too well. He drove her father into red-faced incoherence. She’d hoped Eustace would provide a buffer. Obviously, this was not to be the case. To make matters worse, she felt an absolute drab in her dark gray gown. It was well cut but so plain as to be nearly a rag next to the viscount’s finery. Of course, no one she knew dressed so ostentatiously in the country, and Lord Iddesleigh really ought to feel self-conscious to be so out of place.