The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(72)

“What the hell—”

“Ah. Good evening, Lord Walker.” Simon advanced and made a bow. “Lady Walker.”

The man on the bed started and swung his head around, although his hips still moved instinctively. The woman remained oblivious.

“Iddesleigh, you bastard, what . . . ?” Walker lurched to his feet, his now-limp prick still hanging from his breeches. “That’s not my wife!”

“No?” Simon cocked his head, examining the woman. “But she looks like Lady Walker. Particularly that mark there.” He pointed with his stick at a birthmark high on her hip.

The man humping her opened his eyes wide. “This ’ere your wife, guvnor?”

“No! Of course not.”

“Oh, but I’ve known your fair lady intimately for quite some time, Walker,” Simon drawled. “And I’m quite certain this is she.”

The big man threw back his head suddenly and laughed, although it sounded a bit weak. “I know your game. You’re not going to trick me into—”

“Never had quality before,” the stud said from atop the woman. He increased his pace, possibly in appreciation.

“She’s not—”

“My acquaintance with Lady Walker goes back many years.” Simon leaned on his stick and smiled. “Before the birth of your first child—your heir, I believe?”

“Why, you—”

The black-haired man gave a yell and bucked his hips into the woman, shuddering as he obviously deposited a load of sperm into her. He sighed and fell off her, revealing a cock that, even half-deflated, was of equine proportions.

“Jesus,” Christian said.

“Quite,” Simon concurred.

“How the hell did he get that thing in her?” the younger man muttered.

“I’m glad you asked,” Simon said as if instructing a pupil. “Lady Walker is quite talented in that regard.”

Walker gave a roar and charged across the room. Simon tensed, the blood singing in his veins. Maybe he could finish this tonight.

“See, here,” a voice exclaimed from the door at the same time.

The house bullies had arrived. He stepped aside and Walker ran into their waiting arms. The big man struggled ineffectually in their grasp.

“I’m going to kill you, Iddesleigh!” Walker panted.

“Possibly,” Simon drawled. God, he was tired to the bone. “At dawn, then?”

The man merely growled.

The woman on the bed chose that moment to roll over. “Would you like a go?” she asked no one in particular.

Simon smiled and led Christian away. They passed a new race on the stairs. The male mounts this time had actual bits in their mouths. One man had blood running down his chin and a cock-stand in his breeches.

He’d have to bathe before he returned to Lucy. He felt like he’d rolled in manure.

Christian waited until they made the front steps before he asked, “Was that really Lady Walker?”

Simon caught himself mid-yawn. “I’ve no idea.”

WHEN LUCY WOKE AGAIN, it was to the sound of Simon entering the study. The room was that gray shade that foretold the dawn of a new day. Simon walked in, carrying a candle. He set it on the corner of his desk and, still standing, pulled out a sheet of paper and began writing.

He never looked up.

At the far side of the room, partially hidden by the arms of the wing chair and in shadows, she must’ve been nearly invisible to him. She had meant to accost him on his return, to demand answers. But now she merely studied him, her hands curled beneath her chin. He looked tired, her husband, as if he hadn’t slept in years. He wore his clothes from the night before: a deep blue coat and breeches with a silver waistcoat, creased and stained now. His wig had lost some of its powder and looked dingy. Shocking, because she’d never seen him—at least in London—other than sartorially correct. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, his eyes were red-rimmed, and his lips had thinned, as if he pressed them together to keep them from trembling. He finished whatever he was writing, dusted it with sand, and straightened the paper on the desk. In doing so, he knocked the pen to the floor. He cursed and bent slowly like an old man to pick it up, placed it carefully on the desk, and sighed.

Then he left the room.

Lucy waited several minutes before rising, listening to his footfalls on the stairs. She padded over to the desk to see what he’d written. It was still too dark to read. She took the note to the window, parted the curtains, and angled the paper to read the still-damp writing. The dawn was just breaking, but she could make out the first lines:

In the event of my death, all my worldly possessions . . .

It was Simon’s will. He was leaving his estate to her. Lucy stared at it a moment longer, then replaced the paper on the desk. From the hallway came the sounds of her husband descending the stairs. She moved to stand beside the doorway.

“I’ll take my horse,” Simon was saying, apparently to Newton. “Tell the coachman I won’t have need of him anymore tonight.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The front door closed.

And suddenly Lucy felt a wave of anger. He hadn’t even tried to wake her, else he would’ve noticed her absence from his bed. She strode into the hall, her skirts swishing about her bare ankles. “Newton, wait.”