They were pedestrian suggestions, but he was unsure where else to take Lucy. The sad fact was that he’d never spent much time with a lady. He winced. At least out of bed. Where did married men escort their lovely wives? Not to gambling dens or houses of ill repute, certainly. And the Agrarians’ coffeehouse was too grimy for a lady. Which left the park. Or maybe a museum. He cast a glance at her. Surely she wouldn’t want to tour a church?

“That would be nice.” She poked a green bean. “Or we could simply stay here.”

“Here?” He stared. It was too soon to take her to bed again, although the thought beckoned.

“Yes. You could write or mess about with your roses and I could read or sketch.” She pushed the green bean aside and took a bite of the whipped potatoes.

He shifted uneasily in his chair. “Won’t you be bored?”

“No, of course not.” She smiled. “You needn’t think that you must amuse me. After all, I doubt you spent your time driving in parks before you married me.”

“Well, no,” Simon admitted. “But I’m prepared to make some changes now that I’ve a wife. I’ve settled down, you know.”

“Changes?” Lucy set down her fork and leaned forward. “Like giving up red heels?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Was she bamming him? “Maybe not that.”

“Or the ornaments on your coats? Sometimes I feel quite a peahen next to you.”

Simon frowned. “I—”

A mischievous smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Are all your stockings clocked? I’m sure your hosiery bill must be enormous.”

“Are you quite done?”

Simon tried to look stern but had an idea he failed miserably. He was glad to see her merry after last night. When he thought of the pain he must’ve caused her, he still winced. And then to top that by showing her this morning how to jack him off like a gin whore, it didn’t put him in a pretty light. He was corrupting his naive young wife. And the sad thing was that were he to have the opportunity to do it over, he knew he’d place her hand on his cock once again. He’d been so hard, he’d ached. And just the thought of Lucy’s cool little hand holding his erection had him aching again. What kind of man became hard at the thought of corrupting the innocent?

“I don’t think I want you to change anything at all.”

Simon blinked and tried to focus his salacious mind on what his dear wife was saying. He realized that Lucy had become serious.

Her eyebrows were straight and stern. “Except for one thing. I don’t want you to duel again.”

He inhaled and brought his wineglass to his lips to buy time. Damn. Damn. Damn. She wasn’t fooled, his angel. She watched him calmly and with no trace of mercy in her eyes.

“Your concern is of course commendable, but—”

Newton slithered into the room, holding a silver plate. Thank God. “The post, my lord.”

Simon nodded his thanks and took the letters. “Ah, perhaps we are to be invited to a grand ball.”

There were only three letters, and he was aware of Lucy still watching him. He glanced at the first. A bill. His lips quirked. “Or perhaps not. You may be right about my red-heeled shoes.”

“Simon.”

“Yes, my dear?” He laid the bill aside and opened the next. A letter from a fellow rose enthusiast: a new grafting technique from Spain, et cetera. It, too, he tossed aside. The third letter had no crest pressed into the red sealing wax, and he didn’t recognize the handwriting. He opened it with a butter knife. Then sat blinking stupidly down at the words.

If you have any love for your new bride, stop. Any further duels or threats of duels will be met with her immediate death.

He’d never thought that they might bypass him and go straight to Lucy. He had focused his attention mostly on keeping her safe whilst in his company. But if they were to attack while he wasn’t there . . .

“You can’t hide behind that note forever,” Lucy said.

What if she was hurt—or God forbid killed—because of him? Would he be able to live in a world without her and her terrible eyebrows?

“Simon, are you all right? What is it?”

He glanced up belatedly. “Nothing. Sorry. It’s nothing at all.” He crumpled the note in his fist and stood to toss it in the fire.

“Simon—”

“Do you ice-skate?”

“What?” He’d caught her off guard. She blinked at him in confusion.

“I’ve been promising Pocket I’d teach her to skate on the frozen Thames.” He cleared his throat nervously now. What an idiotic idea. “Would you like to ice-skate?”

She stared at him a moment and then rose suddenly from her chair. She came to him and framed his face with her hands. “Yes. I would be delighted to ice-skate with you and Pocket.” She kissed him tenderly.

The first kiss, he thought suddenly and inconsequentially, that she’d offered on her own. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, wrap her in his arms, and pack her away in some inner room in his house. Somewhere he could keep her safe for always. Instead, he kissed her back, brushing lightly, softly over her lips.

And wondered how he would protect her.

“WHY DON’T YOU TELL ME MORE about the Serpent Prince?” Lucy asked later that evening. She used her thumb to smear the red pastel into a shadow beneath Simon’s ear on her sketch.

What a wonderful afternoon they had had with Pocket. Simon had shown himself to be an expert ice-skater. Why that had surprised her, Lucy couldn’t tell. He had spun circles around her and Pocket, laughing like a madman. They had skated until the light had begun to dim and Pocket’s nose was quite rosy. Now Lucy was pleasantly weary and happy to simply sit and relax with Simon as she sketched him. This was what she had hoped their life would be like together. She smiled to herself as she looked at him. Although he could make a better model.

