The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(54)

She shuddered. His fingers molded her shape, stroking and massaging. She felt her nipple bud, and she wanted, needed, him to touch it. Naked, with nothing separating their flesh. “Yes, I—”

Someone opened the door.

Simon reared up to glare over the back of the settee at whoever it was. “Get out!”

“My lord.” Newton’s voice.

Lucy wished she could dissolve this very instant and become a puddle on the settee.

“Get out now!”

“Your sister-in-law is here, my lord. Lady Iddesleigh saw your carriage in front and was concerned as to why you and Miss Craddock-Hayes had not yet gone riding.”

Or, she could simply die of mortification.

Simon stilled, breathing heavily. “Damn.”

“Yes, my lord,” the butler replied stonily. “Shall I put her in the blue sitting room?”

“Damn your eyes, Newton! Put her anywhere but here.”

The door closed.

Simon sighed and rested his forehead against her own. “I’m sorry for everything.” He brushed his lips against hers. “I’d better leave before Rosalind gets an eyeful. Stay here; I’ll send Henry with a shawl.” He got up and strode out the door.

Lucy looked down at herself. There was a bloody handprint on the bodice of her dress.

“OH.” POCKET STOOD IN THE DOORWAY to the little sitting room on the third floor of Rosalind’s house. She looked at Lucy and placed one foot on top of the other. “You’re in here.”

“Yes.” Lucy raised her head from where she’d propped it on a fist and tried to smile. She’d come to this room after luncheon to think about this morning’s events. Rosalind had taken to bed, pleading a headache, and Lucy could not blame her. Rosalind had to have suspected something was wrong when Simon didn’t greet her at his own home. He’d hidden in his rooms so she wouldn’t see his wound. Add to that Lucy’s near silence on the drive back to Rosalind’s town house and the poor woman probably thought they were about to break off the wedding. Altogether, it had been a trying morning.

“Is that all right?” Lucy asked Pocket now.

The little girl frowned as if considering. “I guess.” Voices from farther down the hallway made her look over her shoulder before scooting into the room. She laid down the wooden box she carried and shut the door very carefully.

Lucy was instantly suspicious. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the schoolroom?”

The little girl was dressed in a cool blue gown, her hair in perfect ringlets, giving her an angelic appearance, belied by her calculating eyes. “Nanny’s napping.” She’d obviously learned her uncle’s trick of not actually answering the question.

Lucy sighed and watched Pocket carry the box to the tapestry rug, hitch up her skirts, and sit down cross-legged. This little back room had an air of abandonment, despite its recent dusting. It was too small to welcome callers, and, besides, it was on the third floor of Rosalind’s town house. Above the bedrooms and below the nursery. Yet the one window overlooked the back garden and let the afternoon sun in. The armchairs, one brown and missing an arm, the other a balding rose velvet, were large and comfortable. And the faded rose, brown, and green rug was soothing. Lucy had thought it a perfect place to come and think and be alone.

Clearly, Pocket had, too.

The little girl opened her box. Inside were rows of painted tin soldiers—Simon’s forbidden gift. Some were standing, others knelt, their rifles at their shoulders, ready to fire. There were soldiers on horses and soldiers with cannons, soldiers with rucksacks, and soldiers holding bayonets. She’d never seen such an array of tin soldiers. Obviously, this was a superior toy army.

Lucy picked up a little man. He stood at attention, his rifle by his side, a high military hat on his head. “How clever.”

Pocket gave her a withering look. “That’s a Frenchie. The enemy. He’s blue.”

“Ah.” Lucy handed her back the soldier.

“I’ve four and twenty,” the little girl continued as she set up the enemy camp. “I used to have five and twenty, but Pinkie got one and chewed off his head.”

“Pinkie?”

“Mama’s little dog. You haven’t seen him because he lives in Mama’s rooms mostly.” She wrinkled her nose. “He smells. And he snuffles when he breathes. He’s got a pushed-in nose.”

“You don’t care for Pinkie,” Lucy guessed.

Pocket shook her head vehemently. “So now this one”—she held up a headless tin soldier with fearsome teeth marks all over the remaining body—“is a Casualty of Battle, Uncle Sigh says.”

“I see.”

She laid the mutilated soldier on the carpet, and they both contemplated it. “Cannon fire,” Pocket said.

“Pardon?”

“Cannon fire. The ball took his head clean off. Uncle Sigh says he probably didn’t even see it coming.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows.

“Want to be England?” Pocket asked.

“I’m sorry?”

Pocket looked at her sorrowfully, and Lucy had the sinking feeling that her value might have fallen to the level of Pinkie, the soldier-devouring canine. “Would you like to be England? I’ll play France. Unless you want to be the Frogs?” She asked the last as if Lucy might just be that dim-witted.