The Serpent Prince by Elizabeth Hoyt

awfully he behaved, she found it hard to censor him.
    Next to the viscount’s magnificence, Eustace was a dusty sparrow in his usual brown broadcloth coat, breeches, and waistcoat. Of course, Eustace looked quite well in brown, and one didn’t expect a country vicar to go about in silver brocade. It would be improper, and he’d probably seem merely silly in such splendor. Which made one wonder why the viscount, instead of looking silly, appeared downright dangerous in his finery.
    “Did you know if you stand in the middle of the Westminster nave and whistle, there is quite a nice echo?” Mr. Fletcher said, looking around the table.
    “Absolutely fascinating,” the viscount said. “I’ll keep that in mind should I ever have occasion to visit the place and feel an urge to whistle.”
    “Yes, well, try not to do it within sight of a female relative. Got my ears boxed.” Mr. Fletcher rubbed the side of his head, remembering.
    “Ah, the ladies do keep us in line.” Eustace elevated his glass and looked at Lucy. “I don’t know what we would do without their guiding hands.”
    She raised her eyebrows. She wasn’t certain that she’d ever guided Eustace, but that seemed beside the point.
    Lord Iddesleigh toasted her as well. “Here, here. My dearest wish is but to lie prostrate and humble beneath my lady’s iron thumb. Her stern frown makes me tremble; her elusive smile causes me to stiffen and shake in ecstasy.”
    Lucy’s eyes widened even as her nipples tightened. The wretch!
    Mr. Fletcher started coughing again.
    Papa and Eustace scowled, but it was the younger man who got in the first word. “I say, that’s a bit bold.”
    “It’s quite all right—” Lucy attempted, but the men weren’t listening to her, despite their flowery words.
    “Bold?” The viscount lowered his glass. “In what way?”
    “Well, stiffen. ” The vicar blushed.
    Oh, for goodness’ sake! Lucy opened her mouth but was interrupted before she could get a word out.
    “Stiffen? Stiffen? Stiffen?” Lord Iddesleigh repeated, sounding uncommonly silly. “A perfectly nice English word. Descriptive and plain. Used in all the best houses. I’ve heard the king himself employ it. In fact, it describes exactly what you are doing now, Mr. Penweeble.”
    Mr. Fletcher was bent double, his hands covering his reddened face. Lucy hoped he wouldn’t choke to death in his amusement.
    Eustace flushed an alarming shade of puce. “What about ecstasy, then? I’d like to see you defend that, sir.”
    The viscount drew himself up and looked down his rather long nose. “I would think that you of all people, Vicar, a soldier in the army of His Majesty’s church, a man of learning and exquisite reasoning, a soul seeking the divine salvation only available through Christ our Lord, would understand that ecstasy is a most righteous and religious term.” Lord Iddesleigh paused to eat a bite of chicken. “What else did you think it meant?”
    For a moment, the gentlemen around the table goggled at the viscount. Lucy looked from one to another, exasperated. Really, this nightly war of words was getting tiresome.
    Then Papa spoke. “Believe that may be blasphemy.” And he started chuckling.
    Mr. Fletcher stopped choking and joined in the laughter. Eustace grimaced and then he, too, laughed softly, although he still looked uncomfortable.
    Lord Iddesleigh smiled, raised his glass, and watched Lucy over the rim with his silver eyes.
    He’d been both blasphemous and improper—and Lucy didn’t care. Her lips were trembling, and she felt short of breath just looking at him.
    She smiled back helplessly.
    “WAIT!” SIMON SCRAMBLED DOWN the front steps the next morning, ignoring the pain in his back. Miss Craddock-Hayes’s trap was almost out of sight down the drive. “Oy, wait!” He had to stop running, as his back was burning. He bent over, propping his hands on his knees, and panted, head hung down. A week ago he wouldn’t have even been