The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(63)

“I don’t think I want you to change anything at all.”

Simon blinked and tried to focus his salacious mind on what his dear wife was saying. He realized that Lucy had become serious.

Her eyebrows were straight and stern. “Except for one thing. I don’t want you to duel again.”

He inhaled and brought his wineglass to his lips to buy time. Damn. Damn. Damn. She wasn’t fooled, his angel. She watched him calmly and with no trace of mercy in her eyes.

“Your concern is of course commendable, but—”

Newton slithered into the room, holding a silver plate. Thank God. “The post, my lord.”

Simon nodded his thanks and took the letters. “Ah, perhaps we are to be invited to a grand ball.”

There were only three letters, and he was aware of Lucy still watching him. He glanced at the first. A bill. His lips quirked. “Or perhaps not. You may be right about my red-heeled shoes.”

“Simon.”

“Yes, my dear?” He laid the bill aside and opened the next. A letter from a fellow rose enthusiast: a new grafting technique from Spain, et cetera. It, too, he tossed aside. The third letter had no crest pressed into the red sealing wax, and he didn’t recognize the handwriting. He opened it with a butter knife. Then sat blinking stupidly down at the words.

If you have any love for your new bride, stop. Any further duels or threats of duels will be met with her immediate death.

He’d never thought that they might bypass him and go straight to Lucy. He had focused his attention mostly on keeping her safe whilst in his company. But if they were to attack while he wasn’t there . . .

“You can’t hide behind that note forever,” Lucy said.

What if she was hurt—or God forbid killed—because of him? Would he be able to live in a world without her and her terrible eyebrows?

“Simon, are you all right? What is it?”

He glanced up belatedly. “Nothing. Sorry. It’s nothing at all.” He crumpled the note in his fist and stood to toss it in the fire.

“Simon—”

“Do you ice-skate?”

“What?” He’d caught her off guard. She blinked at him in confusion.

“I’ve been promising Pocket I’d teach her to skate on the frozen Thames.” He cleared his throat nervously now. What an idiotic idea. “Would you like to ice-skate?”

She stared at him a moment and then rose suddenly from her chair. She came to him and framed his face with her hands. “Yes. I would be delighted to ice-skate with you and Pocket.” She kissed him tenderly.

The first kiss, he thought suddenly and inconsequentially, that she’d offered on her own. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, wrap her in his arms, and pack her away in some inner room in his house. Somewhere he could keep her safe for always. Instead, he kissed her back, brushing lightly, softly over her lips.

And wondered how he would protect her.

“WHY DON’T YOU TELL ME MORE about the Serpent Prince?” Lucy asked later that evening. She used her thumb to smear the red pastel into a shadow beneath Simon’s ear on her sketch.

What a wonderful afternoon they had had with Pocket. Simon had shown himself to be an expert ice-skater. Why that had surprised her, Lucy couldn’t tell. He had spun circles around her and Pocket, laughing like a madman. They had skated until the light had begun to dim and Pocket’s nose was quite rosy. Now Lucy was pleasantly weary and happy to simply sit and relax with Simon as she sketched him. This was what she had hoped their life would be like together. She smiled to herself as she looked at him. Although he could make a better model.

As she watched, Simon shifted in his chair and lost the pose. Again. Lucy caught herself in a sigh. She couldn’t very well order her new husband to be still as she would Mr. Hedge, but it was most difficult to sketch him when he kept twitching. They were in her sitting room, the one next to her new bedroom. It was a lovely room, done all in creams and rosy pinks with chairs scattered about. And it faced south, which made for good light in the afternoon, perfect for sketching. Of course, it was evening now, but Simon had lit at least a dozen candles despite her protests about the waste and expense.

“What?” He hadn’t even heard her.

What was on his mind? Was it the mysterious letter at luncheon or her ultimatum about the dueling? That hadn’t been politic, she knew, for a new wife. But she felt too strongly on the subject to be circumspect.

“I asked you to tell me more of the fairy tale.” She blocked in his shoulder. “About the Serpent Prince. You’d just gotten to the part about Prince Rutherford. I do think you should reconsider that name.”

“I can’t.” His fingers stopped tapping against his knee. “The name comes with the fairy tale. You wouldn’t want me to tinker with tradition, would you?”

“Hmm.” She’d wondered for some time now whether Simon was in fact making the whole story up as he went along.

“Have you been drawing illustrations for the fairy tale?”

“Yes.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “May I see them?”

“No.” She deepened the shadow on his sleeve. “Not until I’m finished. The story now, please.”

“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “The Serpent Prince had dressed Angelica all in gleaming copper.”