“Yes.”
“Christian!”
Christian kept his eyes on Simon, ignoring his father. “I will see it done. You have my word.”
“Very well,” Simon said.
For a moment, the two men stared at each other. Simon watched an emotion—regret?—chase across the other’s eyes. He noticed for the first time that Christian’s eyes were almost the same shade as Lucy’s. Lucy. She was still gone from his life. That made two souls he had lost in as many days.
Then Christian straightened. “Here.” He held out his open palm. On it lay the Iddesleigh signet ring.
Simon took it from him and screwed the ring on his right index finger. “Thank you.”
Christian nodded. He hesitated for a moment, looking at Simon as if he wanted to say more, before he limped away.
Sir Rupert frowned, white lines etching themselves between his brows. “You’ll accept my banishment in return for Christian’s life?”
“Yes.” Simon nodded curtly, his lips thinning as he wavered on his feet. A few seconds more, that was all he needed. “You have thirty days.”
“Thirty days! But—”
“Take it or leave it. If you or any member of your family is still in England after thirty days, I will challenge your son again.” Simon didn’t wait for a reply; the other’s defeat was already etched in his face. He turned away and walked toward his horse.
“We need to get you to a physician,” de Raaf rumbled sotto voce.
“So he can bleed me?” Simon almost laughed. “No. A bandaging will suffice. My valet can do it.”
The other man grunted. “Can you ride?”
“’Course.” He said it carelessly, but Simon was relieved when he actually pulled himself atop his horse. De Raaf shot him an exasperated glance, but Simon ignored it, turning toward home. Or what had once been home. Without Lucy there, the town house became merely a building. A place to store his neckcloths and shoes, nothing more.
“Do you want me to accompany you?” de Raaf asked.
Simon grimaced. He held his horse to a gentle walk, but the movement still jarred his shoulder. “It would be nice to have someone here, should I fall ignominiously from my mount.”
“And land on your arse.” De Raaf snorted. “Naturally, I’ll ride you to your town house. But I meant when you go after your lady.”
Simon turned painfully in the saddle to stare at him.
De Raaf raised an eyebrow. “You are going to bring her back, aren’t you? She’s your wife, after all.”
Simon cleared his throat while he pondered. Lucy was very, very mad at him. She might not forgive him.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” de Raaf burst out. “Don’t tell me you’re just going to let her go?”
“Didn’t say that,” Simon protested.
“Mope about in that great house of yours—”
“I don’t mope.”
“Play with your flowers while you let your wife get away from you.”
“I don’t—”
“She is too good for you, granted,” de Raaf mused. “But still. Principle of the thing. Ought to at least try to bring her back.”
“All right, all right!” Simon nearly shouted, causing a passing fishmonger to look at him sharply and cross to the other side of the street.
“Good,” de Raaf said. “And do pull yourself together. Don’t know when I’ve seen you looking worse. Probably need a bath.”
Simon would have protested that as well, except he did indeed need a bath. He was still thinking of a suitable reply when they arrived at his town house. De Raaf dismounted his gelding and helped Simon swing down from his horse. Simon bit back a groan. His right hand felt leaden.
“My lord!” Newton ran down the front steps, wig askew, pot belly jiggling.
“I’m fine,” Simon muttered. “Just a scratch. Hardly bled at—”
For the first time in his employment, Newton interrupted his master. “The viscountess has returned.”
HER FINGERS WERE SPREAD OVER HER CLOSED EYES. Dear Lord. A shudder racked her frame. Protect him. Her knees were numb from the cold. I need him. The wind whipped against her wet cheeks.
I love him.
A scrape came from the end of the aisle. Please, God. Footsteps, slow and steady, crunched on the broken glass. Were they coming to tell her? No. Please, no. She curled within herself, huddled on the ice, her hands still shielding her eyes, blocking out the dawning day, blocking out the end of her world.
“Lucy.” It was a whisper, so low she should not have been able to hear it.
But she did. She dropped her hands, raised her face, hoping, but not daring to believe. Not yet. He was bareheaded, ghastly white, his shirt covered in gore. Blood was crusted down the right side of his face from a cut on his brow, and he cradled one arm. But he was alive.
Alive.
“Simon.” She clumsily wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, trying to get rid of the tears so she could see, but they kept coming. “Simon.”
He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees before her.
“I’m sorry—” she started, and then realized she was speaking over his words. “What?”
“Stay.” He’d grasped her shoulders with both hands, squeezing as if he couldn’t believe her solid. “Stay with me. I love you. God, I love you, Lucy. I can’t—”
Her heart seemed to expand with his words. “I’m sorry. I—”
“I can’t live without you,” he was saying, his lips skimming her face. “I tried. There isn’t any light without you.”
“I won’t leave again.”
“I become a creature with a blackened soul—”
“I love you, Simon—”
“Without hope of redemption—”
“I love you.”
“You are my salvation.”
“I love you.”
