“Exactly. Just like me.” His lips twisted. “They called Rosalind a whore, said I’d debauched her, that Pocket was a bastard and Ethan a cuckold.”
She must’ve gasped.
He turned to her, his eyes pained, his voice finally strained. “Why do you think we haven’t attended any London balls or parties or damned musicales, for God’s sake? Rosalind’s reputation was ruined. Absolutely ruined. She hasn’t been invited anywhere in three years. An impeccably virtuous lady and she was cut dead on the street by married women who’d had too many liaisons to count.”
Lucy didn’t know what to say. What an awful thing to do to a family, to do to brothers. Poor, poor Rosalind.
Simon took a deep breath. “They left him no choice. He called out Peller, the one they’d chosen to talk the loudest. Ethan had never fought a duel, barely knew how to hold the sword. Peller killed him in less than a minute. Like leading a lamb to slaughter.”
She drew in her breath. “Where were you?”
“Italy.” He raised the razor again. “Seeing the ruins and drinking.” Stroke. “And wenching, I’ll admit as well.” Wipe. “I didn’t know until a letter was sent. Ethan, steady, boring Ethan—Ethan the good son—my brother, Ethan had been killed in a duel. I thought it was a joke; I came home anyway.” Stroke. “I’d wearied of Italy by that time. Fine wine or no, there are only so many ruins one can see. I rode to the Iddesleigh family estate and . . .”
He took some time wiping the blade this time. His gaze was averted from hers, but she could see his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed.
“It was winter and they’d preserved his body for my return. Couldn’t hold the funeral without me, it seems. Not that there were many mourners waiting, only Rosalind, nearly prostrate with shock and grief, and Pocket and the priest. No one else was there. They’d been shunned. Ruined.” He looked up at her, and she noticed that he’d cut himself under the left earlobe. “They did more than just kill him, Lucy, they destroyed his name. Destroyed Rosalind’s reputation. Destroyed Pocket’s hopes of ever marrying well, although she’s too young to know that yet.” He frowned and finished shaving without saying anything else.
Lucy watched him. What was she to do? She could understand his reasons for wanting vengeance only too well. If someone had done such a wrong to David, her brother, or to Papa, she, too, would seethe with indignation. But that still didn’t make killing right. And what of the cost to Simon, in both body and soul? He couldn’t have fought all those duels without losing a part of himself. Could she simply sit by while he annihilated himself in vengeance for a dead brother?
He washed his face and dried it off and then walked to where she sat. “May I join you?”
Did he think she’d refuse him? “Yes.” She scooted backward to make room.
He shucked his breeches and blew out the candle. She felt the bed dip as he climbed in. She waited, but he didn’t move toward her. Finally she rolled against him. He hesitated, then put his arm around her.
“You never finished the fairy tale you were telling me,” she whispered against his chest.
She felt his sigh. “Do you really want to hear it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Very well, then.” His voice floated to her in the dark. “As you recall, Angelica wished for another dress even more beautiful than the first. So the Serpent Prince showed her a sharp silver dagger and bade her cut off his right hand.”
Lucy shivered; she’d forgotten that part.
“The goat girl did as he told her, and a silver dress trimmed with hundreds of opals appeared. It looked like moonlight.” He stroked her hair. “And she went off and had a jolly good time at the ball with pretty Prince Rutherford and returned late—”
“But what about the Serpent Prince?” she interrupted. “Wasn’t he in great pain?”
His hand paused. “Of course.” He resumed stroking. “But it was what Angelica wanted.”
“What a selfish girl.”
“No. Just poor and alone. She couldn’t help demanding beautiful clothes any more than the snake could help having scales. It’s simply the way God made them.”
“Hmm.” Lucy wasn’t convinced.
“Anyway.” He patted her shoulder. “Angelica returned and told the Serpent Prince all about the ball and pretty Rutherford and how everyone admired her gown, and he listened silently and smiled at her.”
“And I suppose the next evening she wanted a new dress for silly Rutherford.”
“Yes.”
He stopped and she listened to his breathing in the darkness for a few minutes.
“Well?” she prompted.
“But of course it must be even more beautiful than the last.”
“Of course.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “The Serpent Prince said nothing was easier. He could get her the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen, the most beautiful dress in the world.”
Lucy hesitated. This didn’t sound good for some reason. “She must cut off his other hand?”
“No.” He sighed wistfully in the dark. “His head.”
Lucy jerked back. “That’s awful!”
She felt his shrug. “The most beautiful dress, the ultimate sacrifice. The Serpent Prince knelt before the goat girl and presented his neck. Angelica was appalled, of course, and she did hesitate, but she was in love with Prince Rutherford. How else could a goat girl win a prince? In the end, she did as the Serpent Prince instructed and cut off his head.”
Lucy bit her lip. She felt like weeping over this foolish fairy tale. “But he comes alive again, doesn’t he?”
“Hush.” His breath brushed across her face. He must’ve turned his head toward her. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”
“Do.” She snuggled against him again and was still.
