The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(47)

She listened but heard nothing. Then again, the greenhouse was awfully big. Perhaps he couldn’t hear her. Surely he’d want to keep the hot, moist air in. She pulled the heavy wood door closed behind her and went exploring. The aisle was narrow, and some of the foliage hung over it, forcing her to push through a verdant curtain. She could hear dripping as water condensed and ran off hundreds of leaves. The atmosphere was heavy and still, musty with the smell of moss and earth.

“Simon?”

“Here.”

Finally. His voice came from up ahead, but she couldn’t see him for the obscuring jungle. She pushed aside a leaf larger than her head and suddenly came out into an open space, lit by dozens of candles.

She stopped.

The space was circular. The glass walls flew up into a miniature dome, like the ones she’d seen in pictures of Russia. In the center, a marble fountain played softly, and around the outside were more benches with roses. Roses blooming in winter. Lucy laughed. Reds and pinks, creams, and pure whites, the roses’ heavy scent filled the air, topping off the sense of wonder and delight. Simon had a fairyland in his house.

“You’ve found me.”

She started and looked in the direction of his voice, and her heart fluttered at the sight. Simon stood at a bench in his shirtsleeves. He wore a long green apron over his waistcoat to protect it, and he’d rolled his sleeves up, exposing his forearms, which were dusted with blond hair.

Lucy smiled at the thought of Simon in working attire. This was an aspect of him that she’d never seen before, and it intrigued her. Since they’d come to London, he’d always been so polished, so very much a man of the world. “I hope you don’t mind. Newton showed me in.”

“Not at all. Where’s Rosalind?”

“I came alone.”

He stilled and darted a look at her that she found hard to interpret. “All alone?”

So that was his worry. He’d made it very plain when she first came to London that she was never to leave the house by herself. She’d nearly forgotten the injunction in the intervening week, for nothing had happened as far as she could tell. Obviously, he still worried about his enemies. “Well, except for the coachman and footmen and maid—I borrowed Rosalind’s carriage.” She smiled easily at him.

“Ah.” His shoulders relaxed, and he started to take off his apron. “In that case, may I offer you some tea?”

“You don’t have to stop because of me,” she said. “That is, if I don’t disturb you.”

“You always disturb me, sweet angel.” He retied his apron and turned back to the workbench.

She saw that he was busy, but they were to be married in less than a week. A thought whispered at the back of her mind, the niggling fear that he’d grown bored of her already, or worse, was having second thoughts. She walked to his side. “What are you doing?”

He seemed to tense, but his voice was normal. “Grafting roses. Not a very exciting chore, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to watch.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“No, of course not.” He stooped over the bench, not looking at her. He had a prickly stick in front of him, presumably part of a rose, and was carefully cutting the end into a point.

“We haven’t been alone together in several days, and I thought it would be nice just to . . . talk.” She found it hard to speak to him while he was half turned away.

His back was stiff, as if he were mentally pushing her away, but he made no move. “Yes?”

Lucy bit her lip. “I know I shouldn’t be calling so late, but Rosalind has me busy all day shopping and finding clothes and such. You wouldn’t believe how crowded the streets were this afternoon. It took us an hour to drive home.” Now she was babbling. Lucy sat on a nearby stool and took a breath. “Simon, have you changed your mind?”

That got his attention. He looked up, frowning. “What?”

She made a jerky gesture of frustration. “You seem so preoccupied all the time, and you haven’t kissed me since you proposed. I wondered if perhaps you had time to think about it and changed your mind about marrying me.”

“No!” He threw the knife down and leaned straight-armed on the bench, head bowed. “No, I’m so sorry. I want to marry you, long to marry you, now more than ever, I assure you. I count the days until we are finally wed. I dream of holding you in my arms as my wedded wife and then must distract my mind or go mad waiting for the day. The problem is mine.”

“What problem?” Lucy was relieved but honestly confused. “Tell me and we can work on it together.”

He blew out a sigh, shook his head, and turned his face to her. “I don’t think so. This problem is all of my own making; dealing with it must be my own cross to bear. Thank God it will disappear in a week when we’re bound by the holy vows of matrimony.”

“You’re deliberately talking in riddles.”

“So militant,” he crooned. “I can picture you with a fiery sword in one hand, smiting recalcitrant Hebrews and unbelieving Samaritans. They’d cower before your stern frown and frightening eyebrows.” He laughed under his breath. “Let’s just say I’m having trouble being around you without touching you.”

She smiled. “We’re engaged. You can touch me.”