He finally seemed to hear her through his own confession. He stopped still and stared at her. Then he cradled her face in his hands and kissed her, his lips moving tenderly over hers, wanting, comforting. She tasted tears and blood and didn’t care. He was alive. Her sob was caught in his mouth as he opened it over hers. She sobbed again and ran her hands across the back of his head, feeling his short hair tickle her palms. She’d nearly lost him.
Lucy tried to pull back, remembering. “Your shoulder, your forehead—”
“It’s nothing,” he murmured over her lips. “Christian pricked me, that’s all. It’s already bandaged.”
“But—”
He suddenly lifted his head, his ice eyes staring into hers, melting. “I didn’t kill him, Lucy. We dueled, it’s true, but we stopped before anyone was killed. Fletcher and his family will go to America and never return to England.”
She stared at him. He hadn’t killed, after all. “Are there more duels?”
“No. It’s over.” He blinked and seemed to hear what he’d said. “It’s over.”
Lucy laid a hand on his cold, cold cheek. “Darling.”
“It’s over.” His voice broke. He bowed his head until his forehead rested on her shoulder. “It’s over and Ethan is dead. Oh, God, my brother is dead.”
“I know.” Gently she stroked his hair, feeling the sobs that he would not let her see shake his frame.
“He was such a pompous ass, and I loved him so much.”
“Of course you did. He was your brother.”
Simon choked on a laugh and raised his face from her shoulder. “My angel.” His gray eyes swam with tears.
Lucy shivered. “It’s cold here. Let’s go inside and get you into bed.”
“Such a practical woman.” He struggled to rise.
Lucy stood stiffly and put her arm about him to help him up. “And I insist on a physician this time. Even if I have to drag him away from his Christmas breakfast.”
“Christmas.” Simon stopped short, nearly knocking her down. “Is it Christmas?”
“Yes.” Lucy smiled up at him. He looked so confused. “Didn’t you know? It’s all right. I don’t expect a present.”
“But I have one for you, and one for Pocket as well,” Simon said. “A toy naval ship complete with sailors and officers and rows of little cannons. It’s really quite clever.”
“I’m sure it is. Pocket will adore it, and Rosalind will not approve, and I expect that’s your intention.” Lucy’s eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness, Simon!”
He frowned. “What?”
“I invited Pocket and Rosalind to Christmas breakfast. I forgot.” Lucy stared up at him horrified. “What should we do?”
“We’ll inform Newton and Cook and leave it to them.” He kissed her forehead. “Rosalind is family, after all. She’ll understand.”
“Maybe so,” Lucy said. “But we can’t let them see you like this. We’ll at least have to get you cleaned.”
“I bow to your every wish, my angel. But humor me and open your present now, please.” He shut the conservatory door behind them and slowly made his way to the hall table where she’d earlier set the blue book. “Ah, it’s still here.” He turned with the battered rectangular package and held it out, looking suddenly uncertain.
Lucy’s brow wrinkled. “Shouldn’t you at least lie down?”
He offered the package mutely.
Her mouth curved in a smile that she could not suppress. Impossible to be stern with him while he stood in front of her like an earnest child. “What is it?” She took the package. It was rather heavy, so she laid it on the hall table again to unwrap it.
He shrugged. “Open it.”
She began working at the string.
“I should’ve given you a wedding present before now,” he said beside her. She could feel his hot breath on her neck.
Lucy’s mouth twitched. Where was her sophisticated London aristocrat now? Funny that Simon would be so nervous about giving her a Christmas present. She unwound the string.
“You’re a viscountess, now, for God’s sake,” Simon was muttering. “I should’ve bought you jewels. Emeralds or rubies. Sapphires. Definitely sapphires and maybe diamonds.”
The paper fell away. A flat, cherrywood box lay before her. She looked at him questioningly. He raised his brows back at her. She opened the box and froze. Inside were rows of pencils, plain and colored, as well as charcoal, pastels, a tiny ink bottle, and pens. A smaller box held watercolors, brushes, and a little bottle for water.
“If you don’t like it or if something is missing, I can have the art supplier make another,” Simon said very rapidly. “Maybe a bigger one. And I’ve ordered several bound sketchbooks to be made, but they aren’t ready yet. Of course, I’ll be giving you jewels as well. Lots of jewels. A treasure trove of jewels, but this is just something small—”
Lucy blinked back tears. “It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.” She wrapped her arms about his shoulders and hugged him close, glorying in the familiar smell of him.
She felt Simon’s arms lift to embrace her, but she remembered then. “I’ve got something for you as well.” She handed him the blue book.
He opened it to the title page and smiled widely. “The Serpent Prince. However did you finish it so fast?” He began leafing through the pages, studying her watercolor pictures. “I suppose I ought to give this to Pocket. It was for her that I commissioned it, after all, but—” He choked as he reached the last page.
Lucy glanced at it, admiring the handsome silver-haired prince she’d painted next to the pretty goat girl. It really was a fine piece of work, even if she did say so herself.