The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(23)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“So speaketh the angel of the Lord.” He leaned close to her, under her flat straw hat, and smelled again the scent of roses in her hair. His cock twitched. “But what if I am a devil from hell itself and not of your world at all, angel?”

“I’m not an angel.” She tilted her face up.

“Oh, yes, you are,” he breathed. His lips brushed her hair, and for a wild moment he thought he might kiss her, might debauch this lady with his foul mouth. But the cart shook as they rounded a curve, and her head turned to mind the horse, and the moment passed.

“How independent you are,” he murmured.

“Country ladies need to be, if we are to get anywhere,” she said somewhat tartly. “Did you think I sit at home doing the mending all day?”

Ah, this was dangerous ground. They’d been in this territory when she’d grown angry with him two nights before. “No. I am aware of your many duties and talents, not least of which is to help the less fortunate of the village. I have no doubt you would make an admirable Lady Mayor of London, but that would involve quitting this lovely hamlet, and I am sure that the inhabitants would not survive without you.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” he said sincerely. “Aren’t you?”

“I think everyone would survive quite well without me,” she said rather dispassionately. “Some other lady would soon fill my shoes, I am sure.”

He knit his eyebrows. “Do you value yourself so lightly?”

“It’s not that. It’s simply that the charities I perform here could be done by anyone.”

“Hmm.” He considered her beautiful profile. “And were you to abandon all who depend on you here in Maiden Hill, what would you do?”

Her lips parted as she considered his question. He leaned closer. Oh, how he wished to tempt this innocent! “Would you dance upon the stages of London in purple slippers? Sail to far-off Araby in a boat with silken sails? Become a society lady famous for her wit and beauty?”

“I’d become myself.”

He blinked. “You already are yourself, beautiful and stern.”

“Am I? No one else notices but you.”

He stared then into her serious topaz eyes, and he wanted to say something. It was on the tip of his tongue, yet unaccountably he could not speak.

She glanced away. “We’re almost to Maiden Hill. See the church tower over there?” She pointed.

He dutifully looked, trying to regain some calm. It was past time he left. If he stayed, he would only be further tempted to seduce this maiden, and as he had proved his entire life, he was not capable of withstanding temptation. Hell, sometimes he ran toward it. But not this time. Not with this woman. He watched her now, her brow furrowed as she maneuvered her little trap into town. A lock of dark hair had come undone and caressed her cheek like a lover’s hand. With this woman, if he gave in to temptation, he would destroy something honest and good. Something he had never found anywhere else on this wretched earth.

And he did not think he would survive the devastation.

LUCY SIGHED AND SANK into the warm water of her bath. Of course, she couldn’t sink very far—it was only a hip bath—but it felt like pure luxury all the same. She was in the little room at the back of the house, her mother’s room. Hedge complained enough as it was, hauling water for her “unnatural” bath, without making him go up the stairs as well. The room was only a few steps away from the kitchen, which made it quite convenient for her ablutions. The water would have to be hauled away again after she was done, but Lucy had told Hedge and Betsy that the chore could wait until morning. They could go to sleep, and she could wallow in the warm water without servants hovering impatiently.

She rested her neck on the high back of the tub and looked up at the ceiling. The fire cast flickering shadows over the old walls, making her feel quite cozy. Papa had dined with Doctor Fremont tonight and was probably still arguing politics and history. Lord Iddesleigh had gone to see Mr. Fletcher at his inn. She had the house to herself, save for the servants, who had retired for the night.

The scent of roses and lavender drifted around her. She lifted a hand and watched the water drip from her fingertips. How strange this last week had been, since she had found Lord Iddesleigh. She’d spent more time in the previous days thinking about how she lived her life and what she would eventually do with it than she had in all her prior years. It had never occurred to her before that there might be more to her existence than keeping Papa’s house, doing charitable works here and there, and being courted by Eustace. Why had she not thought beyond being a vicar’s wife? She’d never even realized she yearned for more. It was almost like waking from a dream. Suddenly there was this flamboyant man, like none other she’d ever met. Almost effete, with his airs and pretty clothes, yet so very masculine in his movements and in the way he watched her.

He poked and prodded her. He demanded more than simple acquiescence. He wanted her reaction. He made her feel alive in a way that she’d never before thought possible. As if she’d merely sleepwalked through everything else in her life prior to his arrival. She woke in the morning wanting to talk to him, wanting to hear his deep voice spilling nonsense that made her smile or made her angry. She wanted to find out about him, what made his silver eyes so sad at times, what he hid behind his blather, how to make him laugh.

And there was more. She wanted his touch. At night in her narrow bed when she was in that state that is almost but not quite sleep, she would dream he touched her, that his long fingers traced her cheeks. That his wide mouth covered hers.

She inhaled a shuddering breath. She shouldn’t, she knew that, but she couldn’t help herself. She closed her eyes and imagined what it would feel like if he was here now. Lord Iddesleigh.

Simon.

She drew her wet hands from the water, drops splashing softly into the tub, and trailed them across her collarbone, pretending her hands were his. She shivered. Goose bumps chased across her throat. Her nipples, rising just above the warm water, peaked. Her fingers skimmed lower, and she felt how soft her skin was, cool and damp from the water. She circled just the tips of her middle fingers underneath her breasts, which were full and heavy, then brought them up around to the small bumps of her areola.

She sighed and moved her legs restlessly. If Simon was watching her now, he would see her arousal, the damp prickles on her skin. He would see her nude breasts and erect nipples. The mere thought of being exposed to his eyes made her bite her lip. Slowly, she flicked her fingernails over her nipples, and the sensation made her clench her thighs. If he watched . . . She brought her thumbs and forefingers on either side of her nipples and pinched. Lucy moaned.