A broken man made whole.Ash could hardly imagine receiving such a woman’s favor.
Something covetous slid, serpent-like, through the recesses of Ash’s mind. Hope’s wraith danced past his gaze. A feminine silhouette. A sweet sigh. Delicious, trusting softness. Proffered lips, tasting of Lethe’s elixir.
“I’d like to meet her.” Ash’s declaration surprised him as much as anyone else.
Chev glanced up sharply.
“You?” Hurtheven asked.
Ash arched a brow. “Is it so odd?”
“Well,” Hurtheven blinked, “yes. Geniality is not generally part of your character.”
Ash could hardly argue there.
Chev set down his drink. “The answer is no.”
“No?” No was not a word Ash heard often.
In this case, it shoved him in the chest, thrusting him back in his place—the unwilling, lonely lord of the underworld. But the covetous reptile hissed, lifting its head and turning its yellowed crescent eyes toward the phantom image of Lady Stone.
“She’s not for you.” Chev’s sigh softened his tone. “Lady Stone is embroiled in scandal enough as it is.”
Ash looked away. “Of course, she is not for me.” He was Hades. Hell was his home. He shrugged. “Far be it from me to taint her angelic wings.”
But the serpent’s fangs dripped with venom just the same. Venom strong enough to subdue any prey.
Chapter Three
The air was crisp and cold the morning Admiral Octavius Stone was finally laid to rest.
The Admiralty had lauded their fallen hero with an immaculately planned, multi-day affair. As for Alicia, the countess, and their respective households, they had been advised to remain in their homes, behind closed and bolted doors.
In the evenings, Aunt Hester read the reports.
TheTimesimplored the citizens of London to cease marching wax effigies of the admiral through the streets, as such displays were unbecoming to the courage and dignity of the deceased.
TheHeraldfavorably reviewed the battle reenactments played to sold-out audiences in Drury Lane.
And other papers—the kind Alicia only dared to read after Aunt Hester retired—described how the distraught countess received visitors from her bed while clutching the coat Octavius had been wearing when a musket ball ripped through his shoulder and lodged in his spine.
Alicia spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about that musket ball.
It seemed absurd that after all Octavius’s daring, all his courage, and all his strength, one tiny lead ball could demand such a larger-than-life figure pay the ultimate price.
Thinking of that musket ball left tears in Alicia’s eyes; remembering her husband did not.
The musket ball had destroyed a once-in-a-century strategist born with the sole purpose of saving the seas. The husband she remembered destroyed her heart. In defense of the towering figure felled by the musket ball, the Admiralty acted to conceal Octavius’s past. Because of the humiliation she’d suffered at the hands of the often selfish, ever inconsiderate Octavius, Alicia complied.
So, while fifteen thousand viewed Octavius in state, Alicia stitched closed holes in Aunt Hester’s hose. While ten times that number crowded boat decks and clung to rigging waiting for a glimpse of the admiral’s funeral barge, she soothed Aunt Hester’s spirits, reading from the Book of Psalms.
By the day of the land procession to the tomb in St. Paul’s, Alicia believed she had successfully prevented the mourning mania gripping London from breeching her household’s defense. But truth, thick as wood smoke, had seeped under the latch, scuttled across the floors and burrowed into the creases of Aunt Hester’s brow.
“Every inhabitant in England will be lining the streets,” Hester huffed. “Surely his own family has a right to be there.”
Alicia looked up from her sewing. Aunt Hester usually insisted on propriety, however, her nerves frequently rattled, and she was often unable to comprehend events in any other way but the way she was affected.
“Ladies of rank rarely attend funerals,” Alicia reminded.
