The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(35)

But Lucy felt awful now and not eager to start what would no doubt be an uncomfortable discussion. “No, I beg your pardon. What did you mean to say?”

He took a breath, his wide chest expanding under the coarse brown wool of his coat. “I have wanted to speak to you about an important matter for some time now.” He turned the carriage behind the church, and suddenly they were secluded.

Lucy had a terrible premonition. “I think—”

But for once Eustace didn’t defer to her. He continued speaking right over her. “I wanted to tell you how much I admire you. How much I enjoy spending this time with you. They’re comfortable, don’t you think, our little carriage rides?”

Lucy tried again. “Eustace—”

“No, don’t interrupt. Let me get this out. You’d think I wouldn’t be so nervous, as I know you so well.” He inhaled and blew out a gust of air. “Lucy Craddock-Hayes, will you do me the honor of being my bride? There. That’s over with.”

“I—”

Eustace pulled her to him abruptly, and her voice ended in a squeak. He crushed her gently against his big chest, and it was like being enveloped by a giant, smothering pillow, not unpleasant but not entirely comfortable either. His face loomed above hers before he swooped in to kiss her.

Oh, for goodness’ sake! A wave of exasperation crashed over her head. Not, she was sure, what one should be feeling when being kissed by a handsome young man. And to be fair, Eustace’s kiss was quite . . . nice. His lips were warm, and he moved them in a pleasing way over her own. He smelled of peppermint—he must have prepared for this kiss by chewing some—and on that thought, Lucy’s impatience changed to fond sympathy.

He broke away, looking very pleased with himself. “Shall we tell your father?”

“Eustace—”

“Gadzooks! I should’ve asked his permission first.” His brow crimped in thought.

“Eustace—”

“Well, it can’t come as any great surprise, can it? I’ve been courting you for a long time now. ’Spect the village considers us already married.”

“Eustace!”

He started slightly at the loudness of her voice. “My dear?”

Lucy closed her eyes. She hadn’t meant to shout, but he would natter on. She shook her head. Best to concentrate if she was to get through this. “Whilst I am deeply appreciative of the honor you do me, Eustace, I . . .” She made the mistake of looking at him.

He sat there, a lock of brown hair blowing against his cheek, looking perfectly innocent. “Yes?”

She winced. “I can’t marry you.”

“Of course you can. I really don’t think the captain will object. He would’ve shooed me off long before now if he didn’t approve. And you’re well past the age of consent.”

“Thank you.”

He flushed. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Lucy sighed. “But I . . . I really can’t marry you, Eustace.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t want to hurt him. “Can’t we just leave it at that?”

“No.” He drew himself up in an oddly dignified manner. “I’m sorry, but if you’re going to reject me, I think I at least deserve to know the reason why.”

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lead you on. It’s just that”—she frowned down at her hands as she tried to find the words—“over the years, we fell into a kind of habit, one that I no longer questioned. And I should have.”

The horse shook its head, jangling the tack.

“I’m a habit?”

She winced. “I didn’t—”

He placed both his big hands on his knees and clenched them. “All this time I expected that we would marry.” His hands flexed. “You’ve had the expectation of marriage as well; don’t tell me you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry—”

“And now you expect me to give this up on a whim of yours?”

“It isn’t a whim.” She drew a steadying breath. Crying would be a cowardly way to win his sympathy. Eustace deserved more from her. “I’ve been thinking and thinking over the last days. I’ve agonized about what we are to each other. It just isn’t enough.”

“Why?” Eustace asked the question quietly. “Why should you question what we have, what we are together? It seems nice to me.”

“But that’s just it.” Lucy looked into his eyes. “Nice isn’t enough for me. I want—I need—more.”

He was silent a moment as the wind blew a few leftover leaves against the church door. “Is it because of that Iddesleigh fellow?”

Lucy looked away, took a deep breath, and let it out in a sigh. “I expect it is, yes.”

“You know he isn’t coming back.”

“Yes.”

“Then why”—he pounded his thigh suddenly—“why can’t you marry me?”

“It wouldn’t be fair to you. You must know that.”

“I think you should let me be the judge of that.”

“Maybe so,” Lucy conceded. “But then you need to let me be the judge of what is fair to me. And living my life in a compromise, in a nice marriage, is no longer tenable for me.”