As she watched, Simon shifted in his chair and lost the pose. Again. Lucy caught herself in a sigh. She couldn’t very well order her new husband to be still as she would Mr. Hedge, but it was most difficult to sketch him when he kept twitching. They were in her sitting room, the one next to her new bedroom. It was a lovely room, done all in creams and rosy pinks with chairs scattered about. And it faced south, which made for good light in the afternoon, perfect for sketching. Of course, it was evening now, but Simon had lit at least a dozen candles despite her protests about the waste and expense.

“What?” He hadn’t even heard her.

What was on his mind? Was it the mysterious letter at luncheon or her ultimatum about the dueling? That hadn’t been politic, she knew, for a new wife. But she felt too strongly on the subject to be circumspect.

“I asked you to tell me more of the fairy tale.” She blocked in his shoulder. “About the Serpent Prince. You’d just gotten to the part about Prince Rutherford. I do think you should reconsider that name.”

“I can’t.” His fingers stopped tapping against his knee. “The name comes with the fairy tale. You wouldn’t want me to tinker with tradition, would you?”

“Hmm.” She’d wondered for some time now whether Simon was in fact making the whole story up as he went along.

“Have you been drawing illustrations for the fairy tale?”

“Yes.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “May I see them?”

“No.” She deepened the shadow on his sleeve. “Not until I’m finished. The story now, please.”

“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “The Serpent Prince had dressed Angelica all in gleaming copper.”

“Wouldn’t it weigh an awful lot?”

“Light as a feather, I assure you. The Serpent Prince waves his hand again and suddenly he and Angelica are standing at the top of the castle, watching the guests to the grand ball process by. ‘Here,’ the Serpent Prince says. ‘Wear this and be sure and return by the cock’s first crow.’ And he hands her a copper mask. Angelica thanks him, puts on the mask, and all atremble turns to go into the ball. ‘Remember,’ the Serpent Prince called after her. ‘The cock’s first crow and no later!’”

“Why? What would happen if she didn’t return in time?” Lucy frowned as she outlined his ears. Ears were always so difficult.

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“I hate it when people say that.”

“Do you want to hear this story?” He looked down his long nose at her. He was teasing her, pretending to be haughty, and she abruptly realized she cherished these moments with him. When he teased her like this, she felt as if they had a secret code, one understood only by the two of them. It was silly, she knew, and yet she couldn’t help caring for him all the more.

“Yes,” she replied meekly.

“Well, the king’s ball was a most magnificent affair, as you can imagine. A thousand crystal chandeliers lit the vast hall, and gold and jewels sparkled from the throats of all the beautiful ladies in the land. But Prince Rutherford only had eyes for Angelica. He danced every dance with her and begged her to tell him her name.”

“And did she?”

“No. For just as she was about to, the first rays of dawn hit the palace’s windows, and she knew the cock would crow soon. She flew from the ballroom, and as she crossed the doorway, she was instantly transported back to the Serpent Prince’s cave.”

“Hold still.” Lucy concentrated on getting the corner of his eye just right.

“I obey your every order, my lady.”

“Humph.”

He grinned. “Angelica tended her goats all that day, taking a nap now and then, for she was quite weary after dancing the night away. And that evening she went to visit the Serpent Prince. ‘What can I do for you now?’ he asked her, because he’d been rather expecting her. ‘There’s another ball tonight,’ she replied. ‘Can you not make me a new gown?’”

“I think she’s become greedy,” Lucy muttered.

“Prince Rutherford’s golden hair was most alluring,” he said innocently. “And the Serpent Prince agreed to conjure a new dress for her. But in order to do so, he must cut off his right hand.”

“Cut it off?” Lucy gaped in horror. “But he had no need to do so for the first dress.”

Simon looked at her almost sadly. “Ah, but he was only mortal, after all. In order to make another dress for Angelica, he must sacrifice something.”

A shiver of unease crept down her spine. “I don’t know if I like your fairy tale anymore.”

“Don’t you?” He got up from his chair and sauntered closer, looking impossibly dangerous.

“No.” She watched as he stalked toward her.

“I’m sorry. I wish only to bring you joy.” He plucked the pastel from her fingers and set it in the box beside her. “But I can’t ignore the ugly realities of life either.” He bent his head and brushed his lips down her throat. “No matter how much I’d like to.”

“I don’t want you to ignore reality,” she said softly. She swallowed as she felt his open mouth on the hollow at the base of her throat. “But I don’t think we need dwell on the horrors of life. There are plenty of good things, too.”

“So there are,” he whispered.

He swept her suddenly into his arms before she had time to gather her senses. Lucy clutched at his shoulders as he walked with her into the bedchamber next door and set her on the bed. Then he was over her, kissing her almost desperately.

Lucy closed her eyes at the onslaught of sensation. She couldn’t think while he kissed her so deeply, so ravenously, as if he would devour her. “Simon, I—”

“Shh. I know you’re sore, I know I shouldn’t do this, that I’m a rutting animal to even think of it so soon. But, God, I have to.” He raised his head and his eyes were wild. How had she ever thought them cold? “Please?”