Simon watched her. His angel was all in gray, as befit a religious. She wrote in a great book, eyes intent, level black brows knit. Her dark hair was pulled straight back from a high forehead and gathered in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her lips pursed slightly as her hand moved across the page. Probably noting his sins. The scratch of the pen on the page was what had woken him.

When men spoke of angels, especially those of the female sex, usually they were employing a flowery fillip of speech. They thought of fair-haired creatures with pink cheeks—both kinds—and red, wet lips. Insipid Italian putti with vacant blue eyes and billowy, soft flesh. That was not the type of angel Simon contemplated. No, his angel was the biblical kind—Old Testament, not New. The not-quite-human, stern-andjudgmental kind. The type that was more apt to hurl men into eternal damnation with a flick of a dispassionate finger than to float on feathery pigeon wings. She wasn’t likely to overlook a few flaws here and there in a fellow’s character. Simon sighed.

He had more than just a few flaws.

The angel must have heard his sigh. She turned her unearthly topaz eyes on him. “Are you awake?”

He felt her gaze as palpably as if she’d laid a hand on his shoulder, and frankly the feeling bothered him.

Not that he let his unease show. “That depends on one’s definition of awake,” he croaked. “I am not sleeping, but yet I have been more alert. I don’t suppose you have such a thing as coffee to hasten the awakening process?” He shifted to sit up, finding it more difficult than it should have been. The coverlet slipped to his abdomen.

The angel’s gaze followed the coverlet down and frowned at his bare torso. Already he was in her bad graces.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any coffee,” she murmured to his navel, “but there is tea.”

“Naturally. There always is,” Simon said. “Could I trouble you to help me sit up? One finds oneself at a distressing disadvantage flat on one’s back, not to mention the position makes it very hard to drink tea without it spilling into the ears.”

She looked at him doubtfully. “Perhaps I should get Hedge or my father.”

“I promise not to bite, truly.” Simon placed a hand over his heart. “And I hardly ever spit.”

Her lips twitched.

Simon stilled. “You’re not really an angel after all, are you?”

One ebony brow arched ever so slightly. Such a disdainful look for a country miss; her expression would’ve fit a duchess. “My name is Lucinda Craddock-Hayes. What is yours?”

“Simon Matthew Raphael Iddesleigh, viscount of, I’m afraid.” He sketched a bow that came off rather well in his opinion, considering he was prostrate.

The lady was unimpressed. “You’re the Viscount Iddesleigh?”

“Sadly.”