A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,1

the doorframe to her father’s studio, aware it was rude to keep a guest in the hall, but not wishing to share his attention with her father just yet.

“And you cannot do that and be duke?”

“Oh, I suppose the right kind of man could, but I wish for a quiet life, not responsibilities in Lords and the management of hundreds of lives. No, the country life is the life for me. I’ll be happy on my much smaller estate.” He paused, his look speculative, as if he suddenly realized that he—a man of twenty—was confessing his aspirations to a mere fifteen-year-old.

Honey had seen the look before; every person she associated with was older than her. She’d never gone away to school, had no close relatives her age, and only socialized with her governess or her father’s friends. Being young had never bothered her before, but suddenly, it felt . . . limiting.

He bent low to catch her gaze, which had dropped miserably to his feet. “But you can’t possibly find my boring plans of interest. While I’m off mucking about in my stables you’ll no doubt be whirling around ballrooms and breaking young men’s hearts.”

Honoria could not think of a single thing to say that would not be humiliating.

So—” he said when she remained stupidly mute, his mouth ticking up on one side, his gaze merry yet gentle.

It was impossible not to smile when he was smiling.

“So?” she echoed as the two of them stood staring at one another.

He chuckled and shook his head, as if she’d said something amusing. He gestured behind her to the studio door, which she was blocking with her body. “I’d better get inside. I believe I’m late and your papa is probably going to give me the raking I deserve.”

Honey stepped aside, gawking like the smitten fool she was. He opened the door and again gestured. “After you, Miss Honoria. That is if you are going to join us again today?”

“Of course, she is,” Honey’s father boomed from inside the bright, sunny room, where he was preparing his work area. His voice acted like a catalyst and Honey tore her eyes from Simon’s perfect features and bolted inside.

“Good afternoon, Papa.”

Daniel Keyes gave her an approving smile as she went to her easel and then turned to Simon Fairchild. “My daughter will one day be England’s premier portrait painter,” he said, speaking with such certainty, pride, and love that Honey’s heart threatened to expand right out of her chest.

Lord Simon cut her one of his devastating smiles. “So, you will be painting a portrait of me while your father paints his?”

“Yes,” Honey said, pulling the cover off her much smaller canvas. She was glad to look away from Lord Simon’s distracting person; her wits were already scrambled from their brief conversation in the hall.

Her painting was coming along quite nicely, not that she would show it to anyone until it was completed. And even then ….

“Right now my daughter spends half her day studying and the other half honing her art. Once she is eighteen, and her schooling is over, she will be free to decide how to spend all her time,” Daniel Keyes said as the younger man stepped behind the large screen in the corner of the room.

To change his clothing.

Honey reminded herself to breathe and forced her gaze away from his head, which was visible above the screen. Her own face heated and she tried to control her breathing, which was soughing in and out just like their ancient butler Dowdle after he had climbed two sets of stairs.

“And will I get to see the portrait you are painting, Miss Keyes?”

Her head jerked up just in time to see him toss his waistcoat over the top of the screen. Which meant he was only wearing his shirt. His thin, fine, soft, muslin shirt. His eyes met hers as he did something behind the screen. Put on a coat? His other waistcoat?

Honey swallowed; her father and Lord Simon were waiting with raised brows.

“I don’t know yet,” she mumbled.

“An artist’s prerogative,” Daniel Keyes said with a laugh. “She might not even let me see it, my lord.”

Her father was right. There were plenty of sketches and paintings that were only for her eyes and she rather suspected this painting might be another.

***

On Lord Simon’s fifth visit he asked her father if he could take Honey for a ride in his high-perch phaeton.

Hyde Park was thin with people, but Honey still felt as if she