The Serpent Prince by Elizabeth Hoyt Page B

of hostess faintings.”
    “Oh, cruel angel.”
    “Why do you call me that? Is that a name you give many of your London ladies?”
    “What, angel ?”
    “Yes.” And suddenly he realized that she was closer than he’d thought. Within reach, in fact.
    “No, only you.” He touched a fingertip to her cheek. Her skin was warm, even in the night air, and soft, so soft.
    Then she stepped away.
    “I don’t believe you.”
    Did she sound breathless? He grinned like a demon in the dark but didn’t answer. God, he wished he could simply pull her into his arms, open her sweet lips beneath his, feel her breath in his mouth and her breasts against his chest.
    “Why angel ?” she asked. “I’m not particularly angelic.”
    “Ah, there you are wrong. Your eyebrows are most stern, your mouth curved like a Renaissance saint. Your eyes are wondrous to look upon. And your mind . . .” He stood and ventured a step toward her, until they almost touched, and she had to turn her pale face up to his.
    “My mind?”
    He thought he felt the warm puff of her breath. “Your mind is an iron bell that rings beautiful, terrible, and true.” His voice was husky, even to his own ears, and he knew he’d revealed too much.
    A lock of her hair bridged the scant inches between them and caressed his throat. His cock came painfully erect, its beat echoing the one in his heart.
    “I have no idea what that means,” she whispered.
    “Perhaps that’s just as well.”
    She reached her hand out, hesitated, then touched his cheek lightly with one fingertip. He felt the contact sizzle throughout his body down to his very toes.
    “Sometimes I think I know you,” she murmured so low he almost didn’t catch the words. “Sometimes I think that I’ve always known you, from the very first moment you opened your eyes, and that, deep inside your soul, you know me, too. But then you make a joke, play the fool or the rake, and turn aside. Why do you do that?”
    He opened his mouth to shout his fear or say something else entirely, but the kitchen door opened, spilling an arc of light into the garden. “Poppet?”
    The guardian father.
    She turned so that her face was silhouetted against the light from the kitchen. “I must go in. Good night.” She withdrew her hand, and it brushed across his lips as she retreated.
    He had to steady his voice before he could speak. “Good night.”
    She walked toward the kitchen door, emerging into the light. Her father took her elbow and searched the shadows of the garden over her head before closing the door behind her. Simon watched her go, choosing to stay in the dark rather than confront Captain Craddock-Hayes. His shoulder ached, his head pounded, and his toes were frozen.
    And he played a game he could not possibly win.
    “I D-D-DON’T BELIEVE YOU.” Quincy James paced to Sir Rupert’s study window and back, his strides quick and jerky. “They t-t-told me he was bleeding from the head. They stabbed him in the b-b-back and left him in the freezing cold, naked. How c-c-could a man survive that?”
    Sir Rupert sighed and poured himself a second whiskey. “I don’t know how he survived, but he did. My information is impeccable.”
    The third man in the room, Lord Gavin Walker, stirred in his armchair by the fire. Walker was built like a navvy, big and broad, his hands the size of hams, his features course. If not for the costly clothes and wig he wore, one would never guess he was an aristocrat. In fact, his family line dated back to the Normans. Walker withdrew a jeweled snuffbox from his coat pocket, deposited a pinch of snuff on the back of his hand, and inhaled it. There was a pause; then he sneezed explosively and employed a handkerchief.
    Sir Rupert winced and looked away. Filthy habit, snuff.
    “I don’t understand, James,” Walker said. “First you say Iddesleigh is dead and we have no further worries, and then he resurrects himself. Are you sure your men got the right gentleman?”
    Sir Rupert