The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(83)

“You won’t do it, Iddesleigh,” the old man called behind him. “You’re too honorable.”

Simon smiled. “Don’t count on it. You’re the one who pointed out how very similar we are.” He closed the door and walked out of the house, the scent of hothouse citrus following him.

“YOU NEED TO HOLD STILL, THEODORA DEAR, if you want Aunt Lucy to draw your portrait,” Rosalind chided that afternoon.

Pocket, in the act of swinging her leg, froze and darted an anxious glance at Lucy.

Lucy smiled. “Almost done.”

The three of them sat in the large drawing room at the front of Simon’s town house—her town house as well, now that they were wed. She must start thinking of it that way. But truthfully, Lucy still considered the house and servants Simon’s. Perhaps if she stayed—

She sighed. What nonsense. Of course she would stay. She was married to Simon; the time for doubts had long since passed. No matter what he did, she was his wife. And if he didn’t duel anymore, there was no reason why they couldn’t grow ever closer. Just this morning, Simon had made urgent love to her, had even told her he loved her. What more could a woman ask from her husband? She should’ve felt safe and warm. Why, then, did she still have this feeling of impending loss? Why hadn’t she said she loved him as well? Three simple words that he must’ve been expecting, yet she’d been unable to form them.

Lucy shook her head and concentrated on the sketch. Simon had insisted this room be remade for her, despite her protests. Though she had to admit now that it really was lovely. With Rosalind’s help, she’d chosen the colors of a ripe peach: delicate yellows, sunny pinks, and rich reds. The result was lively and soothing at the same time. And in addition, the room had the best light in the house. That alone would’ve made it Lucy’s favorite. She looked at her subject matter. Pocket was dressed in turquoise silk that provided a beautiful contrast for her flaxen locks, but she sat stiffly hunched as if frozen in mid-wiggle.

Lucy hastily made a few more strokes with her pencil. “Done.”

“Huzzah!” Pocket exploded off the chair she’d been posed on. “Let me see.”

Lucy turned her sketchbook.

The little girl tilted her head first one way and then another, then scrunched her nose. “Is that what my chin looks like?”

Lucy examined her sketch. “Yes.”

“Theodora.”

Brought up short by her mother’s warning tone, Pocket bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, Aunt Lucy.”

“You’re most welcome,” Lucy replied. “Would you like to see if Cook is finished with her mincemeat pies yet? They’re for Christmas dinner, but she might have one for you to sample.”

“Yes, please.” Pocket paused only long enough to seek her mother’s approving nod before darting out of the room.

Lucy began to put away her pencils.

“It’s very kind of you to indulge her so,” Rosalind said.

“Not at all. I enjoy it.” Lucy glanced up. “You and Pocket will be coming to dine with us on Christmas morning, won’t you? I’m sorry my invitation is so late. I forgot Christmas is only a few days away until Cook started baking pies.”

Rosalind smiled. “That’s quite all right. You are newly married, after all. We will be delighted to join you.”

“Good.” Lucy watched her hands placing the pencils in a jar. “I’m wondering if I can ask you something personal. Very personal.”

There was a pause.

Then Rosalind sighed. “Ethan’s death?”

Lucy looked up. “Yes. How did you know?”

“It consumes Simon.” Rosalind shrugged. “Sooner or later I expected you to ask about it.”

“Do you know he’s been fighting duels over Ethan’s death?” Her hands were trembling. “He’s killed two men that I’m aware of.”

Rosalind gazed out the window. “I’d heard rumors. The gentlemen never like to tell us of their affairs, do they? Even when it involves us. I’m not surprised.”

“Didn’t you ever think to stop him?” Lucy grimaced at her own lack of tact. “Forgive me.”

“No, it’s a natural question. You’re aware that he’s dueling partly for my honor?”

Lucy nodded.

“I tried after Ethan’s death when I first heard the gossip about duels to talk to him about it. Simon laughed and changed the subject. But the thing is”—Rosalind leaned forward—“it really isn’t about me. It’s not even about Ethan, God rest his soul.”

Lucy stared. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, how can I explain?” Rosalind got up to pace. “When Ethan was killed, it cut off any way for the brothers to come to terms with each other. For Simon to understand and forgive Ethan.”

“Forgive him? For what?”

“I’m expressing myself badly.” Rosalind stopped and frowned.

Outside, a cart rumbled by and someone shouted. Lucy waited. She knew somehow that Rosalind held the key to Simon’s single-minded quest for revenge.

“You must comprehend,” her sister-in-law said slowly. “Ethan was always the good brother. The one everyone liked, the perfect English gentleman. Simon almost by default took the only other role. That of the wastrel, the ne’er-do-well.”