The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(6)

When men spoke of angels, especially in the context of the female sex, usually they were employing a flowery fillip of speech. They thought of fair-haired creatures with pink cheeks—both kinds—and red, wet lips. Insipid Italian putti with vacant blue eyes and billowy, soft flesh came to mind. That was not the type of angel Simon contemplated. No, his angel was the biblical kind—Old Testament, not New. The not-quite-human, stern-and-judgmental kind. The type that was more apt to hurl men into eternal damnation with a flick of a dispassionate finger than to float on feathery pigeon wings. She wasn’t likely to overlook a few flaws here and there in a fellow’s character. Simon sighed.

He had more than just a few flaws.

The angel must have heard his sigh. She turned her unearthly topaz eyes on him. “Are you awake?”

He felt her gaze as palpably as if she’d laid a hand on his shoulder, and frankly the feeling bothered him.

Not that he let his unease show. “That depends on one’s definition of awake,” he replied in a croak. Even the little movement of speaking made his face hurt. In fact, his entire body seemed aflame. “I am not sleeping, yet I have been more alert. I don’t suppose you have such a thing as coffee to hasten the awakening process?” He shifted to sit up, finding it more difficult than it should be. The coverlet slipped to his abdomen.

The angel’s gaze followed the coverlet down, and she frowned at his bare torso. Already he was in her bad graces.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any coffee,” she murmured to his navel, “but there is tea.”

“Naturally. There always is,” Simon said. “Could I trouble you to help me sit up? One finds oneself at a distressing disadvantage flat on one’s back, not to mention the position makes it very hard to drink tea without spilling it into the ears.”

She looked at him doubtfully. “Perhaps I should get Hedge or my father.”

“I promise not to bite, truly.” Simon placed a hand over his heart. “And I hardly ever spit.”

Her lips twitched.

Simon stilled. “You’re not really an angel after all, are you?”

One ebony brow arched ever so slightly. Such a disdainful look for a country miss; her expression would’ve fit a duchess. “My name is Lucinda Craddock-Hayes. What is yours?”

“Simon Matthew Raphael Iddesleigh, viscount of, I’m afraid.” He sketched a bow, which came off rather well in his opinion, considering he was prostrate.

The lady was unimpressed. “You’re the Viscount Iddesleigh?”

“Sadly.”

“You’re not from around here.”

“Here would be . . . ?”

“The town of Maiden Hill in Kent.”

“Ah.” Kent? Why Kent? Simon craned his neck to try and see out the window, but the gauzy white curtain obscured it.

She followed his gaze. “You’re in my brother’s bedroom.”

“Kind of him,” Simon muttered. Turning his head had made him realize something was wrapped about it. He felt with one hand, and his fingers encountered a bandage. Probably made him look a right fool. “No, I can’t say I’ve ever been to the lovely town of Maiden Hill; although I’m sure it’s quite scenic and the church a famous touring highlight.”

Her full, red lips twitched again bewitchingly. “How did you know?”

“They always are in the nicest towns.” He looked down—ostensibly to adjust the coverlet, in reality to avoid the strange temptation of those lips. Coward. “I spend most of my wasted time in London. My own neglected estate lies to the north in Northumberland. Ever been to Northumberland?”

She shook her head. Her lovely topaz eyes watched him with a disconcertingly level stare—almost like a man. Except Simon had never felt stirred by a man’s glance.

He tsked. “Very rural. Hence the appellative neglected. One wonders what one’s ancestors were thinking, precisely, when they built the old pile of masonry so far out of the way of anything. Nothing but mist and sheep nearby. Still, been in the family for ages; might as well keep it.”

“How good of you,” the lady murmured. “But it does make me wonder why we found you only a half mile from here if you’ve never been in the area before?”

Quick, wasn’t she? And not at all sidetracked by his blather. Intelligent women were such a bother. Which was why he should not be so fascinated by this one.

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Simon opened his eyes wide. “Perhaps I had the good fortune to be attacked by industrious thieves. Not content to leave me lie where I fell, they spirited me off here so I might see more of the world.”

“Humph. I doubt they meant for you to see anything ever again,” she said quellingly.

“Mmm. And wouldn’t that’ve been a shame?” he asked in false innocence. “For then I wouldn’t have met you.” The lady raised a brow and opened her mouth again, no doubt to practice her inquisition skills on him, but Simon beat her to it. “You did say there was tea about? I know I spoke of it disparagingly before, but really, I wouldn’t mind a drop or two.”

His angel actually flushed, a pale rose wash coloring her white cheeks. Ah, a weakness. “I’m sorry. Here, let me help you sit up.”

She placed cool little hands on his arms—an unsettlingly erotic touch—and between them they managed to get him upright; although, by the time they did so, Simon was panting, and not just from her. His shoulder felt like little devils, or maybe saints in his case, were poking red-hot irons into it. He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again, there was a cup of tea under his nose. He reached for it, then stopped and stared at his bare right hand. His signet ring was missing. They’d stolen his ring.