The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(26)

Eustace flushed an alarming shade of puce. “What about ecstasy, then? I’d like to see you defend that, sir.”

The viscount drew himself up and looked down his rather long nose. “I would think that you of all people, Vicar, a soldier in the army of His Majesty’s church, a man of learning and exquisite reasoning, a soul seeking the divine salvation only available through Christ our Lord, would understand that ecstasy is a most righteous and religious term.” Lord Iddesleigh paused to eat a bite of chicken. “What else did you think it meant?”

For a moment, the gentlemen around the table goggled at the viscount. Lucy looked from one to another, exasperated. Really, this nightly war of words was getting tiresome.

Then Papa spoke. “Believe that may be blasphemy.” And he started chuckling.

Mr. Fletcher stopped choking and joined in the laughter. Eustace grimaced and then he, too, laughed softly, although he still looked uncomfortable.

Lord Iddesleigh smiled, raised his glass, and watched Lucy over the rim with his silver eyes.

He’d been both blasphemous and improper—and Lucy didn’t care. Her lips were trembling, and she felt short of breath just looking at him.

She smiled back helplessly.

“WAIT!” SIMON SCRAMBLED DOWN the front steps the next morning, ignoring the pain in his back. Miss Craddock-Hayes’s trap was almost out of sight down the drive. “Oy, wait!” He had to stop running, as his back was burning. He bent over, propping his hands on his knees, and panted, head hung down. A week ago he wouldn’t have even been winded.

Behind him, Hedge was muttering near the entrance to the Craddock-Hayes house. “Young fool, lord or no. Fool to get stabbed and fool to run after a wench. Even one like Miss Lucy.”

Simon heartily agreed. His urgency was ridiculous. When had he ever run after a woman? But he had an awful need to talk to her, to explain his ungentlemanly conduct of the night before. Or perhaps that was an excuse. Perhaps the need was simply to be with her. He was conscious that the sands of time were running swiftly through his fingers. Soon he would run out of excuses to stay in tranquil Maiden Hill. Soon he would see his angel no more.

Thankfully, Miss Craddock-Hayes had heard his shout. She halted the horse just before the drive disappeared into a copse and turned in her seat to look back at him. Then she pulled the horse’s head around.

“What are you doing, running after me?” she asked when the cart had drawn alongside him. She sounded not at all impressed. “You’ll reopen your wound.”

He straightened, trying not to look like a decrepit wreck. “A small price to pay for a moment of your sweet time, oh fair lady.”

Hedge snorted loudly and banged the front door shut behind him. But she smiled at him.

“Are you going into town?” he asked.

“Yes.” She cocked her head. “The village is small. I can’t think what you could find there to interest you.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. The ironmonger’s, the cross in the center of the square, the ancient church—all are items of excitement.” He vaulted into the cart beside her, making it rock. “Would you like me to drive?”

“No. I can manage Kate.” She chirruped to the sturdy little horse—presumably Kate—and they lurched forward.

“Have I thanked you for your charity in rescuing me from a ditch?”

“I believe you have.” She darted a glance at him, then turned again to the road so that he couldn’t see her face around the brim of her hat. “Did I tell you we thought you dead when I first saw you?”

“No. I am sorry for your distress.”

“I’m glad you weren’t dead.”

He wished he could see her face. “As am I.”

“I thought . . .” Her words trailed away; then she started again. “It was so strange finding you. My day had been very ordinary, and then I looked down and saw you. At first I didn’t believe my eyes. You were so out of place in my world.”

I still am. But he didn’t speak the thought aloud.

“Like discovering a magical being,” she said softly.

“Then your disappointment must’ve been severe.”

“In what way?”

“To discover me to be a man of earthen clay and not magical at all.”

“Aha! I shall have to note this day in my diary.”

He rocked against her as they bumped over a rut in the road. “Why?”

“December the second,” she intoned in a grave voice. “Just after luncheon. The Viscount of Iddesleigh makes a humble statement regarding himself.”

He grinned at her like an idiot. “Touché.”

She didn’t turn her head, but he saw the smile curve her cheek. He had a sudden urge to pull the reins from her hands, guide the horse to the side of the road, and take his angel into his clayish arms. Perhaps she had the spell that could turn the misshapen monster into something human.

Ah, but that would involve degrading the angel.

So instead Simon lifted his face to the winter sun, thin though it was. It was good to be outdoors, even in the chill wind. Good to be sitting beside her. The ache in his shoulder had subsided to a dull throb. He’d been lucky and not reopened the wound, after all. He watched his angel. She sat with her back upright and managed the reins competently with very little show, quite unlike the ladies of his acquaintance who were apt to become dramatic actresses when driving a gentleman. Her hat was a plain straw one, tied underneath her left ear. She wore a gray cloak over her lighter gray gown, and it suddenly occurred to him that he’d never seen her in any other color.