The Serpent Prince by Elizabeth Hoyt

in the world.
    Such as himself.
    Simon leaned against the window frame in his borrowed bedroom, watching the night outside. She was in the dark garden, apparently strolling in the cold after that delicious but socially disastrous supper. He followed her movements by the pale oval of her face, the rest of her lost to the shadows. It was hard to tell why she fascinated him so, this rural maiden. Perhaps it was simply the draw of dark to light, the devil wanting to despoil the angel, but he thought not. There was something about her, something grave and intelligent and harrowing to his soul. She tempted him with the perfume of heaven, with the hope of redemption, impossible as that hope was. He should leave her alone, his angel entombed in the country. She slumbered innocently, doing good works and managing with a steady hand her father’s house. No doubt she had a suitable gentleman who called upon her; he’d seen the trap and horse pull away the other day. Someone who would respect her position and not test the iron that he sensed lay underneath her facade. A gentleman entirely unlike himself.
    Simon sighed and pushed away from the window frame. He’d never dealt very well with the shoulds and shouldn’ts of his life. He left his temporary room and stole down the stairs, moving with ridiculous care. Best not to alert the protective papa. An angle on the dark landing caught him on the shoulder and he swore. He was using his right arm as much as possible, trying to exercise it, but the damn thing still felt like the very devil. The housekeeper and maid were working in the kitchen when he passed through. He smiled and walked swiftly.
    He was already through the back door when he heard Mrs. Brodie’s voice. “Sir—”
    He gently shut the door.
    Miss Craddock-Hayes must have heard it. Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she turned. “It’s cold out here.” She was only a pale shape in the dark, but her words floated toward him on the night breeze.
    The garden was perhaps a quarter acre. What he’d seen of it in daylight from his window was very neat. A low-walled kitchen garden, a small lawn with fruit trees, and beyond, a flower garden. Gravel walks connected the different parts, all of them properly put to bed for the winter, no doubt the work of her hands as well.
    By the light of the dim sickle moon, though, it was hard to get his bearings. He’d lost her again in the dark, and it bothered him inordinately. “Do you think it cold? I hadn’t noticed, really. Merely brisk.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets. It was bloody freezing in the garden.
    “You shouldn’t be out so soon after being ill.”
    He ignored that. “What are you doing here on a chilly winter night?”
    “Looking at the stars.” Her voice trailed back to him as if she were walking away. “They’re never so bright as they are in winter.”
    “Yes?” They all looked the same to him, whatever the season.
    “Mmm. Do you see Orion over there? He glows tonight.” Her voice dropped. “But you should go in, it’s too cold.”
    “I can do with the exercise—as I’m sure your father would point out—and winter air is good for a decrepit fellow like myself.”
    She was silent.
    He thought he moved in her direction, but he was no longer sure. Shouldn’t have mentioned the father.
    “I’m sorry about Papa at supper.”
    Ah, farther to the right. “Why? I thought his story quite clever. A trifle long, of course, but really—”
    “He’s not usually so stern.”
    She was so close he could smell her scent, starch and roses, curiously homey and yet arousing at the same time. What an ass he was. The crack to his head must have addled his wits.
    “Ah, that. Yes, I did notice the old boy was a bit testy, but I put it down to the fact that I’m sleeping in his house, wearing his son’s clothes, and eating his very fine food without a proper invitation.”
    He saw her face turn, ghostly in the moonlight. “No, it’s something about