“This time the dress was truly magnificent. It was made all of silver with diamonds and sapphires strewn over it so that Angelica looked as if she were wearing light itself. Prince Rutherford was overcome with ardor or perhaps greed when he caught sight of her and immediately fell to his knees and proposed.”
Lucy waited, but he was silent. She poked him in the shoulder. “Then what happened?”
“That’s it. They married and lived happily ever after.”
“That can’t be the end. What about the Serpent Prince?”
She felt him turn toward her. “He died, remember? I suppose Angelica shed a few tears for him, but he was a snake, after all.”
“No.” She knew she was foolish to object—it was only a fairy tale—but she felt unreasonably mad at him. “He’s the hero of the story. He transformed himself into a man.”
“Yes, but he’s still part snake.”
“No! He’s a prince.” She knew somehow that what they were arguing about had nothing to do with the fairy tale. “That’s what the story’s called, The Serpent Prince. He should marry Angelica; he loved her, after all.”
“Lucy.” He gathered her into his arms, and she let him even though she was angry with him. “I’m sorry, angel, but that’s the fairy tale.”
“He doesn’t deserve to die,” she said. Tears pricked at her eyes.
“Does anyone? Whether he deserves it or not is neither here nor there; it’s simply his fate. You can no more change that than you can change the course of the stars.”
The tears had escaped and were rolling into her hair and, she very much feared, his chest. “But the fate of a man. That can be changed.”
“Can it?” he asked so low she almost didn’t hear.
She couldn’t answer, so she closed her eyes and tried to contain the sobs. And she prayed, Please, God, let a man be able to change his fate.
Chapter Sixteen
The dream woke her again in the early hours of the next morning.
Lucy opened her eyes in the gray light and stared at the embers in the fireplace without moving. This time she recalled fragments. She’d dreamed that Christian had dueled Lord Walker while Simon took tea and looked on. Lord Walker had already lost his eye, and he was quite angry, although it didn’t affect his swordsmanship. Which had made it all the more gruesome. Then Lucy had been there at the table with Simon. She poured the tea and sipped and then looked into her cup. The tea had been made of rose petals. It was red, like blood. And she’d been horrified. Maybe it really was blood. She’d put her cup down and refused to drink any more, although Simon urged her to. But she knew she couldn’t trust him because when she looked down, where his legs should have been there was a tail. A snake’s tail . . .
Lucy shivered.
She’d woken covered in sweat, and now her flesh was chilled. Her hand crept across the silk coverlet, and she touched a warm arm. Warm male skin. Despite the fact that they had their own bedrooms, each large enough to house an entire family, Simon had slept with her every night since their wedding, whether in her own room or, as tonight, in his. Lucy had the feeling that this wasn’t quite done in the ton, for a man to sleep with his wife, but she was glad. She liked having his warmth next to her. She liked hearing his deep breathing at night. And she liked the smell of him on her pillows. It was nice.
“Hmmph?” He rolled toward her and flung a heavy arm over her waist. His breathing deepened again.
Lucy didn’t move. She shouldn’t wake him just for a nasty dream. She snuggled her nose into his shoulder, inhaling his scent.
“What is it?” His voice was gravelly, low, but more awake than she’d thought.
“Nothing.” She ran her hand over his chest, feeling the hairs tickle her palm. “Just a dream.”
“Nightmare?”
“Mmm.”
He didn’t ask what about. Merely sighed and gathered her into his arms. Her legs slid along his, and she felt his erection bump her hip.
“Pocket used to have nightmares.” His breath blew against the top of her head. “When I stayed with them after Ethan’s death.”
He smoothed his hand down her back and patted her bottom, then settled there, warm and possessive.
“She had a nanny, but the woman must’ve slept soundly, because Pocket would slip past her and find her mother’s room.” He chuckled, his voice rusty. “And a couple of times she came to me. Scared the wits out of me the first time. Cold little hand touching my shoulder in the middle of the night, a high voice whispering my name. Nearly took a vow to swear off drink before bed.”
Lucy smiled against his shoulder. “What did you do?”
“Well.” He rolled to his back, still holding her, and stretched one arm over his head. “First of all, I had to figure out a way to put on my breeches. Then I sat with her in a chair by the fire. Wrapped a blanket about both of us.”
“Did she fall back asleep?”
“No, she did not, the imp.” He scratched his chest. “Much like you, she wanted to talk.”
“I’m sorry. I can stop.”
“No,” he whispered. “I like talking to you like this.” He linked his fingers with hers on his chest.
“What did you talk about?”
He seemed to think for a bit. Finally, he sighed. “She told me Ethan used to talk to her when she had a bad dream. He’d tell her about, oh, dolls and puppies and her favorite sweets. Things like that. Things to take her mind off the nightmare.”
Lucy smiled. “So you talked to her about puppies?”
“Actually, no.” She saw his quick grin in the brightening room. “More like how to drive a phaeton. What to look for in horseflesh. The proper way to brew coffee and where, exactly, it comes from.”
“Where does coffee come from?” She pulled the coverlet over her shoulder.
