The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(53)

Simon paused on the top step and glanced back. “Ah, the golden resilience of youth.”

Mr. Fletcher swung around violently. “You killed him! Why did you have to kill him?”

Oh, God. Lucy stared, mute, at Simon’s young friend. She felt dread seep into her chest, paralyzing her.

“It was a duel, Christian.” Simon smiled, but his voice was still gritty. “Did you think I meant to dance a pretty gavotte?”

“Jesus! I don’t understand you. I don’t think I even know you.” Mr. Fletcher shook his head and walked away.

Lucy wondered if she should echo the sentiment. Simon had just admitted killing a man. She realized—horribly—that the bloodstains on his chest weren’t his own. Relief flooded her, and then guilt that she rejoiced at another’s death. Simon led her through the door into the great receiving hall. The ceiling, three stories overhead, was painted with classical gods lounging about the clouds, unperturbed by the upheaval below. He dragged her down the hallway and through double doors into a sitting room.

Behind them, Newton groaned. “Not the white settee, my lord.”

“To hell with the settee.” Simon pulled Lucy down beside him on the immaculate piece of furniture. “Where’s that brandy?”

Newton splashed brandy into a crystal glass and brought it over, muttering, “Blood. And it’ll never come out.”

Simon swallowed half the glass and grimaced, laying his head against the settee back. “I’ll have it re-covered, if that’ll make you feel better, Newton. Now get out of here.”

Henry entered the room, carrying a basin of water and linens.

“But, my lord, your arm—” the butler started.

“Get. Out.” Simon closed his eyes. “You, too, Henry. You can bandage, dose, and mother me later.”

Henry raised his eyebrows at Lucy. Silently, he laid the basin and bandages beside her and left. Simon still held her wrist. She reached across him with her free hand and carefully pulled back the ripped sleeve. Beneath, a narrow wound seeped blood.

“Leave it alone,” he murmured. “It’s only a shallow cut. It looks worse than it is, believe me. I won’t bleed to death, at least not right away.”

She pursed her lips. “I’m not your butler. Or your valet, for that matter.”

“No, you’re not.” He sighed. “I forgot.”

“Well, try to remember in the future that I hold an entirely different role in your—”

“Not that.”

“What?”

“I forgot we were to go riding this morning. Stupid of me. Is that why you’re here?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I came early with Rosalind.”

“Rosalind? Where is she?” His words were slurred as if he were so fatigued he could hardly speak.

“At the fish market. Hush. It doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t listen. “I will never be able to forgive myself, but do you think you can?”

Silly. Her eyes pricked with tears. How could he deflect her anger with such silly words? “For what? Never mind. I forgive you for whatever it is.” She dipped a cloth in the water one-handed. “This would be easier if you let me go.”

“No.”

She wiped at the blood awkwardly. She really ought to cut the sleeve off altogether. She cleared her throat to steady her voice before she inquired, “Did you really kill a man?”

“Yes. In a duel.” His eyes were still closed.

“And he wounded you in return.” She squeezed out the cloth. “What did you duel over?” She made sure her tone was even, as if she were asking the time.

Silence.

She looked at the bandages. There was no way she’d be able to tend to him, shackled as she was. “I’m going to need both arms to bandage you.”

“No.”

Lucy sighed. “Simon, you’ll have to let me go eventually. And I really think your arm should be cleaned and wrapped.”

“Severe angel.” He finally opened his eyes, frost gray and intense. “Promise me. Promise me on your mother’s memory that you won’t leave me if I give you back your wings.”

She blinked and thought about it, but in the end there was really no other answer. “I promise you.”

He leaned closer until she could see the shards of ice in his eyes. “Say it.”

“I promise on my mother’s memory,” she whispered, “that I won’t leave you.”

“Oh, God.”

She didn’t know whether it was a curse or a prayer, but his mouth came down on hers hard. Biting, licking, sucking. It was as if he meant to consume and draw her into himself so that she might never abandon him. She moaned beneath the onslaught, confused and enthralled.

He angled his head, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She clutched his shoulders, and then he was pushing her back on the settee, climbing on top of her and shoving her legs apart with his own hard thighs. He settled on her, and even through the multiple layers of her skirt she could feel his hard shaft. She arched against him. Her breath was coming in breathless pants; she couldn’t seem to get enough air. He cupped her breast. His hand was so hot she could feel his heat through her bodice, branding her where no man had ever caressed her before.

“Angel.” He broke away to whisper against her cheek. “I want to see you, to touch you.” He trailed his open mouth over her cheek. “Let me take down your dress. Let me see you. Please.”